The result of this period of study was not merely that she proved to be a good pupil who had passed through her course creditably and was capable of understanding and correctly rendering the ideas of other people; but during this period of preparation a thousand original thoughts had arisen in her mind and the material she had stored up put out further blossoms; views, convictions, aspirations were gathered, which grew so imperious that she felt inspired, nay, compelled, to share them with others, to compel others to adopt them. What lay before her—at least, so it seemed to her proud consciousness—was more than a great duty—it was a mission.
“A Word to Young Girls” was the title of her first lecture, and this title was to be seen in gigantic letters on placards posted in every nook and corner of Vienna. Above it was printed: “Great Music-Union Hall, Sunday, January 15. Seven o’clock in the evening. Admission free.” And below it: “Speaker: Franka Garlett.”
The sensation in Vienna society was immense.... What! that pretty Fräulein Garlett, Vienna’s richest heiress, she who had refused so many offers of marriage, who had been so generous in her charities, who had gathered about her so many of the distinguished men of the city, who had won universal admiration for her charm of manner, her simplicity and her loveliness—was she coming out as a public speaker? On what subject? Why? People cudgeled their brains, and were somewhat scandalized at such a thing! The idea was certainly quixotic! Was there no one in the noble family of Sielen to put a stop to such an absurdity? And what was she going to say to the young girls? Possibly preach emancipation? Advocate a doctor’s career? Equal suffrage?—or perhaps—free love! Certainly these things did not agree at all with her whole personality. But one must be ready to expect anything from a person who suddenly comes out on the platform—no one would ever have thought her capable of that!
The public came in crowds. Helmer had seen to it that the lecture was well advertised in the newspapers, and the fact that it came on a Sunday, and was free, assured a large audience. The first two rows and a few boxes were reserved for invited guests.
Long before the stated hour, the hall was packed to overflowing and the entrances had to be closed. Franka was waiting in the artists’ room for the signal to begin. Frau Eleonore, Dr. Fixstern, and Helmer were in attendance on her. Her cheeks were pale, for the terrible phantom which so delights in haunting artists’ rooms and the scenes of theaters,—a cousin of it is often found in the waiting-room of dentists,—stage-fright, le trac, “footlight-fever,” or whatever the thing is called, had seized her throat. The others tried to encourage her—a perfectly useless attempt, which brings forth a still broader grin on the face of the phantom. Now, really, it was no little thing to step out for the first time in one’s life and deliver a lecture before so many thousand people!
“O my dear friends, I am frightened at the mere idea of standing on the platform so alone with the abyss before me!”
“Think of ‘soaring,’” said Chlodwig; “think of Blériot, who also was alone—high up between heaven and the sea, apparently motionless, lost in the universe.”
“And do you believe that I should not be panic-stricken up there? Oh, if I could only be in my room—if I were not obliged to go out before all those strangers, perhaps hostile to me....”
“But, Franka, I don’t know you,” said Frau Eleonore reproachfully. “I thought you were a heroine. It was certainly not necessary for you to do all this....”
Some one came in and announced: “It is time, Fräulein.... The house is full.... The audience is growing impatient.”