CHAPTER XAT LUCERNE
The clock of Eternity has moved forward a few seconds; we are writing 191—. The twentieth century is still “in its teens,” but 1920 is not far away. The impatient, the impetuous, those who a few years ago were shouting, full of anxiety or full of hope, “Now, now, everything is going to change—a new era has dawned—mighty revolutions are before us,”—all these have to confess that the face of the world, on the whole, has not been very much altered, and that the actual transformations, by reason of their gradual development, have been almost unnoticeable. Terrible catastrophes like the sudden destruction of cities by earthquakes, thrones overturned by revolutions, rulers assassinated by the throwing of bombs, colonial and other wars—such things may have devastated for a brief period the little strips of land affected and aroused a general sensation, but soon everything became calm again. This applies not only to the great disasters, but also to great and unexpected good fortune such as the announcement of marvelous discoveries or world-redeeming ideas:—such things startle men for a moment out of their apathy, and awaken the wildest hopes; but then they quickly flatten out and become commonplace, disappear from the surface, and must pass through the stages of gradual development, until they succeed inchanging the face of the world. So many a fountain springs foaming from the rocks, but only when it has, after a long course, united with a thousand other trickling rivulets, does it become a river.
The hotels at Lucerne were filled to overflowing. It was once more time for the “Toker Rose-Week” to begin. From year to year the “Rose Pilgrims,” as they called themselves, had been streaming thither in greater and greater numbers. It had become the fashion to spend seven days in Lucerne. Many came not for the purpose of absorbing the lofty intellectual enjoyments there offered, but in order to be seen. As the hotels and private boarding-houses of the city were no longer sufficient to harbor all the strangers, some automobile-owners had conceived the idea of spending the nights in their machines,—for very abundant were the cars that were provided with conveniences for sleeping and toilet,—and a vast automobile-park covered the fields around the city.
During the first years Mr. Toker had been satisfied to lodge his guests in a hotel engaged for the purpose, and all the exercises took place in its public rooms. But now, the edifices and gardens which he had planned were ready, and in their fairyland beauty they had won the reputation of being one of the sights of Europe. The list of invitations which Mr. Toker sent out in 191— was very differently constituted from that which he had written down in his first prospectus. For many of those who then bore brilliant names in the firmament of fame had beenextinguished, and new stars had flamed into sight. The aged die—room for the young!
It was the first day of the first week. Mr. Toker was as yet alone, and was awaiting the arrival of his illustrious guests. His friendly old face was radiant. He was satisfied with his work. Success had attended it. The way the concentrated forces had acted was astonishing and their effect was constantly increasing. As if unified in a central sun, the flames of genius scattered over the earth were now blazing in his Rose-Temple, and spread from there, as by a mighty reflector, all over the earth, penetrating all corners where their light had never before shone.
From many indications, Toker was aware that the level of Public Spirit had been elevated by the influence that emanated from the Rose-Temple. Watchwords, winged phrases which had flown forth from there, were circulated in newspapers and were quoted in parliaments; the year-books, containing extracts from the discourses delivered, were to be found in the libraries of universities, and were widely used as manuals for the instruction of the young; the wide international public listened to the addresses of these great ones of the earth and accepted many of their lofty thoughts and involuntarily introduced them into social conversations; so that when Mr. Toker jestingly said, “This is my world-ennobling factory,” he did not claim too much.
Certainly, not all the dreams that John A. Toker had conceived when he made his plan had been fulfilled. What had given him the impulse to take upthe work had been his indignation that the splendid invention of a dirigible airship had been greeted as a useful weapon for future wars. No! against such a notion, against such possibilities,—a rain of annihilation from the sky,—must a mighty storm of protest be raised; he had called these great minds together for this purpose.
On the very first week of the Rose-Festival, this theme was printed on the programmes and flaming anathemas against the barbarization of the air went forth into the world, combined with the demand to put an end to war itself. But no palpable result followed—the war ministries continued to install their fleets of airships, and the construction of fortifications and dreadnoughts went on without interruption, in spite of the fact that these instruments of war would be superfluous and useless if once they were exposed to the rain of explosives.
But John A. Toker had faith. Not in one year, and not in two or three, could such a mighty work be accomplished—certainly, dirigible flights to spiritual and moral altitudes were not easier of attainment than those in the physical atmosphere.
“Well, papa, has not a single specimen of your great menagerie arrived yet?” Toker’s only daughter, Gwendoline, a girl of eighteen, overflowing with life, came and laid her hand on her father’s shoulder and laughingly put this question. And when she laughed a wholescherzoof dazzling teeth, sparkling eyes, and mischievous dimples was playing over her piquant little face. “Are you expecting wholly exotic birds this year?” she added.
“Oh, Gwen, how can you be so lacking in reverence?”
Her features suddenly assumed the expression which she herself called her “Sunday singing-book face.”
“Oh, papa, I am penetrated with awesome reverence! Only to think of all these laurel-crowned moonshine occiputs, trumpeted together from every corner of the globe, makes me shiver with respect! And is it not true that this year a ‘Jap’ is coming?”
“A Japanese, yes, daughter. You know I do not permit abbreviations for whole nations. Or do you like it when your father is spoken of as the ‘Yankee’?”
“Dear me, and what do you say when your daughter is called a ‘Gibson Girl,’ or the ‘Dollar Princess’?... Oh, look! there is one flying now and there is another. And there, away down on the horizon,—is not that an airship?”
The balcony on which father and daughter were standing commanded a wide outlook over land and lake. The edifices which Mr. Toker had caused to be erected were situated only a short distance from the shore. The narrow strip of land between the water and the buildings seemed to be covered with a pale-red giant carpet—the whole piece was one single bed of roses. The lake glittered in the sunshine and innumerable sailboats and other craft were moving on its surface. On the distant horizon snow-crowned mountain peaks, and above all a cloudless sky, against the brilliant blue of which were hovering several dark dragon-flies—the air-motors now nolonger objects of wonder: no longer objects of wonder, but nevertheless overpoweringly wonderful. Always, when at a greater or less distance such an equipage was seen, men exclaimed just as Gwendoline did: “See, an aeroplane, and there’s another, and yonder is an airship!”
Mr. Toker raised his head and shaded his eyes:—“Yes, my daughter, I see and rejoice! How high they fly! Oh, but man will no longer soar to the heights with impunity....”
“‘With impunity’?... I don’t understand....”
“No, you do not understand. You do not know, as yet, why we are here. I have not informed you what the object is which I am aiming at in my Rose-Week. Perhaps I will tell you some other time—you have seemed to me still too young, too childish. You are such a child still, Gwen,—lucky girl!”
“When may I learn to fly, papa? When may I have my little airship?”
“Do you see—even that you would regard as a toy!”
Three days later Toker’s guests were all assembled in the Rose-Palace at Lucerne. Not quite all, indeed, whom he had invited had responded to his invitation; still, only a few stars from the firmament of living celebrities had failed him. If it was a great privilege for the public to see gathered together in one spot such a multitude of famous men and women, and to hear them, it was for these guests themselves a still greater pleasure to meet their brethren and sisters of genius under one roof.Especially did the week that preceded the formal exercises offer the most delightful opportunity for quiet, intimate intercourse among those who had been in the habit of coming for several years. Many close friendships had already been formed. No one who had once been a guest at the Rose-Palace, however abounding in thoughts and experiences in his own right, departed from the place without having been enriched in many respects, without having gained a general deepening of knowledge and a broadening of the mental horizon. All kept throughout the year a delightful memory of the Rose-Days; an invitation to be present was a lofty object of ambition to those who had not as yet been guests there.
John A. Toker felt his heart swell with the most joyful pride as he joined the circle of his guests. Was it not the most noble assembly of kingly personages that the world possessed? At brilliant court festivities there might, indeed, be as many Excellencies, Highnesses, and Majesties gathered together, but the majority of these title-bearers would have sunk into oblivion in the next generation, while the names and works of the majority of Toker’s Rose-Court would be handed down to coming centuries.
In the hall of one of the first-class hotels at Lucerne at tea-time, chattering groups are scattered about in various corners and window-embrasures, separated from one another by potted plants and by pillars and screens which divide the immense room with its niches and bay-windows into practically small private parlors. The sofas and wide armchairsof light-green straw are decked with cushions covered with pale flowered silk and stuffed with eiderdown.
The larger and smaller groups and the solitary persons sitting here and there, drinking tea, had evidently come from all parts of the world. Although a certain international uniformity causes people to be differentiated rather by the classes to which they belong than by their nationalities, still there are certain indications by which one can tell with some certainty by the external appearance whether the persons met with are English or French, Germans or Americans, Slavs or Italians. In this great hall you could also see some specimens of quite exotic nationalities, for several Japanese and an East Indian Rajah were present.
Two men, sitting at a small table on which the waiter had just set a service of various liqueurs, were amusing themselves in guessing what country this or that person, seated near them or passing by, came from.
“See, that family with the three tall daughters, the haughty mother, and the papa reading the newspaper, is certainly English.”
“That was not difficult to detect since that gigantic newspaper is the ‘Times.’”
“That pretty little lady there, decked with tassels and ribbons, and at the same time flirting with the three men talking with her so vivaciously, must be a Parisian.”
“And that rather stout beauty over there, with the suspicion of a mustache and a superfluity of jewels, is probably from some Balkan State.”
“And that comfortable-looking, honest couple, so old-fashioned in their dress, with their silver wedding celebrated long ago, and who make it very evident that they are unhappy because they do not have two jugs of beer in front of them, instead of that insipid tea, evidently come from some little German city.”
“And that group by the window,—very elegant, but nothing conspicuous about them,—it would be rather difficult to tell what country they come from. National characteristics betray themselves generally by something like caricatures—normal men of the cultivated classes, with their air of assurance, with their correct dress, might come from anywhere; you can tell what society they belong to,—that is, good society,—but not from what country.”
A young man dressed entirely in white, remarkably slender and tall, was just crossing the room on his way to the street door. Half a step behind him marched respectfully an elderly gentleman of military bearing, but in dark civilian dress.
“Who can that young man be? Nice-looking fellow! I should take him for an American.”
“That would be a mistake. It happens that I can tell you about him. That is Prince Victor Adolph, the fourth son of a German monarch. I also know that he is not the ordinary kind; he is democratic, not to say socialistic, in his tendencies; an enemy to court etiquette and against everything military. For that reason, apparently, he is compelled to have the old general with him as a traveling companion.That he is American in his appearance is perhaps due to the fact that he spent a term studying at Harvard University.”
The two gentlemen engaged in this conversation were from Vienna. They had become acquaintances in the railway coupé while coming to Lucerne. This method of travel was still in use, although an organized passenger service by airship had already been established; just as at the end of the thirties in the nineteenth century, after the opening of the first railway the post-stage still ran merrily for a time. And just as at that time many people vowed that they would never, as long as they lived, enter a railway train, so now the majority of people swore that no money in the world would tempt them to trust their precious lives to the mysterious ocean of air. Besides, a new, safety-assuring power had come into railway service, since everywhere was installed the rapid and inexpensive and comfortable one-rail system.
One of the two Viennese was Baron Franz Bruning, Chlodwig Helmer’s boyhood friend. He had not greatly changed; his full, round face had possibly grown a trifle rounder, his black mustache a little bushier. In his civil career he had been fortunate enough to have risen to the rank of Hofrat.
The other, a personality pretty widely known throughout the city, was named Oscar Regenburg. When his name appeared in the papers, “Among those present was noticed,” it read: “Herr Oscar Regenburg, the well-known sportsman.” If any man who has money and goes a good deal into society,yet has no rank among the nobility, exercises no calling, is not active in any business, is not honored with any public appointment, but as a compensation possesses several saddle-horses and an automobile, then—since every man must have some kind of title—he is called a “sportsman.”
Sport, however, was not the goal of Oscar Regenburg’s ambition. He would have much preferred to bear the title of “art connoisseur”; for he was an assiduous collector of paintings, old armor, and rare china. His spare time he spent in visiting art collections, picture auctions and galleries. He also evinced great interest in music and the theater—although he cultivated the stage not so much from before the curtain as behind the scenes, especially in the form of pretty operetta singers. Furthermore, he was an amateur traveler,—certainly not for the purpose of enjoying beautiful scenery, but so as to be present wherever expositions or horse-races or aviation meetings or festivals of any kind were taking place. Therefore, he could not fail to be, for once at least, a visitor at the Lucerne Rose-Week.
Genuine deep passions were not at the bottom of all these occupations; Regenburg was a thoroughly apathetic man, mediocre in every direction; his whole object in life was to fill up his superfluous time and spend his superfluous money. He was a man of thirty-five, of insignificant external appearance, but he always took pains to look elegant andchicby following the latest fashion in dress, in behavior, and in the use of slang. As, for example, the fashion had obtained among men, to sit as negligently as possiblewith the right foot on the left knee, moving the point of the shoe up and down and at the same time caressing the bright-colored silk stocking visible almost to the top; there was no one who let his toes play with more vivacity or expression, or who clasped his own thin ankles more tenderly than he did.
The two men continued their conversation.
“I have no faith in these democratic poses among the sons of rulers,” said Bruning, as he poured himself out a tiny glass of bénédictine.
“As far as I have observed, you take the attitude of ‘I have no faith in it’ toward most things.”
“As a matter of fact, I regard it as a reasonable and useful quality to be a skeptic. When a man has collected some little experiences in life, and possesses some little knowledge of men, and has attained some insight behind the scenes of the various social, political, and ... other comedies which are being played on the world’s stage, one gets along best by putting on the armor of doubt. Can it be that you are an idealist nourished on illusions?”
“I?... Oh, I am just nothing at all—I live and let live.”
“That’s also a reasonable point of view. Well, but I am curious to know what is to be offered in the Rose-Booth yonder. It is interesting to see all the living celebrities trotted out by the great dollar-ringmaster;—the play will certainly remind me of Hagenbeck, who makes long-maned lions and spitting tiger-cats go through their paces in unnatural attitudes. What is still more comic in the whole show is that there seems to be a civilizing and world-improvingaim bound up with it—as if this world could be improved! Man remains man, and when I say that, I do not say anything very flattering. And, above all, how can the world be made better by a few self-conceited people making speeches before a few other frivolous people? The only effect that addresses have on me is to make me sleepy. I never attend them on principle.”
“What did you come here for, then?”
“Because an old friend of mine—the poet Chlodwig Helmer—belongs to the lion-tamer Toker’s gang of boarders. I get from this friend what the whole object and aim of the circus of fame-crowned animals amounts to....”
“Well, what is it?”
“Men are to learn to fly morally. Do you understand that?”
“Not altogether.”