CHAPTER XXV
SCENES OF BEAUTY AND OF LOVE
This evening the exercises were devoted to the concept Beauty. They were to begin with a concert; but not a concert of tones, rather of colors and lines—charm for the eye, intoxication for the sense of sight—the delight of seeing, carried to ecstasy.
The hall was only faintly lighted. Toker and his guests were not as usual on the platform; a white screen surrounded by a golden frame filled the background. Franka sat in the box that she had occupied on the evening of Helmer’s address. But this time Helmer was with her. He had escorted her into the hall, having been, as usual, seated next her at the dinner-table. The two had not had much opportunity to talk together, as some one opposite had engaged Chlodwig in an urgent conversation, and Franka, on her side, was taken possession of by Gwendoline—who had also accompanied them to the box. In the background sat Frau von Rockhaus and Malhof.
Franka was scanning the hall with her opera-glass.
“Are you looking for some one?” asked Helmer; “he is sitting there in the lower tier at the right.”
Franka’s glass followed the indicated direction, and she caught sight of Victor Adolph, who had turned round and was likewise searching the audience with his lorgnette. The two glasses met and the prince bowed. Franka answered the greeting and blushed, as Helmer saw only too well.
“I had a long talk with the prince to-day,” he said; “he is a fine fellow.”
“Who—the German king’s son?” broke in Gwendoline; “he pleases me, too, immensely; and if he were not so evidently taken with our Miss Garlett, I should have a good flirtation with him.”
On the signal for beginning the programme—three loud peals on a bell—a tall figure of a woman in the costume of a Greek Muse stepped forward and began to speak:—
The speaker retired and the hall was completely darkened. All the more brilliantly gleamed the great white screen on the platform. A half-minute of intense expectation passed.
Franka turned to Helmer: “Do you know what is coming?”
“Yes, Mr. Toker gave me an inkling of it. Pictures of landscapes more magnificent than were ever seen before—except in reality: nature-framed. The impression is said to be magical.”
Suddenly, the white screen was transformed into a view of a primitive tropical forest—a remarkably picturesque piece: in the foreground, at the right and at the left, two gigantic gnarly trees, whose branches arched upward until they met, forming a kind of triumphal gateway; on the ground and toward the back a luxuriant growth of unknown plants and flowers.
“That reminds me of Ernst Haeckel’s marvelous travel pictures,” remarked Helmer.
It was evidently photographed from nature and in the most brilliant colors. Polychrome photography had, to be sure, been invented some years before, but here, for the first time, perfect fidelity to nature had been attained: not only the succulent green of the foliage, and the velvet brilliancy of the moss, but something like real light, such as prevails in the primeval forest, streaming with emerald tints through the tree-tops and flinging bronze reflections on the brown trunks. Dark and pale lilac blossoms glowed in the maze of vines, resting here and there in dense masses among the branches; here and there hanging down like the sprays of weeping willows; then again, springing from the soil, tall-stemmed, crimson-red flowers, with broad, wonderfully serrated calyxes—a flora quite unknown in our temperate zone.
The prologue had not promised too much: no painter could depict such a scene: it was nature itself. To near-sighted eyes, the picture may have presented a more or less confused maze of colors; but through the opera-glass every leaf and every stalk could be seen in its sharp outlines, and if one looked with a high-powered glass one might have detected the gauzy wings of some brilliant-colored butterfly sitting motionless on some flower.
Franka drew a deep breath and murmured: “It is bewitching.”
“Yes, the world grows richer every day,” said Helmer; “but look, there comes something still more amazing.”
Through the hall swept a subdued murmur of astonishment. Franka pointed her glass to the platform again: she expected to see another, perhaps a still more beautiful picture, but it was the same. And yet different.... Was it not alive? Didn’t the vines sway? Didn’t the light dance on the mossy ground?—Yes—and now a small bird flew from one tree to another—a gayly feathered little bird gleaming in metallic colors. For a minute or two the fixed photograph had appeared in the frame, and now the kinematographic reproduction of the same bit of nature was substituted for it. To be sure, living pictures were no longer a new marvel, but the sudden animation of the apparent painting—that was the surprising effect; and the new victory was that kinematography in colors had been added to the achievements of this art. For long ages men had been seeking to imitate, to preserve the life around them—and now, what a long distance between the first rude attempts at delineating the forms of animals or the bones of animals, to the living picture accurate in color and full of motion!
The tropic landscape was followed by one from the Far North: the luxuriance of warmth by the splendor of the cold: a polar-sea region in the morning light. The picture must have been taken on board of a ship, a ship surrounded by glittering icebergs. Here also there was motion; the spaces of open sea were alive with dancing waves; sea-gulls swept by; the clouds that moved along the horizon changed their form and color. A third picture portrayed a bit of the sea-depths. Had a diver carried his kinematographic apparatus down with him, or was the picture taken from an aquarium? The question could not be decided; what seemed to fill the frame was azure water with coral formations on the bottom, and populated with marvelous creatures. Opaque crustaceans tinier than grains of sand flew this way and that quicker than a flash; gelatinous creatures were seen going about in all directions by means of invisible organs; others proceeded by contracting their feet; diminutive medusæ moved slowly about, carrying their umbrellas; little sagittate animalcules dashed in agitated flight like torpedoes; anemones hung there, like chandeliers; shadow-like, transparent creatures, iridescent, phosphorescent creatures—beauty, beauty everywhere!
After a brief pause, what followed was the actual Color Symphony promised in the prologue—a concert for the eyes. The eyes alone should enjoy it and wholly without accessories of landscape and life. The framework disappeared; the whole platform was swallowed up in darkness for a time, and then suddenly flamed up in a crashing chord of ruby-red, topaz-yellow, and sapphire-blue. Then the colors began to move rhythmically and dispose themselves into figures; they obliterated one another and formed new combinations of ever new nuances; just as a solo voice rising above an orchestral accompaniment, now hovers an emerald-green line in the foreground and depicts—adagio—a vibrant arabesque like a melody, while the accompanying colors diminish to a dull silver-gray.
A second line, of the tenderest rose, now curls round the green, as if it were a second solo voice. Now the duet is swallowed up by a violet glow and again begins a genuine ensemble of all the instruments: violin-tones from the golden yellow, flute-tones from the celestial blue, a trumpet-blast from the red, a drum-tap from the brown. In ever new forms and interchanging tempos the colors stream together and apart. Here they cluster into balls; there they tumble in waterfalls or hover in flakes like soft-falling snow. The most variegated lights and reflections and beams and flame-gleams and mother-of-pearl tints make up the ensemble. The color symphony contained also a scherzo wherein the melodious arabesques are transformed into a whirl of grotesque hopping figures. The finale introduces a prestissimo with the rapidity of a tornado, of a blizzard, which finally dies down again into calm serenity. And ever more and more pallid grow the colors, ever duller the lights, with a decrescendo dying gradually into the most delicate pianissimo, until at last the stage again lies in absolute darkness. And then against the darkness, shining brilliant red, appeared, a hundred fold in size, the crest of the house, the symbol of beauty: a rose in full bloom.
After the intermission one of Toker’s famous guests, the German physicist, delivered a brief address. He also produced a variation on the theme of the evening. He proved, even more clearly than the animated pictures could do, the manifold and hidden beauties of nature. He revealed the wonder-pictures that are discovered by the microscope to our astonished senses; the splendor of form of the Radiolaria, the symmetry of the thousand-faceted eyes of insects; the delicate traceries of mould and mosses invisible to the naked eye; the rich life in a drop of stagnant water—beauty everywhere.
But in order that the visible world may resolve into beauty, we must learn two things: to see and to enjoy. Could there possibly be splendor of color and grace of contour if all living beings were blind? And could what we see ever be felt as “beautiful” if the spectator remained without enjoyment? The evolution of organisms required a long time until the eye was formed; and a second long period stretched between the use of an organ of sense and the enjoyment that grew out of the use of it. How long it took for man to learn to enjoy the beauties of nature! In all ancient literatures no description of nature is to be found in tones of admiration. The ancient Greeks found delight in the grace of human bodies, in the noble lines of artistic buildings; but in their songs there is no trace of enthusiasm over a mountain landscape, or a seashore. Among our peasantry, living in the midst of the most magnificent nature, the majority are unmoved by beauty of scenery. The formation of the organs of sense must be followed by the exercise and the refining of the corresponding organs of the soul. Then only the soul may be raised to the inspiring mood which is called the enjoyment of beauty.
After the conclusion of the physicist’s address, Toker entered Franka’s box. “To-night, Miss Garlett, you must once more come into our circle, and you also, Mr. Helmer. This period of talk between ten o’clock and midnight is certainly the best and most productive recreation after the labors of the day. And you, Gwen, have you been happy in spending the whole evening in the company of your idol?—For you must know, Miss Garlett, that my daughter has conceived the most violent admiration for you—which I can perfectly understand.”
A little later the Rose-Knighthood had gathered in Toker’s salons. In spite of the brevity of their acquaintance, many warm friendships had sprung up among the famous guests of the house. And, indeed, there was no lack of interesting material for intercourse. The atmosphere was alive with ideas suggested by the preceding addresses and performances. “This is the week of wide perspectives,” one of the visitors pertinently remarked on one occasion.
Frequently distinguished personages invited by Toker from outside joined the house-company. This evening he had invited Prince Victor Adolph, among others, to spend the rest of the evening in the Rose-Palace, an invitation which the young man had accepted with alacrity in spite of Orell’s comment that it was a very mixed society: “Eccentric people. A revolutionary flavor. No milieu for Your Royal Highness.”
The night was very warm. When Prince Victor Adolph entered the suite of salons, many of the guests had taken refuge on the terrace to seek its refreshing coolness. Franka, for whom the prince was looking, had also disappeared from the salon. Toker stopped him as he was about to follow her.
“Fine, that you came, Your Highness. I should like to tell you something important.”
“Me?” His eyes wandered searchingly.
“Yes, you. There are things which will interest you and which you might be willing to take hold of and help. I regard you as a young man of high thoughts and ideals,”—the prince made a gesture of surprise,—“perhaps I am speaking too unceremoniously?”
“Not that—but what can you know about my mode of thought, Mr. Toker?”
“What all the world knows. You are recognized as an unusual type. You are interested in questions, a knowledge of which as a general rule does not reach your circles. The weal and woe of the poorer classes seem to you important questions. You are certainly an opponent of any war, instigated from frivolous motives.... Let me tell you what is in preparation. In your position, as the son of a powerful ruler, you might perhaps exert an influence which would avert a threatening misfortune.”
“You excite my curiosity.”
“It is as yet a very imperfect world in which individuals have the opportunity to bring about national conflicts from personal ambition, and where the good will of individuals is required to forfend such evils, instead of security being the normal, natural basis of the intercourse of nations; where one must lay secret plans to save the life of one’s fellow-men!”
“I am ready to enter into such a plot, Mr. Toker. Speak!”
“Thanks, but you came here this evening to enjoy the society of my guests, and what I have to say is not so quickly explained. Could you come to-morrow to my study? I should like to give you a glance at some of my correspondence which has induced me to venture approaching you.”
“Very gladly, Mr. Toker. Would eleven o’clock suit you?”
“Perfectly. And now I will not detain you any longer.”
Victor Adolph took advantage of this permission to look for Franka. He found her on the terrace, sitting with only Gwendoline for companion, at some distance from the others. After greeting the daughter of the house, he turned to Franka.
“I did not come to see you in your loge this evening, gnädiges Fräulein, because I knew that I should have the pleasure of finding you here.”
Gwendoline, in accordance with the proverb which she knew so well, “Two is company, three is none,” found a pretext for going away. Victor Adolph sat down on the seat which she had vacated. Franka was ill at ease: she had a suspicion that the prince was not going to talk about indifferent things. He was silent for a while. That made her still more uncomfortable, and in order to relieve the situation she began to speak:—
“How were you pleased with the silent concert?”
“Concert? What concert?” he asked absently.
“The color symphony.”
“I was not looking at the platform, but into an almost perfectly dark box in which I still could make out the outline of a beloved form.”
Now Franka remained silent. What could she answer to that?
After a rather long pause he remarked: “What a lovely evening!”
“Marvelously beautiful,” replied Franka. The conversation could continue on this subject. And she added: “So mild, so fragrant, so still.”
“Still? Why, no ... don’t you hear the chirping of insects and the wavelets breaking on the shore? The night is breathing.”
“As if in peaceful slumber.”
“No, it is not asleep—just see, how its hundred thousand open eyes are sparkling.”
She looked up at the starry sky. Indeed, there shone a myriad of glittering eyes. As Franka sat there, bathed in the soft moonlight, with her head upturned, her large dark eyes directed to the firmament, her delicate features as it were illuminated with reverence, she seemed more exquisitely beautiful than ever.
“You are right.... Every instant one or another of the stars seems to say, ‘I am.’ That is after all the deepest of mysteries, that unfathomable meaning of the verb ‘to be.’”
“Franka, I love you!”
The words came so abruptly that Franka felt a violent shock. It fell upon her like a burning bolt. She drew herself up and pushed back her chair. Victor Adolph was himself startled at his own words; he had not anticipated making so sudden a declaration of his love. Here once more were those primitive incitements to passion and love:—the summer night, the perfume of flowers, the moonlight ... and that bewitching beauty!
Beauty had been the topic of the whole evening: the magic of the tropics and of the Arctic sea, of Radiolaria and anemones, but there had not been a word said about the most potent of all the powers of beauty—in a lovely young woman’s face. What were all the lilies and birds of paradise, what were all the dancing colors and lights, in comparison to such a pair of beaming eyes, from which gleamed a human soul?
A short pause ensued, during which both felt their hearts beat faster. Then Victor Adolph began to speak in a low tone:—
“You must not be angry, Fräulein Garlett ... the audacious words came almost involuntarily out of my mouth. Honestly, I, myself, as I said them for the first time, have realized what deep feelings toward you I cherish. Yes, I love you, sincerely and passionately. I believe you might crown my happiness with the richest gift one could conceive if only you would return my love. You must not for an instant misunderstand me—I offer you my hand. Do not answer now—I desire no hasty answer. You must first weigh all things in the balance—for there would be difficulties, reserves.... I am not a free and independent man, and perhaps great responsibilities will be put upon me....”
Franka stood up: “You asked me not to answer and I beg you, my prince, my dear prince,”—her voice trembled with deep emotion,—“do not say anything more.... I am going into the salon now.”
She took a few steps and was soon surrounded by a number of persons. The tête-à-tête was at an end. The prince, bowing low, went off in another direction. Franka took no further part in the social festivities but fled to her room.