Читать книгу When Thoughts Will Soar - Bertha von Suttner - Страница 6

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Five months had passed and a cold gray autumn had set in with pallid suns, soggy mists, wailing tempests. As melancholy as the weather was Franka’s mood. Sielenburg had not proved a home for her: she felt that she was a stranger, that she was in exile. Her grandfather, who showed her friendly affection and to whom her heart went out in sympathy, grew constantly worse, so that more and more rarely he summoned her to his side, and when she came, he had but little to say; he merely would ask her to tell him about her past, to describe her early life, and to talk about her parents.

He asked her very little about her present existence, and even if he had done so she assuredly would not have told him that she was wretchedly unhappy; that the great-aunt always treated her with the utmost coldness and reserve; that the insipid conversation of the two other old ladies “got on her nerves”; that the cousin, with his views expressed so arrogantly and dogmatically,—views so diametrically opposed to all that she had learned from her father,—still more affected her, indeed, caused her real agony—all this and much more she could not confide to her grandfather without troubling him, without making him think her ungrateful. Of all the inhabitants of the castle, Mr. Helmer, the young secretary, would have been the most sympathetic, perhaps for the very reason that he was young, and youth feels drawn by irresistible power to youth; but she came scarcely at all into contact with him, because he was rarely present at meals, and when he was, he took no part in the conversation.

Only once had he made an exception to this reserve. At table Cousin Coriolan had spoken about the dirigible balloon: he said: “So then, the thing seems to be feasible.”

“And you remember, Baron,” remarked the priest, “that you have always expressed the opinion that all these aëronautical and aviationary projects were ‘the utmost nonsense,’ ‘crack-brained balderdash,’ ‘lunatic absurdity,’ ‘the summit of imbecility’—I noticed your words particularly—I like your strong expressions....”

“Well, well, Chaplain, to err is human... but I venture even now to predict that nothing practical or useful will ever come out of them... only catastrophes.... What would happen if such a monster should fall on the Emperor’s roof at Schönbrunn?... For reconnoitering in war, it would be extremely dangerous, for naturally the enemy would shoot up at them. The only good that they would accomplish would be the scattering down of explosives—but they would never be able to take any great amount up with them and the mark from such a height would be very difficult to hit—it would be like spitting from the balcony on a nickel lying on the sidewalk, the much-vaunted airship business will in the long run—”

“Make of man another man,” interrupted Chlodwig Helmer, raising his voice. Franka pricked up her ears. “Behind the azure door which has been flung open streams a light, destined to breathe new souls—aerial souls—into new generations of men.”

The rest of the company exchanged glances as much as to say: “What is the matter with the man? What has got into him?”

Franka would gladly have heard him continue.

“Please, Mr. Helmer, explain what you mean....”

But he shook his head and said no more.

She occasionally met him in her grandfather’s room; but there also he generally remained silent. If he spoke, as he did only to answer some direct question, she found something particularly attractive both in the sound of his voice and in the choice of his words.

He was not handsome—far from it; he would be rather more likely to be called ugly; but it was not a common ugliness, and whatever else he was, Mr. Helmer was certainly a gentleman.

Franka had not failed to notice that she inspired the young man with admiration: it betrayed itself in his eyes, in his attitude, in the intonations of his voice. It was a thoroughly respectful admiration which strove to hide and not to betray itself, and consequently Franka responded to it with many a gracious word and friendly smile.

But an end soon came to this harmless little flirtation, if it could be called such. Six weeks after Franka’s arrival, Helmer was obliged to take his departure from Sielenburg. Cousin Albertine had indulged in some idle gossip concerning the two. “Evidently,” she said, “that crazy secretary is falling in love with Franka.” Something peculiar also was noticed in Franka’s behavior, and after her mother’s escapade—the apple does not fall far from the tree—and it was to be feared that some similar fatality might ensue.... These and other insinuations made to the count’s sister, and by her communicated to the count himself, resulted in the young man’s being dismissed. After his departure Franka felt still more isolated.

In the course of the summer several times, but not frequently, for an hour or two during the afternoon, callers from the neighborhood came to the castle, and were served with a cup of tea in the garden. The conversation always revolved around the same topics: society and family news, the prospects of the harvest, hunting experiences, chronicles of sicknesses, and the results of “cures” at the sea-baths, gossip of the court mixed in with a dash of politics (from the agrarian point of view), and with lamentations over the degeneracy of the times (from the clerical point of view).

It devolved on Franka, as the daughter of the house, to pour the tea, yet the others treated her with a shade of condescension, as if she were only a kind of companion. She could never even try to insinuate herself into the good graces of these strangers; she remained taciturn and reserved. The topics of conversation and the questions that occupied the lives of this little circle scarcely appealed to her; perhaps, if she had grown up and been educated among them, she might have found edification in it, but it was all strange to her—on the other hand, the others had no comprehension of her aspirations, her ambitions, her realm of thought.

One day she had a surprising encounter. As she entered the salon her eyes fell on a stranger who was sitting in the midst of the usual circle. His back was turned to the door, so she could not see his face, but there was something strikingly familiar in his figure and attitude. And with good reason—for as she came nearer, Countess Adele introduced him to her as Baron Malhof. He manifested no surprise; he evidently knew of the altered circumstances of Franka’s life. He made a low bow.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you again, Miss Garlett.”

“What, do you know my niece?”

“Yes, I made Miss Garlett’s acquaintance a short time ago and learned to have a high regard for her.”

Malhof sat next to Franka at the tea-table. Unobserved by the others, he said to her in an undertone:—

“You seem to be still incensed with me—but you ought to know what I have done for you. I have just been in to see your grandfather. I was well aware that you were making your home here, for I had learned the whole story from your landlady of whom I have frequently inquired about what you are doing. And to-day I told your grandfather the whole story of the little comedy in which you and I were the actors....”

“You did...?”

“Yes, although the part I played was rather deplorable; for that very reason yours was all the more brilliant, and I felt that I owed it to you to make this reparation. Count Sielen had a right to know what a brave, high-minded maiden his new-found granddaughter is.”

“Was that your opinion of my behavior, Baron Malhof?”

“Not at the first moment—to tell the honest truth; at that time I was quite vexed and thought your behavior simply—pardon me the expression!—simply stupid, terribly vieux jeu;—but here is a somewhat old-fashioned milieu where all such heroic actions of virtue awake a response and I said to myself: ‘If I tell the whole story to the old gentleman, it may prove useful to the young lady who so abused me... that letter you tore into bits!—it will put her into a beautiful light and make her still dearer to the old man’s heart,’—as you see, I am capable also of noble impulses. There is one thing I should like to ask you: Are you happy?”

“How could I fail to regard myself as happy? It would be sheer ingratitude toward fate!”

“Well, yes, ‘to regard yourself as happy,’ but ‘to feel happy’? Life cannot be very gay among all these wigs.... I do not often come here—only when I am visiting their neighbors at the castle of Dornhof, where I generally spend a week almost every year. Then I make my respects here and I have always found the house tedious to the last degree, except when the old count used to enliven it with his presence; but for the most part during the last few years he has been away traveling. Of course, I had heard about the family romance,—the daughter who ran off with the tutor,—but that you were the result of that elopement, I never suspected until I made a fool of myself about you.... Do not look so angry; that folly is past and gone.... I have taken my place toward you—especially since I have confessed to your grandfather—as a kind of honorary uncle.”

On this episode Franka looked back with satisfaction.

On the other hand, she remembered something very unpleasant that had happened to her during the early days of her new life. She had been summoned at a quite unusual hour to her great-aunt’s chamber. She had scarcely crossed the threshold when she realized that she had been invited to appear as a defendant before a criminal court. Behind the table sat the old Countess Schollendorf in her sternest aspect, with her headdress askew, betokening inward excitement; next her, in the capacity of an assistant, Aunt Albertine, and on the table as corpus delicti two books which Franka instantly recognized as her property.

“Come in; sit down and explain yourself: How came you by these books?” This was spoken in a harsh, inquisitorial tone.

The books were Prince Kropotkin’s “Memoirs of a Revolutionist” and Bölsche’s “Liebesleben in der Natur.”

Franka had calmly taken a seat.

“I might rather ask,” she replied, “how come these books here, when they were locked up in my bookcase?”

Miss Albertine, with a honeyed expression, put in her word:—

“My dear girl, this matter concerns your own good: I myself brought the books down. The bookcase was not locked; the key was in the door; I did not break it open. It is perfectly natural that we should be interested in what is read by a young person over whose well-being we have to watch. The other books there I do not know.... I should have to read them first; but the titles of these two are sufficient to condemn them. So I brought them down to Aunt Adele. We have glanced through them and....”

“And,” said the superior judge, taking the words out of the other’s mouth, “I had you summoned to tell you that you are to hand over to us your whole library—it was evidently your inheritance from Professor Garlett, who seems to have been a Freemason.... And I will speak to you with the utmost frankness: you must know that a young girl of our circles does not make the acquaintance of revolutionists and their works.... These are very, very pernicious theories—the worst possible. And then Socialism and Feminism and Pacifism, and all these new ‘isms’ such as are coming into existence in our day.... And now that ‘Liebesleben’! I trust you have not read it!”

“Oh, yes, I have—I read it with my father.”

“And are you not ashamed of yourself? This is certainly the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of! Why, one learns there how herrings break the sixth commandment—it is positively disgusting! Do you not know that there are things which a sensible young maiden—I will not say of our circles, but any sensible maiden—ought to have no suspicion of? What have you to say in your defense?”

“Nothing.”

Franka felt as if she would choke and she uttered the word with a deep breath.

“What does this all mean? Do you wish to rouse my anger?”

“Do not get excited, Adele,” interrupted Miss Albertine appeasingly; “just think—the poor child has not enjoyed the right sort of education; she inherited her mother’s frivolous nature and on her father’s side she is of no family at all—therefore, she lacks the instinct of what becomes our world.... Yes, you are lacking in many respects, Franka, and if I speak in all sincerity,—it is impossible for me to be anything else than sincere,—it is only with the intention of being useful to you. You are still young enough to learn a good deal, to change and to become worthy of the great advantage that you are enjoying here.”

Franka’s throat felt as if a tight band was fastened around it. It occurred to her to run away; she was almost tempted to kill herself—to jump out of the window.... But after a while, as Miss Albertine’s discourse kept on its even flow, she recovered her self-control.

“I ask only one thing,” she said—“that this whole charge be brought before my grandfather. I will abide by his decision.”

“Do you really wish this? I had intended to spare you this disgrace, and was going to say nothing to my brother; but if you yourself desire it... very well, I will send and find out if we can see him.”

When an affirmative answer was brought, the three ladies betook themselves to the count’s apartment. Miss Albertine held the corpus delicti under her arm. The count was alone. He was sitting in his accustomed place in the reclining-chair, and looked exceptionally lively and well.

“What! Three man strong you march along!” he exclaimed, greeting them.

“Yes, grandfather, you see here a judge, a witness, and a defendant—and I am the defendant; now you are to be the supreme judicial court.”

“Oho! and is there no advocate for the defense?”

“I shall be my own advocate.”

“Very good: now what is the complaint?”

“It is no joking matter,” said the Countess Adele.

“Indeed, it is not,” said Miss Albertine with emphasis. “It concerns Franka’s own good; else we should not have bothered you with it. Your condition demands perfect quiet—you look very miserable.... Forgive me, but I must tell you the truth only for love of you so that you may take care of yourself.”

“Yes, yes, your frankness is touching. But to the business....”

The two old ladies, using almost the identical words as before, formulated their complaint and at the same time handed him the books that were under suspicion.

When they had had their say, Franka cried: “May I now offer my defense?”

The count raised his hand. “No, what is the use? I see clearly how the whole matter stands and can render my judgment. A crime, at least a very detestable misdemeanor, has been committed—or, rather, a whole series of misdemeanors:—looting of others’ property; inquisitiveness and espionage; tale-bearing and making charges; injury and insult; attempted moral constraint and tyranny!”

“But, Eduard,” exclaimed the old countess reproachfully, “do you blame us instead of this erring child?”

“Most certainly, I blame you. Franka is neither in the path of error, nor is she a child. She has not been brought up as you would have brought up your daughters, and she has different ideas. Has she attempted to force these ideas on you? Has she ever tactlessly and offensively expressed her ideas in order to bring yours into unfavorable contrast?”

“No, she has done nothing of that kind. On the contrary, she has hypocritically kept her terrible ideas, imbibed from these terrible books, quite to herself.”

“Why do you say ‘hypocritically’? I call it tactful. If one lives with people who belong to another world of ideas, it is right to avoid bringing up the discussion of questions whereon they would differ; and so people, even though they think so differently, can get along together very congenially. Moreover, there is nothing so very terrible about the two books—I happen to know them. Bölsche is a scientist; Kropotkin an idealist. I do not exactly share their point of view; I am an old country squire, and have taken little interest in the natural sciences and social problems; but I know that we live at a time when much that is new is crowding out the old. We can’t make all shoes on one last, and we cannot expect our grandchildren to be educated exactly as our fathers were educated. And as far as education goes, certainly nothing more needs be said about Franka’s. She will be of age in a few months: I had her come here to a home, not to a young ladies’ boarding-school. I will not put up with her life being spoiled by the others in this house.”

“Oh! how good and kind you are!” stammered Franka, who had once more knelt down on the footstool near Sielen’s reclining-chair.

“Never mind, my girl; don’t bother your head about it. The aunts meant well.... But now I will ask you to leave me for a while. The affair has agitated me.”

That ended the incident. To be sure, a little bitterness remained, but the two old ladies from that time forth avoided any nursery-governess tone toward the young girl. The sick master’s will was law on the Sielenburg.

Still another incident, somewhat later, produced a still deeper impression. It was a letter. Almost never did the postman bring Franka any mail. In all the more excitement she tore open the envelope which she found one fine morning lying on her breakfast-tray. It was in an unknown hand and unsigned. After she read it, she easily guessed who its writer was.

Vienna, August 2, 1909.

My greetings to you, Franka! As an actual man I am not justified in addressing you thus familiarly, but this is only a kind of wave-motion from soul to soul. The reason for this letter is, that you appeared to me last night in a dream. You looked sad and troubled. Something of questioning and yearning was expressed in your face and was evident in your outstretched arms. In what direction would your desires, your longings, your questionings wing their flight? Your surroundings will give no fulfillment of them, no answer to them. Perhaps I may be able to serve as a guide—perhaps I may be able to solve some of the riddles for you. And since you have appeared to me in a dream—and because I am fond of you—I venture to approach you as a bodyless teacher, a formless brother, a lover who hopes for nothing. Or rather—do not call it presumptuous!—I come to you as a priest. I have religious consolation in readiness for you and I will lay down religious commandments for you.

Yet, let this be for the last. We will first speak of worldly things. The question which a pretty girl of twenty asks of fate—even though she does not acknowledge it to herself—is, “Shall I be happily married?” She might just as well ask, “Shall I find a needle in a haystack?” For it is just as difficult, out of the hundred thousand chances of an unhappy marriage, to secure the one slender chance of a happy one, although every young woman believes that for her particularly there are several ready for choice. And the claims are not modest. Dozens of conditions cluster around the idea of “happiness”—above all, love. And in it are united all the attributes and aspects of this manifold phenomenon:—the platonic and erotic; passion, sentimentality, devotion, sweet torment and tearful ecstasy, hot desire and the full and peaceful possession—and this whole medley, presumably to last as long as life, based on eternal faithfulness... (il faut en rabattre!)

But love alone is not sufficient. To happiness, as dreamed by the young maiden, some other things are needed: if not wealth, at least perfect pecuniary independence, a comfortable and fairly elegant household, continued good health, social recognition, pleasant occupation, pretty toilettes—perhaps also handsome children. I am speaking of the average girl, not of the ultra-modern type before whom a quite special expression of personality is held up, or from whom the well-known “call of motherhood” is extorted.

To that class you do not belong; you are not eccentric, you are calm and reflective, but assuredly you are also hungry for happiness.

Now the question for you is: “Will Destiny pay the note which Youth and Beauty have drawn on her?” Who can tell? It is a matter of accident. Accident is only another name for Fate, and cannot give you any remedy against her tricks. Consequently we must possess something to raise us above all perils, above poverty and loneliness, above illness and sorrow, yes, verily, above the terrors of death!

If you had been educated in a convent, such a talisman would have been put into your possession: the knowledge that you were a child of God, the belief in happiness beyond the grave, the union with all that is sacred in the eternal and in the infinite. But this golden talisman would have been handed to you in a tin capsule of dogmas, and you, like so many others to whose riper taste and judgment the capsule no longer appealed, would have flung the whole thing away, contents and cover; or, like so many others, you would have only clung to the outward wrapping as a kind of symbol, as a ceremonial necessity.

At the present time, in this country, it is a part of good form to be pious. By assiduous church attendance, by friendly intercourse with the clergy, by scorn and contempt for all free thinking, one tickets one’s self as belonging to fine society. They are mere forms, to be sure, but how can the man and the woman of society differentiate themselves from the ordinary mass of humanity if not by the observance of forms? Signing the cross, as one sits at table,—the way it is done of late in aristocratic houses,—is not a mark of reverence, but a “correct” gesture—equal to the conventional court curtsy.

I would not wish to imply that there are not actually honest believers who in spite of the tin capsule penetrate to the golden center of the talisman and are thereby elevated and strengthened. “Be good!” is certainly the profoundest meaning of every religious imperative—honor to the man who with voluntary obedience listens to this commandment by reason of his faith.

You were not educated in a nunnery—as I happen to know. Do you possess that fervent Something, by means of which a person is raised above all the eventualities of life and above one’s self? That I do not know. Let me explain to you what I understand by this “Something”: let me be for half an hour your catechist!

This is the mystery:—Recognize as your home, that is to say as the place to which you belong, a domain larger than your house, than your family, than your parish, than your earth—the universe. You belong to it: it belongs to you. Religionists have an inkling of this truth and they call it “the fatherhood of God.” Science has investigated it and here it is called “indestructibility” and “homogeneity of matter” and “eternal conservation of all energy.” This guarantees you immortality. The part that you play in the great world-drama is important, just as every one else’s is, and it is never played to the end.

Do not shrug your shoulders and say: “What is the use of a continued existence if, in another life, I do not remember the former; if my ego has disappeared?” Certainly “your” ego, in its present form, is lost, but in the new form you will feel an ego in similar degree. Is your consciousness, your inner sense of life, lessened by the fact that you do not remember the existences through which you have passed in the infinity behind you? The past ego was not “another one,” nor will the ones that follow be,—they all are a part of the same ego of the universe, divided billions and trillions of times. If one has learned to feel one’s self as a constituent of the eternal circle of life, if one knows that one is akin to the plants and the stars, if one feels in one’s inmost soul the sparks flashing from the flame of the Universal Spirit, then one is penetrated by the sense of being a child of God just as much as a nun kneeling in prayer on the stone flags.

Yet these are only impulses for especial exalted hours—not at all times can one feel consecrated to the All. But there are also narrower circles into which one can enter and escape one’s own egotistical loneliness—any kind of a great community. For some, it is found in art; for some in the various so-called “Movements,” or political campaigns, or even revolutions; either in active coöperation or mainly in intense sympathy: in either case one will be elevated above the everyday pettinesses and ennuis of one’s own existence, if it be petty and tiresome, aye, if it be full of sadness! Listen, Franka, to the roaring of the stream of Time; see how human society is striving to attain new goals, how it is engaged in the battle with the powers of the traditional—to acquire more light, more freedom, more righteousness; in a word, more happiness.

A mighty aid to this uplift of souls is found in the technical marvels with which human invention is every day transforming this world. We live in a great, great age! Especially great, not so much in what is as in what is to be! To think of sharing in it all! Do not miss the noble enjoyment which every bold ascent is preparing! And even if you yourself cannot attain a height, then rejoice in the lofty flights of humanity. “Soaring”—the word was formerly applied to us men only figuratively, but now—you know what happened only a few days ago—for the first time a man flew over the Channel... and these surprises, these triumphs will be enlarged.... Look and listen! Show yourself—let us all show ourselves—worthy of having been born under the glory of the twentieth century....

Here the letter abruptly ended. It was not difficult to guess from whom it came: only Mr. Helmer could have been its author. Had any definite address been attached to it or an answer been demanded, perhaps Franka would have sent a letter in return. She had hardly given a thought to the young secretary since she no longer had occasion to meet him. After the receipt of this letter, however, which she read from beginning to end several times, it was natural that her thoughts should turn frequently to Chlodwig Helmer. What especially moved her was that something of the spirit of her father seemed to breathe through this letter—there was the same trend of thought and at the same time almost the same use of words and phrases. This was not strange, for where ideas coincide, there must be a similarity in expression of them; every philosophy of life has its own terminology. Above and beside all the abstract ideas contained in the letter there was also the striking of a note which awakened a melodious echo:—the five words, “I am fond of you”!—Then it happened, apparently in consequence of his statement that she had appeared to him in a dream, that she also two or three times dreamed of him, and wonderful!—in the dream his face was not homely—not at all, but rather fascinating. No second letter followed, the dreams were not continued, and the whole incident gradually grew faint and indefinite.