The sportsman wanted to smooth things over. “It is to be hoped that Herr Helmer is right—for if a war were to break out, all securities would go down seriously. But still, if it should happen, it would be a wholesome letting of blood. And who can prevent the decrees of history?”
“Oh, history, history,” exclaimed Helmer, in a tone of vexation. “Does history make us or do we make history? If you put yourself before the mirror and make up faces, can one say, when there is an ugly reflection, ‘who can prevent the grimaces of the mirror’?”
“There is no use discussing,” said the marchese. “On general grounds it seems to me, my dear poet, that you do not have a very sound comprehension of affairs here below. You soar up into a world of thought and do not see what positive facts bring. You do not know what seething and fermentation are going on in the lower regions of political and social life; how friction and tension are increasing, and how ultimately—and very soon, too,—there must be an explosion.”
“In other words, you consider me blind, Your Excellency? Of course, I know right well that there is seething and fermentation. It certainly cannot continue as it is now; a mighty change—what you call an explosion—is before us,—I agree to that. We have entered upon the age of the air, the age of the heights. The depths are to be left behind. All that is low is to be conquered. Not by forcible destruction—but it will disappear, will sink away.... Have you ever made a voyage in an airship and gone up high, Your Excellency? If you have, you found that it was not so much a mounting into the upper regions as it was a sinking away of what was below. I know of things which are in preparation, which are unknown to you and which are to be revealed during our Rose-Week. In our midst sojourns an inventor, a conqueror ... yet I must not betray secrets.” He stood up. “I must be going. I hope I shall see you all this evening at our opening session.”
CHAPTER XIV
DREAMS OF LOVE
“Ninon, Ninon, que fais-tu de la vie, toi qui vis sans amour?”
The text of this song haunted Franka’s memory. She was reclining on the couch in her little salon, her arms crossed behind her head, her eyes closed.
The red silk shades at the windows were drawn and a ruddy twilight permeated the room. All the salons in the suites put at the disposal of Mr. Toker’s guests had red hangings and white walls. The chairs and sofas were rose-colored. The carpets showed red roses on a white ground. The sleeping-rooms were also upholstered in these two colors, and the bathrooms attached to each apartment were fitted with rose-marble. Toker did not want his guests to be for a single minute free from the spell of roses. Even the water, as it flowed through the faucets at the washstands, was perfumed with roses, and rose-scented soap was provided. The chandeliers were of pale-rose glass and a rose-colored shade protected every electric lamp.
Frau Eleonore was sitting at the writing-table of the little salon and was writing picture-postcards for the whole circle of her acquaintance. Now and then she interrupted this occupation and glanced over at Franka.
“There, you have been lying for almost an hour perfectly motionless, my dear; were you asleep?”