CHAPTER XIX
YE YOUNG MAIDENS, LISTEN TO ME
The exercises on this second evening of the Rose-Week began as before with music. But it was a kind of music such as had never before, or anywhere else, been heard. A feeling of wonder, and unprecedented delight took possession of the audience—a delight which almost reached awe. It was a newly invented instrument, the tone of which had no resemblance to that of any other instrument. It was more nearly comparable to bell-tones, like cathedral chimes, loud and grave and vibrating.
In the midst of a crescendo the player of it suddenly ceased playing and said to the public:—
“What you are here listening to is the voice of a magician—the magician ‘Electricity.’ The instrument, as you see, is not large, and its mechanism is concealed; I invented it and constructed it. In honor of the Mæcenas who enabled me to accomplish my invention, I have christened it the ‘Toker Organ.’ It is played by any artist who understands the organ, but its tone and its timbre are the product of a nature-force tamed. The surprising thing is that the tone has such a sweetness that it can awake the keenest musical delight, and that its attainable power has no limits. The crescendo which I just now broke off can be made ever so many times more tremendous on this ‘Toker Organ.’ A shut-off has to be introduced here, for otherwise the strength of the tone-waves would increase so that it might not only burst your ear-drums but even the ceiling of the hall. Yet, in open space, on a mountain-top or from a lighthouse in the open sea, one might with impunity fill a circumference of miles with music. And because you are now assured that the sweet tone, however powerful it may be, remains sweet and tender, and will never become a deafening noise, I will once more swell to a hitherto unknown majesty of power, but certainly not to be unendurable, as the shut-off is introduced a long way before that point;—I will continue my playing. I choose an old song known to you all, the text of which seems appropriate to this festival week; ‘The Last Rose of Summer.’”
These words, spoken in English,—the young inventor was an American engineer of the Edison school,—were repeated in French and German by interpreters. Then the young man again seated himself at the instrument, allowing the resounding bells to give out the melancholy melody, ever fuller and fuller, so that it seemed to the listeners as if the whole hall were filled with the vibrating waves of sound. When the crescendo grew four or five times as loud as it was when the player had broken off the first time, voices were heard here and there in the hall as if crying in anguish: “Enough, enough!” The artist nodded and instituted immediately a diminuendo, and gradually the melody, just as it had mounted, so now it decreased to the most thread-like pianissimo, dying away as if in the remotest distance.
Stormy applause now broke loose. Something never before known had been experienced, life was enriched by a new sensation. Then followed the social intermission. Many mounted the platform to examine the instrument. A buzz of conversation filled the hall. Impressions regarding the marvelous music were exchanged. A composer told his delight that music had achieved now a new means of expression of such inimitable beauty. An officer of the general staff remarked that, in the infinite possibilities of overwhelming noise, there might be something of strategic importance. A passionate lover of nature cried, “Well, I must say: now that the sublime emptiness of heavenly space is to be darkened with every kind of whirring aviating rabble, the splendid silence of the mountains and the seas will be desecrated by electrically bellowed street-songs.” On the other hand, a philosopher remarked thoughtfully: “Boundless powers put into the hand of man—what prospects open up!”
Coriolan expressed his views to his cousins: “Didn’t I tell you so? Tingel-tangel, klingel-klangel.... Variété.... And the next number is the appearance of Franka Garlett, who is still, unfortunately, our kinswoman. Where is she hiding? She is not to be seen anywhere.”
Franka was in fact not present in the hall. All day long she had denied herself to every one, so that she might devote her time uninterruptedly to the preparation of her address. She had not even gone to the hall at the beginning of the exercises, but had asked to be called only when it was her turn to speak.
The moment had now arrived. She stepped out on the platform.
A murmur of admiration swept through the hall. She looked classically beautiful in her trailing pure white gown with its long, winglike sleeves, with no other adornment than a pearl necklace and the usual small bouquet of violets at the heart-shaped opening of her bodice. Her face was pallid in contrast to the black diadem of her tresses, coiled high on her head. As she stepped forward, loud applause broke out. She acknowledged it, without smiling, with a graceful inclination and began:—
“Ye young maidens, listen to me!” Just as Helmer had suggested, she delivered her proem and then repeated the argument of her first speech in which she took as her text the injunction: “We are here to share in man’s thought,” added to Goethe’s “We are here to share in men’s love.”
“Since she had thus spoken,” she added, “the domain had widened out ever more and more,—the domain which woman had conquered for herself inch by inch,—and the time was rapidly approaching when young womanhood was also to share in man’s work, even in his political work. Now the important question was not as formerly to win positions for themselves, but it was important for them to make themselves capable and worthy of filling the places waiting for them. In many countries—Australia, Finland, Norway, and other lands—the doors of Parliament have been thrown open to women as electors and elected; probably little by little the other countries would follow. Probably, also, women—if once they entered deliberative bodies—would be entrusted with official positions, and the ministries would not remain closed to them. In short, equal rights and equal positions would be theirs along the whole line: simply a terrible state of things, unless we have sufficient imagination to conceive of simultaneously altered forms of society and a more highly developed community. The great distrust and displeasure, ordinarily felt against any proposed change in conditions, are derived from the fact that the environing conditions are supposed to be unchanged, and a harsh dissonance is experienced, just such an one as a discordant tone must give in a well-tuned instrument.
“Only one example: a woman as an executioner—what a horrid picture. Restrain your emotion—if ever woman finds her place among the lawgivers of the land, capital punishment will surely be abolished.
“Do you fully realize what is the gist of this question? Whether our sex shall share in the direction of institutions and events is not merely a question of the improvement of women’s lot, but it is also that of the improvement of man’s lot. All the virtues which are entrusted to our charge, and which are supposed to be superfluous in public affairs, wholly conducted from the masculine side,—mildness, gentleness, moderation, purity, the power to endure without complaining, and to love with utter devotion,—all these virtues we must carry intact into the new circles of activity. Before all, however, we must strive to possess them, indeed; those virtues in a large measure are only ascribed to us in poems.
“But that is not sufficient. If women are to enjoy equal rights with men in deliberation and action, then they must also appropriate those characteristics that are generally regarded as exclusively masculine virtues: courage, steadfastness, energy, resolution, logical thought. On the other hand, they must beware (thinking thus to legitimate their claim to equal rights) of adopting those failings which are regarded as masculine prerogatives: habits of drinking and brawling, brutality, harshness, intemperance. If the emancipation of women develops in this direction, as its opponents at the outset generally believed to be its tendency, then it would be no blessing—it would be a curse. But this will not happen. For humanity develops upward. And the coöperation of both sexes in all callings will have as consequences that each will adopt the virtues characteristic of the other and will drop the faults and vices hitherto regarded as special privileges, so that they themselves and the practice of their callings will be thereby ennobled. Then there will not be mannish girls and coarse, manlike women, and no effeminate men, but complete human beings of both sexes, standing on a loftier plane!”
Here Franka was interrupted by applause. As she stood there in her thoroughly gracious womanliness, in her absolutely feminine dignity, at the same time performing her great mission with such unshaken conviction, she seemed, indeed, to be the personification of that ideal—of combined tenderness and strength—which she had conjured up before the audience.
She continued speaking for some time longer. She depicted what had been gained in positive social advantage by the participation of women in the social duties of the present day, now that this movement was really on the fair road to accomplishment. The battle against one of the worst foes of humanity—alcoholism—had resulted in its greatest victories in countries where women exercise an influence on the making of laws. The war against another of the shameful blots on our civilization—the sexual slavery of women; this is also to be eradicated only where pure and blameless women have the courage to look the infamous evil in the face, to call it by name, and to lead the revolt against it. Dueling and war are two functions in which the feminine sex are forbidden to take part, because they stand in absolute opposition to all those qualities and feelings that characterize the feminine half of mankind. If now this half should gain their due influence in the conduct of public life, then those two deadly modes of settling disputes would no longer remain legitimate. “The mission of woman, thus conceived, is anticipated and poetically symbolized by the sovereign figure of the Madonna trampling a dragon under her dainty foot.”
Here the speaker paused for a moment. On many sides there was applause. Yet many refrained from expressing approbation, because they felt offended by Franka’s words—what did she mean by dragon? Could she mean militarism? Or the whole masculine sex? Would she like to see petticoat government established? Remarks were heard: “What idiots these feminists are!” “And she is so pretty; she certainly would not need to take up such fads!”
On the other hand, those in the audience who did not understand German were captivated by her appearance and entranced by her melodious voice. They followed the occasional gestures with which she emphasized certain phrases, and they kept their eyes fixed on her calm, white hands with their long, tapering fingers and their rosy, gleaming nails. Her tone of queenly calmness, now and again vibrating with restrained feeling, exercised on all the same charm, whether they understood her spoken word or not; and the very ones who could not understand applauded most unrestrainedly, because they detected nothing in her speech to disturb their convictions. Even De la Rochère clapped vigorously, as he assuredly would not have done if he had known what she had been pleading for: in his eyes there was nothing more ridiculous, nothing more baneful, than the object aimed at in the Feminist Movement. In his eyes “woman” was “une créature d’amour,” and this sentimentally uttered epithet was, as he believed, the highest compliment that could be given to a woman. Prince Victor Adolph found an artistic satisfaction in listening to Franka’s address. For the cause itself, he had little sympathy—it did not appeal to him.
In the Sielenburg group a painful emotion was stirred. Coriolan gave utterance to an inarticulate grunt of disapprobation; the Countess Adele sighed; Fräulein Albertine raised her eyes beseechingly to heaven; only Baron Malhof cried, with sincere warmth: “Ah, she is a splendid young creature!”
Franka proceeded: “I have indeed overpassed the limits that I once set for myself as a field of labor. I am not accustomed to plead for the conquest of professions and for attainment of political rights—all that I leave to other champions of the Woman Movement. But if these callings and rights come gradually into the hands of those of my sex, then they must know how to exercise them; they must be educated to the task. Their minds must be open and their interest must be awake to the universality of the problems of civilization: these are all correlated, and for this reason the only duty that I put before my young sisters was this: Learn how to think! But to-day, knowing that an echo from this address will be carried to the remotest circles, and therefore also to those women who stand in the van and who have already won such important strategic points,—as, for example, the women in Australia,—I felt myself compelled to drop those restrictions, in order to gaze out over the whole wide field of the Woman Question.
“And, in conclusion, I turn to the men that hear me: We demand nothing of your magnanimity. We do not come as petitioners, but as givers—for the time being as desirous of giving; for still a portion of mankind, both men and women, reject the gifts we would confer. ‘Let things remain as they are!’ this fundamental desideratum of the conservative spirit is still cherished by the majority of women. Therefore, even among them there is still a large proportion of those opposed to the Feminist Movement. Among men, on the other hand, it numbers an ever-increasing host of adherents. The admission of collective energy to the work for the elevation and enrichment of human society is a matter of equal concern to both halves. The ideal of that social condition in which brutality is to be driven out, in which gentleness, benevolence, and beauty are to become effective, is, God knows, no exclusively feminine ideal. It has swept before the vision of all the great teachers of mankind; and that is to-day also the guiding star of all those poets, thinkers, and statesmen who are yearning for a new and better day and are laboring to bring it to pass.
“All these welcome the coöperation of women as a reinforcement of their effective forces. The battle against ancient rooted evil, against the dominion of force, is truly not easy, and the men who are conducting it will only rejoice if to their aid come forth coadjutors and assistants from the ranks of that half of mankind whose most distinctive domain lies in those virtues which they are trying to diffuse.
“Aye, this is what the new Eve is to become: a coadjutor recognized as of equal value; and for this purpose must you, my young sisters, educate yourselves, and for this purpose must you, my noble brethren,”—and here she extended one hand toward her auditors,—“help and sustain us.”
She bowed and stepped back. John Toker went to meet her and shook her hand. The audience applauded vigorously.
During the social intermission following her address, Franka went down into the hall. She was surrounded, and numerous admirers—both men and, especially, women—asked to be introduced to her. She had the agreeable feeling that she had made a good impression, and this conviction was assured in her mind not so much by the warm reception given her by the public as by the silent glance and pressure of the hand whereby Chlodwig Helmer had expressed his satisfaction on the platform after she had finished.
Baron Malhof now mingled with the group that surrounded her. He offered her his arm: “Come, please. Your aunts are eager to offer you their congratulations.”
“Really?” exclaimed Franka, astonished, as she took Malhof’s arm and went with him. “I should never have believed it.”
At the other end of the hall sat the two old ladies and Coriolan.
“Here I come, bringing the conquering heroine,” said Malhof.
Countess Adele moved along on her sofa to give room for Franka. “You surprised me ... to talk so long at one stretch without stammering and with no paper in your hand ... that is remarkable. It is plain that you have had much practice. Aren’t you very tired?”
“I am a little used up.... I have been dreading all day the ordeal of speaking;—before so many people ... I mean those out in the wide world ... and also to a certain degree before you. I realize how little you approve of my speaking and of what I say.”
“Well, that is quite true,” said Aunt Albertine.
Coriolan wanted for once to be courteous: “Well, I must admit, your voice is very pleasant and you do look very beautiful.”
“But you ought to wear gloves,” remarked Albertine; “you notice, don’t you, that everybody wears gloves?”
Franka smiled. “But have you nothing to say about the subject of my address?”
“If you were to kill me,” replied Coriolan, “I could not tell you now what you talked about. I am incapable of following a lecture for five minutes consecutively.... I only know that you preached, girls ought to be like men, and men like girls ... and, truly, that is not to my taste. It would be a fine muddle—but it is the end and aim of all modern movements—the topsy-turvy world! Fortunately, it is not so easily turned topsy-turvy, and whatever you may talk—man remains man, and woman remains woman—and that is as it ought to be.”
The old countess came to Franka’s aid: “Franka only urged that both ought to be better, and that surely could not do any harm to mankind. But there is one thing that I should like to blame you for, Franka. If you really want to improve people, why do you not draw their attention to the injunctions of our holy Faith? And if you call attention to the virtues of women, why do you forget the most womanly and most important—piety? As far as I can remember, you did not say one single word about religion.”
“I spoke of goodness, of mercy, and of mildness—is not that religion?”
“But, my dear friends,” cried Malhof at this juncture, “Miss Garlett is certainly not an officer in the Salvation Army. Moreover, as far as concerns these religious dogmas....”
Countess Adele evidently wanted to turn the conversation from this theme, for Malhof’s skepticism was well known to her: “Franka, tell me where are you going, when this week is ended? Don’t you want to come to the Sielenburg for a while?”
“What am I going to do? I have not the slightest idea; I have an invitation to London, but I am hesitating. If I go back to Austria, then I will make you a visit at the Sielenburg. But now, I will say good-evening. We shall meet again to-morrow.”
She had gone only a few steps when Prince Victor Adolph joined her.
“At last I can tell you, my dear young lady, how fascinating—but, no, I will not pay you compliments; but I should like to have a little serious discussion with you on what I heard you say this evening. You were fascinating, that is a fact, but that is not the point. What I want to talk about is the meaning and the scope of what you put before us. Your idea certainly was not to please, but to attain something definite, wasn’t it? This is what I should like to ask you about—your purpose. It is not altogether clear to me.”
“So you expect me to give you a private lesson on the Woman Question? Very good, you may ask what you desire to know, and I will answer.”
“Here is no place for a serious, undisturbed conversation, among all these people fluttering about. Might I do myself the honor of calling on you some afternoon?”
“Certainly, Your Highness.”
“Then perhaps to-morrow?”
She nodded: “Yes, to-morrow at three o’clock.”