In a few years the daughter died, and shortly afterwards the son met with a fatal accident in a boating-party. It was whispered about that he was of very light weight, and that he had showed great lack of love and respect for his parents: consequently, his loss was not such a severe blow to the count, although it deprived him of his only son and heir. He was much more deeply affected by the loss of his daughter; in the first place, her elopement with a man who was regarded as unworthy of her, and then her death. But time has healed all those wounds. The cheerful, light-hearted temperament of my dear count (for I really love the man) won the day. He had the reputation of being the gayest and wittiest cavalier in his time, and even only two years ago, when I first entered his house, he was in the happiest state of mind and of a geniality which simply captivated my heart.

Just now, indeed, he is a great sufferer, and old age, which he has so long victoriously resisted, is at last getting in its detestable work. He is not and has never been what is called a high intelligence. He is clever with a somewhat superficial cleverness, without great depth—without complications, without subtlety, but abounding in straightforward, honest, human understanding. His wit never stings and never bites; it merely smiles and winks; in short, my poor count is, as I rather disrespectfully remarked above, a dear old fellow.

I have never made a confidant of him about my anonymous poetizing: he has no inclination for poetry. His reading—that is, what I read to him—consists exclusively of selections from the daily newspapers, the weekly comic papers, French novels—but they must be piquant; and for serious pabulum: memoirs of princes, generals, and statesmen. Military and diplomatic history, especially relating to the time in which he took an active part, interests him. But all this has inspired me with a great disgust at the kettle of chatter and intrigue in which the soup of the unsuspecting people’s destiny is cooked. Aye! the nations have no suspicion what contemptible means the great men who make universal history use, what petty aims they pursue: personal jealousies and ambitions, entanglements of lies and errors and accidents, whereof are born the mighty events which are explained as the expression of Divine Will, or of a scheme of creation conditioned by natural laws. And, vice versa, the great men high up know nothing of the people: they fail to comprehend their sufferings and hopes. Their awakening and stretching of limbs they have no suspicion of....

Two days later.

Since I wrote the above, something has happened. For some time it has seemed to me that the count was concealing something from me. If his attorney, Dr. Fixstern, came, I was dismissed from the room, and letters addressed to him were not as usual dictated to me, but were written by the count himself. And now I know what the secret was; early this morning the count confided in me: The child left by the daughter who eloped with the tutor has turned up, and the grandfather has invited the young girl to make her home at the Sielenburg. She will be coming now in a few days. The old gentleman is delighted.

I am full of curiosity. The young thing will scarcely feel very comfortable at the Round Table which I described to you. Well, later in the summer there are various visitors from the neighboring castles, among them young people, and in the autumn there are many brilliant hunting-parties. Of course, owing to my position, I hold aloof from all these things. My world is not this world of aristocratic society—my kingdom is that of the imagination. There I sometimes indulge in revels and there I hope to attain some rank—not mediocre; there ceases my modesty. Artists must not be—inwardly—modest, else they are not artists. Just as an athlete feels his muscles, so must the artist feel his power of creation. A host of thoughts press forward to be formulated, and these thoughts are elastic and swelling like an athlete’s muscles! A domain which no Pegasus’ hoof has as yet ever touched invites me. First I am going to finish my drama, which treats of a social problem, and then I shall fly away to that virgin land where horizons flooded with light open out before me. I am going to compose the epic of the conquest of the air.... I shall fly up to the flaming corona of the Sun, and from that I will pluck down forked flames to annihilate all that is low and common. I am called away, so I will mail this and will write again.

Yours ever,

Chlodwig Helmer.

CHAPTER III
FRANKA’S NEW HOME

Franka Garlett leaned back with closed eyes in one corner of the compartment. In another corner sat Dr. Fixstern, in whose company the young girl was making the trip to her new home. The railway journey had already lasted four hours and they were not far from their destination.