“And now shall the knights of my Wartburg have their chance to speak. Let Wolfram von Eschenbach begin—I mean you, Mr. Helmer.”
Chlodwig stepped forward:—
“I should like once more to sum up in a single sentence—if possible in a single word—the substance of my whole poetic dream, of my whole vision of the future. But here I find an obstacle in the limitations of language, for it has as yet no words for the coming things that now only project their shadows and are attainable only by longing and by forebodings. The word always comes into existence after the thing. The thing follows the conception, and this in turn is followed by the expression. For example—first there had to be a knight and the especial nature of his bearing and of his sentiments had to be conceived before the term ‘knightly’ was adopted.
“And thus before my vision stands the coming man—the man of the heights—der Höhenmensch—whose qualities correspond to the magnificent achievements which literally lift him above the clouds. What will be his characteristic quality? The term for it does not as yet exist. For it will not concern any peculiar quality already known to us, but rather a combination of qualities to which will be added possibly one never before discovered: the new combination will grow into a concept and the concept will be grasped in one word—a word which will be as current among our descendants and as clear to them as the word ‘knightly’ is to us. I recently spoke of ‘goodness.’ This word, as it is used among us, is far from expressing what my mind conceives of it. It is as yet, too, incomposite. I should want to command a term in which, besides ‘goodness,’ much else would be understood—distinction, gentleness, courage, good will, force, magnanimity—all in combination; and, moreover, that soul-material which will come into activity by the new impulses of the Age of Flying—this is to be the characteristic quality of the ideal man of the future, but what its name will be, that we do not know.
“How the ideals of spiritual greatness change may be seen in a single example: Vico, the founder of the philosophy of history, who wrote at the end of the seventeenth century,—hence not so very long ago,—thus described the heroes: ‘They were to the highest degree rough, wild, limited in intelligence, but possessing enormous power of imagination and the liveliest passionateness; as a consequence of these qualities they had to be barbarous, cruel, wild, proud, difficult to deal with.’
“That was the picture of hero-greatness which awakened the admiration of earlier times. This admiration has not entirely died out, but it is fading away, sinking out of sight, slowly changing into detestation. Much that is barbarous still lives amongst us, but we try to deny it. The word ‘barbarous’ has become a term of reproach. The man who knows no pity does not seem to us worthy of regard; the wider the range of his commiseration, the nobler is his heart. The good will of a noble soul extends even to the dumb creation. He who cannot love a good, faithful dog is not a worthy man, and whoever is cruel to an animal—how can I express my detestation of him?—well, I will quote Hermann Bahr—‘Such a person, whoever he be, I cannot regard as my kind.’ In the third ‘Kingdom’ to which our aspirations are soaring, there is no room for barbarism.
“And now, if as our host desires, I must sum up in one phrase all that I have brought to you here, then I say:—There is no High Thinking without likewise Kind Thinking.”
“The man has a touch of the feminine in his make-up,” remarked some one in the audience, disapprovingly.
The next speaker was Franka Garlett. With a smiling face, betraying the gleam of her new happiness, she stepped forward: “You young girls, listen to me!” she began. “You must not be alarmed, because I repeat my appeal to you, that I am going to repeat my entire address. No, I am not going even to make a resumé of it, but I am going to say something which will interest all girls, all, all! There is a magic word which will not find one of you indifferent: if it is spoken you must listen—joyfully or woefully, with curiosity or with yearning, but never with indifference ... and yet it is something quite simple, quite commonplace. Truly, the one whom it concerns will find it unique, will find it all-important, something world-convulsing—that world which is our own little Ego. This thing has happened to me this morning—and I cannot help myself—it fills me so—I must tell you, ye sisters of mine:—I am betrothed.”
A flutter went through the hall. Among the inarticulate words also rang out distinctly, “Congratulations!” and the question—“To whom?”