Abbot.
Whence come you, most learned sir?
Olearius.
From Frankfort, at your eminence’s service!
Bishop.
You gentlemen of the law, then, are not held in high estimation there? — How comes that?
Olearius.
It is strange enough — when I last went there to collect my father’s effects, the mob almost stoned me, when they heard I was a lawyer.
Abbot.
God bless me!
Olearius.
It is because their tribunal, which they hold in great respect, is composed of people totally ignorant of the Roman law. An intimate acquaintance with the internal condition of the town, and also of its foreign relations, acquired through age and experience, is deemed a sufficient qualification. They decide according to certain established edicts of their own, and some old customs recognized in the city and neighborhood.
Abbot.
That’s very right.
Olearius.
But far from sufficient. The life of man is short, and in one generation cases of every description cannot occur; our statute-book is a collection of precedents, furnished by the experience of many centuries. Besides, the wills and opinions of men are variable; one man deems right to-day what another disapproves to-morrow; and confusion and injustice are the inevitable results. Law determines absolutely, and its decrees are immutable.
Abbot.
That’s certainly better.
Olearius.
But the common people won’t acknowledge that; and, eager as they are after novelty, they hate any innovation in their laws which leads them out of the beaten track, be it ever so much for the better. They hate a jurist as if he were a cut-purse or a subverter of the state, and become furious if one attempts to settle among them.
Liebtraut.
You come from Frankfort? — I know the place well — we tasted your good cheer at the emperor’s coronation. You say your name is Olearius — I know no one in the town of your name.
Olearius.
My father’s name was Oilman; but after the example, and with the advice of many jurists, I have Latinized the name to Olearius for the decoration of the title-page of my legal treatises.
Liebtraut.
You did well to translate yourself: a prophet is not honored in his own country — in your native guise you might have shared the same fate.
Olearius.
That was not the reason.
Liebtraut.
All things have two reasons.
Abbot.
A prophet is not honored in his own country.
Liebtraut.
But do you know why, most reverend sir?
Abbot.
Because he was born and bred there.
Liebtraut.
Well, that may be one reason. The other is, because, upon a nearer acquaintance with these gentlemen, the halo of glory and honor shed around them by the distant haze totally disappears; they are then seen to be nothing more than tiny rushlights!
Olearius.
It seems you are placed here to tell pleasant truths.
Liebtraut.
As I have wit enough to discover them, I do not lack courage to utter them.
Olearius.
Yet you lack the art of applying them well.
Liebtraut.
It is no matter where you place a cupping-glass provided it draws blood.
Olearius.
Barbers are known by their dress, and no one takes offence at their scurvy jests. Let me advise you as a precaution to bear the badge of your order — a cap and bells!
Liebtraut.
Where did you take your degree? I only ask, so that, should I ever take a fancy to a fool’s cap, I could at once go to the right shop.
Olearius.
You carry face enough.
Liebtraut.
And you paunch.
[The Bishop and Abbot laugh.
Bishop.
Not so warm, gentlemen! Some other subject. At table all should be fair and quiet. Choose another subject, Liebtraut.
Liebtraut.
Opposite Frankfort lies a village called Sachsenhausen —
Olearius.
(To the Bishop.) What news of the Turkish expedition, your excellency?
Bishop.
The emperor has most at heart, first of all to restore peace to the empire, put an end to feuds, and secure the strict administration of justice: then, according to report, he will go in person against the enemies of his country and of Christendom. At present internal dissensions give him enough to do; and the empire, despite half a hundred treaties of peace, is one scene of murder. Franconia, Swabia, the Upper Rhine and the surrounding countries are laid waste by presumptuous and reckless knights. — And here, at Bamberg, Sickingen, Selbitz with one leg, and Goetz with the iron hand, scoff at the imperial authority.
Abbot.
If his majesty does not exert himself, these fellows will at last thrust us into sacks.
Liebtraut.
He would be a sturdy fellow indeed who should thrust the wine-butt of Fulda into a sack!
Bishop.
Goetz especially has been for many years my mortal foe, and annoys me beyond description. But it will not last long, I hope. The emperor holds his court at Augsburg. We have taken our measures, and cannot fail of success. — Doctor, do you know Adelbert von Weislingen?
Olearius.
No, your eminence.
Bishop.
If you stay till his arrival you will have the pleasure of seeing a most noble, accomplished and gallant knight.
Olearius.
He must be an excellent man indeed to deserve such praises from such a mouth.
Liebtraut.
And yet he was not bred at any university.
Bishop.
We know that. (The attendants throng to the window.) What’s the matter?
Attendant.
Färber, Weislingen’s servant, is riding in at the castle-gate.
Bishop.
See what he brings. He most likely comes to announce his master.
[Exit Liebtraut. They stand up and drink.
Liebtraut re-enters.
Bishop.
What news?
Liebtraut.
I wish another had to tell it — Weislingen is a prisoner.
Bishop.
What?
Liebtraut.
Berlichingen has seized him and three troopers near Haslach. One is escaped to tell you.
Abbot.
A Job’s messenger!
Olearius.
I grieve from my heart.
Bishop.
I will see the servant; bring him up — I will speak with him myself. Conduct him into my cabinet.
[Exit Bishop.
Abbot.
(Sitting down.) Another draught, however.
[The Servants fill round.
Olearius.
Will not your reverence take a turn in the garden? “Post cœnam stabis, seu passus mille meabis.”
Liebtraut.
In truth, sitting is unhealthy for you. You might get an apoplexy. (The Abbot rises. Aside.) Let me but once get him out of doors, I will give him exercise enough!
[Exeunt.
Fr. Pecht del
published by george barrie
[Editor: illegible text]
Maria
SCENE V.
Jaxthausen.
Maria. Weislingen.
Maria.
You love me, you say. I willingly believe it, and hope to be happy with you, and make you happy also.
Weislingen.
I feel nothing but that I am entirely thine.
[Embraces her.
Maria.
Softly! — I gave you one kiss for earnest, but you must not take possession of what is only yours conditionally.
Weislingen.
You are too strict, Maria! Innocent love is pleasing in the sight of Heaven, instead of giving
offence.
Maria.
It may be so. But I think differently; for I have been taught that caresses are, like fetters, strong through their union, and that maidens, when they love, are weaker than Samson after the loss of his locks.
Weislingen.
Who taught you so?
Maria.
The abbess of my convent. Till my sixteenth year I was with her — and it is only with you that I enjoy happiness like that her company afforded me. She had loved, and could tell — she had a most affectionate heart. Oh! she was an excellent woman!
Weislingen.
Then you resemble her. (Takes her hand.) What will become of me when I am compelled to leave you?
Maria.
(Withdrawing her hand.) You will feel some regret, I hope, for I know what my feelings will be. But you must away!
Weislingen.
I know it, dearest! and I will — for well I feel what happiness I shall purchase by this sacrifice! Now, blessed be your brother, and the day on which he rode out to capture me!
Maria.
His heart was full of hope for you and himself. Farewell! he said, at his departure, I go to recover my friend.
Weislingen.
That he has done. Would that I had studied the arrangement and security of my property, instead of neglecting it, and dallying at that worthless court! — then could’st thou have been instantly mine.
Maria.
Even delay has its pleasures.
Weislingen.
Say not so, Maria, else I shall fear that thy heart is less warm than mine. True, I deserve punishment, but what hopes will brighten every step of my journey! To be wholly thine, to live only for thee and thy circle of friends — far removed from the world, in the enjoyment of all the raptures which two hearts can mutually bestow. What is the favor of princes, what the applause of the universe, to such simple, yet unequalled felicity? Many have been my hopes and wishes; but this happiness surpasses them all.
Enter Goetz.
Goetz.
Your page has returned. He can scarcely utter a word for hunger and fatigue. My wife has ordered him some refreshment. Thus much I have gathered: the bishop will not give up my page; imperial commissioners are to be appointed, and a day named upon which the matter may be adjusted. Be that as it may, Adelbert, you are free. Pledge me but your hand that you will for the future give neither open nor secret assistance to my enemies.
Weislingen.
Here I grasp thy hand. From this moment be our friendship and confidence firm and unalterable as a primary law of nature! Let me take this hand also (takes Maria’s hand), and with it the possession of this most noble lady.
Goetz.
May I say yes for you?
Maria.
(Timidly.) If — if it is your wish —
Goetz.
Happily our wishes do not differ on this point. Thou need’st not blush — the glance of thine eye betrays thee. Well then, Weislingen, join hands, and I say Amen! My friend and brother! I thank thee, sister; thou canst do more than spin flax, for thou hast drawn a thread which can fetter this wandering bird of paradise. Yet you look not quite at your ease, Adelbert. What troubles you? I am perfectly happy! What I but hoped in a dream I now see with my eyes, and feel as though I were still dreaming. Now my dream is explained. I thought last night that, in token of reconciliation, I gave you this iron hand, and that you held it so fast that it broke away from my arm; I started, and awoke. Had I but dreamed a little longer I should have seen how you gave me a new living hand. You must away this instant, to put your castle and property in order. That cursed court has made you neglect both. I must call my wife. — Elizabeth!
Maria.
How overjoyed my brother is!
Weislingen.
Yet I am still more so.
Goetz.
(ToMaria.) You will have a pleasant residence.
Maria.
Franconia is a fine country.
Weislingen.
And I may venture to say that my castle lies in the most fertile and delicious part of it.
Goetz.
That you may, and I can confirm it. Look you, here flows the Main, around a hill clothed with cornfields and vineyards, its top crowned with a Gothic castle; then the river makes a sharp turn, and glides round behind the rock on which the castle is built. The windows of the great hall look perpendicularly down upon the river, and command a prospect of many miles in extent.
EnterElizabeth.
Elizabeth.
What would’st thou?
Goetz.
You too must give your hand, and say, God bless you! They are a pair.
Elizabeth.
So soon?
Goetz.
But not unexpectedly.
Elizabeth.
May you ever adore her as ardently as while you sought her hand. And then, as your love, so be your happiness!
Weislingen.
Amen! I seek no happiness but under this condition.
Goetz.
The bridegroom, my love, must leave us for awhile; for this great change will involve many smaller ones. He must first withdraw himself from the bishop’s court, in order that their friendship may gradually cool. Then he must rescue his property from the hands of selfish stewards, and — but come, sister; come, Elizabeth; let us leave him; his page has no doubt private messages for him.
Weislingen.
Nothing but what you may hear.
Goetz.
’Tis needless. Franconians and Swabians! Ye are now more closely united than ever. Now we shall be able to keep the princes in check.
[ExeuntGoetz, Elizabeth, Maria.
Weislingen.
(Alone.) God in heaven! And canst Thou have reserved such happiness for one so unworthy? It is too much for my heart. How meanly I depended upon wretched fools, whom I thought I was governing, upon the smile of princes, upon the homage of those around me! Goetz, my faithful Goetz, thou hast restored me to myself, and thou, Maria, hast completed my reformation. I feel free, as if brought from a dungeon into the open air. Bamberg will I never see more — will snap all the shameful bonds that have held me beneath myself. My heart expands, and never more will I degrade myself by struggling for a greatness that is denied me. He alone is great and happy who fills his own station of independence, and has neither to command nor to obey.
EnterFrancis.
Francis.
God save you, noble sir! I bring you so many salutations that I know not where to begin. Bamberg, and ten miles round, cry with a thousand voices, God save you!
Weislingen.
Welcome, Francis! Bring’st thou aught else?
Francis.
You are held in such consideration at court that it cannot be expressed.
Weislingen.
That will not last long.
Francis.
As long as you live; and after your death it will shine with more lustre than the brazen characters on a monument. How they took your misfortune to heart!
Weislingen.
And what said the bishop?
Francis.
His eager curiosity poured out question upon question, without giving me time to answer. He knew of your accident already; for Färber, who escaped from Haslach, had brought him the tidings. But he wished to hear every particular. He asked so anxiously whether you were wounded. I told him you were whole, from the hair of your head to the nail of your little toe.
Weislingen.
And what said he to the proposals?
Francis.
He was ready at first to give up the page and a ransom to boot for your liberty. But when he heard you were to be dismissed without ransom, and merely to give your parole that the boy should be set free, he was for putting off Berlichingen with some pretence. He charged me with a thousand messages to you, more than I can ever utter. Oh, how he harangued! It was a long sermon upon the text, “I cannot live without Weislingen!”
Weislingen.
H
e must learn to do so.
Francis.
What mean you? He said, “Bid him hasten; all the court waits for him.”
Weislingen.
Let them wait on. I shall not go to court.
Francis.
Not go to court! My gracious lord, how comes that? If you knew what I know; could you but dream what I have seen —
Weislingen.
What ails thee?
Francis.
The bare remembrance takes away my senses. Bamberg is no longer Bamberg. An angel of heaven, in semblance of woman, has taken up her abode there, and has made it a paradise.
Weislingen.
Is that all?
Francis.
May I become a shaven friar if the first glimpse of her does not drive you frantic!
Weislingen.
Who is it, then?
Francis.
Adelaide von Walldorf.
Weislingen.
Indeed! I have heard much of her beauty.
Francis.
Heard! You might as well say I have seen music. So far is the tongue from being able to rehearse the slightest particle of her beauty, that the very eye which beholds her cannot drink it all in.
Weislingen.
You are mad.
Francis.
That may well be. The last time I was in her company I had no more command over my senses than if I had been drunk, or, I may rather say, I felt like a glorified saint enjoying the angelic vision! All my senses exalted, more lively and more perfect than ever, yet not one at its owner’s command.
Weislingen.
That is strange!
Francis.
As I took leave of the bishop, she sat by him; they were playing at chess. He was very gracious; gave me his hand to kiss, and said much, of which I heard not a syllable, for I was looking on his fair antagonist. Her eye was fixed upon the board, as if meditating a bold move. — A touch of subtle watchfulness around the mouth and cheek. — I could have wished to be the ivory king. The mixture of dignity and feeling on her brow — and the dazzling lustre of her face and neck, heightened by her raven tresses —
Weislingen.
The theme has made you quite poetical.
Francis.
I feel at this moment what constitutes poetic inspiration — a heart altogether wrapped in one idea. As the bishop ended, and I made my obeisance, she looked up and said, “Offer to your master the best wishes of an unknown. Tell him he must come soon. New friends await him; he must not despise them, though he is already so rich in old ones.” I would have answered, but the passage betwixt my heart and my tongue was closed, and I only bowed. I would have given all I had for permission to kiss but one of her fingers! As I stood thus, the bishop let fall a pawn, and in stooping to pick it up, I touched the hem of her garment. Transport thrilled through my limbs, and I scarce know how I left the room.
Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Page 167