Franka, smiling, looked at her as she went, and exclaimed: “What a dear little goosie!”
In the white frame against the evening sky now appeared a magnificent picture:—the Gods of Olympus. It looked as if the heaven had opened and allowed mortals down below to see how the Immortals exist. To be sure, they were only the immemorially known forms of human fancy, such as had been seen to satiety in paintings and on the stage; but the vast space and the gigantic size of the apparition, passing beyond all power of comprehension, evoked admiration mingled with awe. Now, the Olympian ones began to move: Hebe poured nectar into a cup which she presented to Jupiter; Cupid shot an arrow which fell out of the frame—it might have pierced one of the spectators down below; Venus, clothed in glittering silvery veils, laid her arm around the War-God’s shoulder, and Juno caressed her peacock as it stood with circling tail widespread. In a half-minute all had disappeared. Then followed a picture from the Catholic Heaven—the Sistine Madonna, lovely and motionless. Fantastic landscapes followed, the like of which do not exist on earth, inhabited by creatures such as have never been seen. It was as if the impenetrable curtain, which is hung at a billion-mile distance over the secret activities of the world of stars, had been suddenly withdrawn, giving men a glimpse into the regions of Mars or of Saturn. To be sure, they were only pictures due to the power of human imagination, which can never attain the unknown realities, yet, appearing in the firmament, they were like revelations from other worlds.
Franka put her hand on Helmer’s arm: “Ah, Brother Chlodwig!” she sighed, shuddering.
He bent down to her: “What is it, Franka?” He asked this as gently as one might inquire what troubled a trembling child, and with his expressive hand he made a motion as if he were going to caress her forehead—but he refrained.
“I know that it is only illusion—but these glances into unearthly, infinite distances fill me with a weird, painful sense of loneliness, of nothingness....”
“I know that...?”
“You do, Chlodwig? I thought, the higher your soul soars, the more at home you felt.”
“The more reverent, perhaps,—but ‘at home’? Infinite space is so cold we cannot build huts on the Milky Way”—he laid his hand on Franka’s which still rested on his arm. “Do you know the Schubert song in which a will-o’-the-wisp holds up before the lonely wanderer the realization of his deepest yearning:—a warm house and in it a well-beloved heart?...”
“A well-beloved heart,” repeated Franka dreamily.
They remained for a while silent, looking into each other’s eyes. Then Franka withdrew her hand and stood up: “We will return to the salon.”