“You have in mind the old-fashioned type of statesmen,” said Helmer, shrugging his shoulders.
“Not by a long chalk.... I had especially in mind our Marchese Rinotti. He will blossom out only in the future, and he will have nerve and temperament enough to mow his way through hecatombs of victims in perfect sang-froid if it suits his plans. That belongs to his trade.”
“Times are changing, my dear Franz.... Nowadays, the national helmsmen—whether princes or ministers—already begin to set their ambition on being considered the guardians of the peace.”
“In their words and phrases ... but you are irretrievably naïf, my good Chlodwig. Whoever is to be a genuine statesman must lie, must endeavor to pull the wool over the eyes of the others. He contracts friendship with other powers, not in the least out of good will toward his allies, but to make common head against a third. He secretly stirs up enmities; for he may get advantage from possible conflicts of others in which he himself is not involved. In order to confirm and strengthen his own power, he without any scruples drives rough-shod over all obstacles, such as treaties, conventions, and the like: in short, he—”
“In short, he is a scoundrel!”
“Call it so. In popular parlance he is a genius. But don’t let us dispute. Your kingdom is in the clouds. Only I fear you will soon get a bad fall. Do you happen to be reading the news? Such things are under way as—”
“Oh, I know perfectly well what is threatening; but I know also what beckons. I have long given up discussing with you. It is remarkable how two men, classmates and comrades in childhood and in the early days of youth, can so grow apart in their views of life. And neither of us is stupid!”
“The difference is this—you are intellectual and I am prudent.”
“I hate the word ‘prudent.’ It sounds cold and harsh: it has no uplift.”
“That I grant you, my dear pinion-poet! I am a sober, matter-of-fact man. As such let me tell you a couple of incidents from real life. You must know that the two interesting widows, to whom I introduced you lately—that impetuous Countess Solnikova and that gentle Annette Felsen—have been having a great experience during the last two days. Romances are brought to a climax here with amazing rapidity ... perhaps for the reason that we have here, as it were, only a week’s respite. Now the countess has been making a little flight with your Polish composer—not a flight in the figurative, but in the actual, sense of the word. For you see they hired a fine aërotaxi and in it flew over the mountains: the wind drove them into a deserted region and they had to spend the night in a shed.... There is no need of harboring any suspicions about it. And as regards Annette Felsen she became regularly engaged to our Machiavelli yesterday.”