Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  Enter Marian.

  Marian.

  What do you want, brother? You called me.

  William.

  No, I did not. Marian.

  Marian.

  Did something vex you that you conjured me out of the kitchen?

  William.

  It was spirits that you heard.

  Marian.

  Very well, William! Only I know your voice quite too well.

  William.

  Come, now, what are you doing out there?

  Marian.

  I’ve only been plucking a couple of pigeons, because Fabricius is going to take supper with us this evening.

  William.

  Perhaps he will.

  Marian.

  They’ll be done soon; you must not say anything about it till afterwards. I want him to teach me his new song.

  William.

  Do you like to study with him?

  Marian.

  He can sing lovely songs. And when afterwards you sit at table and your head nods, then I will begin. For I know that you laugh at me when I sing any of your favorite songs.

  William.

  Have you noticed that in me?

  Marian.

  Certainly; whoever failed to notice what you menfolks do? But if you don’t want me for anything, I’m off again; for I have still all sorts of things to do. Goodby. — Now give me just one kiss.

  William.

  If the pigeons are well roasted I will give you a kiss for dessert.

  Marian.

  It’s detestable that brothers should be so cross. If Fabricius or any other nice young man dared to steal a kiss they would jump over high walls for the chance, and that man there scorns the one that I want to give him. — Now I’m going to burn up the pigeons.

  [Exit .

  William.

  The angel, the dear angel! How can I restrain myself from taking her into my arms and telling her everything? — Dost thou look down upon us from heaven, O lady, who didst give this treasure into my keeping? — Yes, those above know about us here, they know about us! — Charlotte, thou could’st not reward my love to thee more gloriously, more sacredly than by leaving thy daughter in my care. Thou gavest me all that I lacked, thou madest life dear to me. I loved her as thy child — and now! Yet it is as though I were deceived. Methinks I see thee again, methinks Fate has given thee back to me again with youth renewed, so that I now may remain and dwell with thee in union as in that first dream of life I was not allowed to do and had no right to do. O joy! joy! Give the whole measure of thy blessing, Father in heaven!

  Enter Fabricius.

  Fabricius.

  Good-evening.

  William.

  I am very happy, my dear Fabricius; everything good has come to me this evening. However, let us not speak of business now. There lie your three hundred dollars. Pocket ’em quick. My I. O. U. you can return to me at your convenience. And now let us have a little talk.

  Fabricius.

  If you need the money longer —

  William.

  If I need it again, well and good; I’m always deeply indebted to you. But now take it. — Listen! The memory of Charlotte came back to me again this evening with eternal freshness and life.

  Fabricius.

  That is a frequent occurrence.

  William.

  You ought to have known her. I tell you she was one of the most magnificent of creatures.

  Fabricius.

  She was a widow; how did you come to know her?

  William.

  So pure and stately. Yesterday I was reading over one of her letters. You are the only man who has ever known anything about it.

  [Goes to the portfolio.

  Fabricius.

  (Aside.) If he would only spare me this time! I have heard the story so many, many times before. As a general thing I like to hear him tell it, for it always comes from his heart; but to-day I have quite different things on my mind, and yet I want to keep him in good humor.

  William.

  It was during the early days of our acquaintance. “The world will become dear to me again,” she wrote; “I had cut myself loose from it, but it will be dear to me again through you. My heart reproaches me; I feel that I am going to be a cause of sorrow to you and myself. Six months ago I was ready to die, and now I feel so no longer.”

  Fabricius.

  A lovely soul.

  William.

  The earth was not worthy of her. Fabricius, I’ve told you many times before that through her I became quite a different man. I cannot describe the pain that I felt when I looked back and saw how I had squandered my paternal inheritance. I could not offer her my hand, could not make her lot more endurable. I felt then for the first time the necessity to earn a suitable support; to extricate myself from the slothfulness in which I was drifting along day after day. I went to work — but what did that amount to? — I kept at work, and thus a wearisome year passed away; at last came a ray of hope; my pittance increased visibly — then she died. — I could not stay. You have no idea how I suffered. No longer could I behold the region where I had lived with her, or leave the sacred soil where she rested. She wrote me just before she died.

  [Taking a letter from the portfolio.

  Fabricius.

  It is a splendid letter; you read it to me only a short time ago. Hark, William —

  William.

  I know it by heart, and yet I read it again and again. When I see her writing, the sheet on which her hand rested, it seems to me as if she were here again. She is still here. (The voice of a child crying is heard.) I wonder why Marian can’t be sensible! There, she’s got our neighbor’s youngster again; every day she comes romping round with him and disturbs me just at the wrong moment. (At the door.) Marian, be still with the child, or send him home if he’s naughty. We want to talk.

  [He stands, full of emotion.

  Fabricius.

  You ought not to bring up these recollections so frequently.

  William.

  These are the very lines; these were the last that she wrote. The farewell sigh of the departing angel. (He folds the letter again.) You are right, it is sinful. How seldom are we worthy of recalling the bitter-sweet moments of our past lives!

  Fabricius.

  Your story always goes to my heart. You told me that she left a daughter, who shortly afterwards followed her mother. If she had only lived, you would have had at least something of hers, you would have had some interest through which your cares and your grief might have been appeased.

  William.

  (Turning eagerly to him.) Her daughter? It was an exquisite flower that she intrusted to me. What fate has done for me is beyond words to express. Fabricius — if I could only tell you all —

  Fabricius.

  If there is anything on thy heart —

  William.

  Why should I not?

  Marian.

  (Coming in with a little boy.) He wants to say good-night, brother. You must not scowl at him, nor at me either. You always say that you would like to be married and have lots of children. One couldn’t hold them in such a way that they would never cry and never disturb you.

  William.

  But they would be my own children.

  Marian.

  Maybe there would be a difference in that.

  Fabricius.

  Do you think so, Marian?

  Marian.

  It would be too lovely for anything. (She kneels before the child and kisses him.) I love little Christopher so dearly! If he were only my own! — He already knows his letters; I have been teaching him.

  William.

  And so you think that a child of your own at his age would know how to read?

  Marian.

  Why certainly! for all day long I wouldn’t do anything else but take him out to walk and teach him and feed him and dress him and everything else.

  Fabricius.

  And your husband?

  Marian.
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br />   He would have to help; his love for him would be as great as mine. But Christopher has got to go home and wants to say good-night. (She leads him to William.) Here! give your hand like a good little boy; that’s a nice boy!

  Fabricius.

  (Aside.) She is the loveliest creature; I must tell her my hopes!

  Marian.

  (Leading the child to Fabricius.) Here! shake hands with this gentleman too!

  William.

  (Aside.) She shall be mine! I will — no! I do not deserve it! (To Marian.) Marian, take the child away and entertain Fabricius till supper-time. I am going out for a little run: I’ve been sitting all day long. (Exit Marian.) Just one good full breath of the fresh air this lovely star-light night! — My heart is so full! — I shall be back directly

  [Exit .

  Fabricius.

  Make an end to thy suspense, Master Fabricius! If thou bearest it any longer, the matter won’t be any nearer conclusion. Thou hast made up thy mind. Good! Admirable! Thou wilt still help her brother; and she — she does not love me as I love her, that’s certain. But it isn’t in her to love passionately; she isn’t that kind of a woman. Dear girl! She hasn’t the slightest idea that I feel anything else but friendship for her! O Marian, we shall get along famously! This opportunity is just what I should have wished it to be! I must explain to her my intentions! And if her heart does not scorn me — anyway, I am sure of her brother!

  Enter Marian.

  Fabricius.

  Have you sent the little fellow home?

  Marian.

  I should love to have kept him here; but I know that my brother does not like him, and so I let him go. Many and many a time the little rascal has begged me to let him sleep here all night.

  Fabricius.

  But don’t you ever get tired of him?

  Marian.

  Oh, no, indeed! He is as wild as he can be the whole day, but when I go to put him to bed he is as good as a kitten! He’s a little flatterer, and he loves to kiss me; sometimes I can’t get him to sleep at all.

  Fabricius.

  (Half aside.) What a sweet nature!

  Marian.

  He loves me even better than his own mother.

  Fabricius.

  You are also a mother to him. (Marian stands lost in thought; Fabricius gazes at her for some moments.) Does the name of mother make you sad?

  Marian.

  Not exactly sad; but I was thinking

  Fabricius.

  What were you thinking about, sweet Marian?

  Marian.

  I was thinking — oh, nothing, nothing. Sometimes it seems very strange to me.

  Fabricius.

  Haven’t you ever had any longings to —

  Marian.

  What were you going to ask?

  Fabricius.

  Can Fabricius presume so far?

  Marian.

  No, I have never had any longings, Fabricius. And if ever any such thought flashed through my head, it was gone in an instant. To leave my brother would be unendurable — impossible for me — no matter how attractive any other prospect might be.

  Fabricius.

  Now that is strange! If you lived near him in the same city, you wouldn’t call that leaving him, would you?

  Marian.

  Oh, never, never speak of such a thing! Who would keep house for him? Who would take care of him? Let a servant take my place? Or let him get married? No, indeed, that couldn’t be!

  Fabricius.

  Couldn’t he go and live with you? Mightn’t your husband be his friend? Couldn’t you three live together just as happily as now, even happier? Couldn’t your brother be in this way assisted in his perplexing business cares? Think what such a life might be!

  Marian.

  It can easily be imagined. And when I think about it, it is quite possible. But then again, it seems to me as though it would never come about.

  Fabricius.

  I don’t understand you.

  Marian.

  It is just so now. When I wake in the morning I listen to hear if my brother is up before me: if no one is stirring, quick as a flash I get out of bed and run to the kitchen and build a fire, so that the water is thoroughly heated, and then the maid comes down, and my brother has his coffee as soon as he opens his eyes!

  Fabricius.

  What an admirable housewife!

  Marian.

  And then I sit down and knit stockings for him, and keep very happy, and measure a dozen times to see if they are long enough yet and if they set well round the calf, and if the feet are not too short, until he sometimes actually gets vexed. It isn’t that I always want to be trying them on, but it seems to me that I must have something to do near him, as though he ought to see me at least once when he has been writing a couple of hours; he can’t be gloomy with me, for it always brightens him up to see me. I can read it by his eyes if he will not let me know any other way. Often I laugh in my sleeve, because he acts as though he were solemn or angry. He is wise, for if he didn’t I should plague him all day long.

  Fabricius.

  He is a lucky man.

  Marian.

  No, I am the lucky one. If I hadn’t him I shouldn’t know what to do in this world. I do everything for myself, however, and it seems to me as if I did everything for him, because even when I am working for myself I am always thinking of him.

  Fabricius.

  And now if you did everything for a husband, how absolutely happy he would be! How grateful he would be, and what a contented life you would lead!

  Marian.

  Many times I imagine it to myself, and tell myself a long story, as I sit and knit, or sew, how everything might be and would be! But when I come back to the reality, then I know that it will never come to pass.

  Fabricius.

  Why not?

  Marian.

  Where should I find a spouse who would like it if I said “I will love you!” but had to add to it “You cannot be dearer to me than my brother; I must take care of him just as I always have done.” Ah! you see it is impossible.

  Fabricius.

  You would after a while help your husband in the same way; you would transfer your love to him.

  Marian.

  Ah! there lies the trouble. Certainly, if love could be taken and exchanged like money, or if you could go to a different lord and master every quarter as servants do, it would be a different thing. But with a husband everything would have to become exactly as it already is here, and that could never be.

  Fabricius.

  That is a stumbling-block.

  Marian.

  I don’t know why it is; but when he sits at table and leans his head on his hand and looks down and seems full of anxiety, I could sit for hours and gaze at him. He is not handsome, I say to myself oftentimes, and yet I love to look at him. Of course I feel that it is on my account that he is anxious; the first glance that he gives me when he looks up tells me so, and that is a good deal.

  Fabricius.

  It’s everything, Marian. And a husband who would care for you —

  Marian.

  There is one thing more, and that’s moods. William also has his moods; but when he has them they do not trouble me: but in anybody else they would be unendurable. He easily loses his temper; oftentimes it pains me. If in such unhappy moments he repulses a kind, sympathetic, loving effort to cheer him, I confess it touches me, but only for an instant, and if I reprove him it is rather because he does not appreciate my love for him than because I love him the less.

  Fabricius.

  But suppose there were some one who, in spite of all that, were bold enough to offer you his hand.

  Marian.

  But there isn’t any such person! And even then the question would arise whether I should be equally daring.

  Fabricius.

  Why should you not?

  Marian.

  But there’s no such person.

  Fabricius.

  Marian,
there is.

  Marian.

  Fabricius!

  Fabricius.

  You see him before you. Need I make a long defence? Shall I pour out before you what my heart has so long treasured? I love you. You have known it long. I offer you my hand: that you did not expect. Never did I see a maiden who so little as you realized the fact that she moved the hearts of those who see her. Marian, it is not a fiery, impulsive suitor who talks with you; I know you well; I have chosen you deliberately; my house is all in order: will you be mine? I have had many experiences in love, and more than once I have vowed to end my days as an old bachelor. But you have conquered me! Do not stand aloof from me! You know me. I am a friend of your brother; you cannot conceive of a parer union. Open your heart to me! Only one word, Marian!

  Marian.

  Dear Fabricius, only allow me a little time. I like you.

  Fabricius.

  Tell me that you love me. I will give your brother his own place; I will be a brother to him; together we will care for him. My property added to his will help him over many an anxious hour; he will gain fresh courage, he will — Marian, don’t let me have to persuade you!

  [He seizes her hand.

  Marian.

  Fabricius, I never thought of such a thing. What an embarrassing dilemma you have brought me into.

  Fabricius.

  Just one word! may I hope?

  Marian.

  Speak with my brother!

  Fabricius.

  (Kneeling.) Angel! darling!

  Marian.

  (Silent for a moment.) Great heavens! What have I done!

  [Exit .

  Fabricius.

  She is thine! — I can well afford to let the dear little thing caress her brother; that will soon cure itself when we come to get better acquainted, and he won’t lose anything by it. Ah, it does me good to be so in love again and to be loved again so luckily. It is a thing, however, for which one never really loses the taste. We will live together. If it had not been for that, long ago I should have enlarged somewhat the good man’s scrupulous economy. When I am his brother-in-law things will run smoother. He is becoming a regular hypochondriac with his everlasting reminiscences, doubts, business anxieties and mysteries. Everything will be lovely! He shall breathe freely again; the girl will get a husband — that’s no trifle — and I — I shall get a wife honorably — and that’s worth something.