“Well, yes; also new regulations for insurance against aviation accidents.”
He continued to rummage through the book-shelves—“Oh, yes, you have the novels of aerial warfare: Sand, Martin, Wells ... those are mere phantasmagorias. One must stick to the truth. One must learn to know and to despise men and things as they are—then can one best conquer them and make them useful.... But I see that you are not in the mood to discuss to-day: you are generally ready to go off half-cocked when I let some of my knowledge of the world shine upon you.”
“Shine?—Your pessimism has about as much shine in it as a pair of snuffers ... and snuffers, you know, are things not used in our day: they were good enough for tallow candles, but not for electric lamps and search-lights.”
“Now I recognize you again, you incorrigible poet—truly I can find no harsher expression. You will be breaking your dainty wings bravely in our rough reality, you—there now, I have invented still another insult—you cloud-dweller! But I will no longer beard you in your own den ... besides, I have no time—you live horribly far away from the boundaries of civilization. Let us see you before long....”
When he was left alone, Chlodwig sat down again at his writing-table and attempted to read over the last act of his just-completed drama, in order to put in some last touches. But he could not fix his mind on it. His thoughts kept flying to the old count’s deathbed and to the remarkable vicissitude in Franka’s fate. He felt impelled to speak to her, and so he took a sheet of paper and began to write without being certain whether he should send the letter or not.
Mistress of the Sielenburg, I salute you!
This time you have not appeared to me in a dream, but you are vividly visible before my inward eye. For I have just heard what has happened to you, and I see you surrounded by a thousand perils and by as many—what is the opposite of perils?—I cannot find the right expression.... Well, as perils signify threatening misfortune, so here I mean “beckoning felicity.”
In my previous letter I mentioned things which in gloomy days and ways might offer shelter and refuge in sorrow and poverty—things whereby one may win the power to rise above one’s self. Now you are rich—superlatively rich. You can command everything that belongs among the so-called “amenities” of life: you are protected against cares and privations and humiliations. With your wealth you can escape innumerable forms of suffering; whether you can purchase the highest forms of enjoyment and pride in life—depends on the strength of your spirit.
Against the peril of wealth I suggest the same talisman as was contained in my former letter—to elevate yourself above yourself—to take hold on the life of the universe, on the efforts of humanity. The peril for the rich is in being drawn down into the abyss of the—ordinary. The banal duties of luxury waste time and stupefy the intellect. The attempt will be made by pleasure-seekers and pride-cankered people to whirl you away into social dissipations; smart hussars and dragoons will besiege you in order, by securing your hand, to get possession of estates where they can enjoy hunting and horse-racing, tennis and automobiling, bridge and flirting, and, if they chance to be aristocrats, will make you feel it bitterly that you are not presentable at court.
Yet I know well that life is so full of the unexpected, the uncalculated, and the marvelous, that such general warnings, such sermonizing, sounding as they do rather perfunctory, perhaps will find no application to what is before you. But I could not endure that you should be shunted over on that track where the society that surrounds you runs along empty of all lofty aims and deaf and blind to the mighty changes that are in preparation....