Fernando.
And when I gaze into thy sweet blue eyes and lose myself in their depths, it seems to me as if during all the time of my absence no other image had dwelt there but mine.
Stella.
Thou art not mistaken.
Fernando.
Can it be?
Stella.
I would confess to you! Did I not in the first days of my full love for you make thee my confessor for all the petty griefs that touched my heart? And didst thou not love me all the more for it?
Fernando.
Thou angel!
Stella.
Why dost thou look at me so? I have grown older, have I not? Sorrow has faded the bloom of my cheeks, has it not?
Fernando.
Thou rose! my sweet flower! Stella! Why dost thou shake thy head?
Stella.
How is it that one can love you so? — Why can we not reckon up the pains that you cause our hearts?
Fernando.
(Stroking her curls.) Let us see if we can find a single gray hair! — It is thy fortune that thou art so blonde without turning gray. And, indeed, it seems to be just as thick as ever. (He pulls out the comb and the locks fall in voluminous waves.)
Stella.
Mischievous!
Fernando.
(Twining his arms in them.) Rinaldo again in his ancient chains!
Enter Servant.
Servant.
Your ladyship!
Stella.
What is the matter? Your face looks cross and stern! You know that such expressions are the death of me when I am happy!
Servant.
But excuse me, your ladyship! — The two strangers are preparing to go.
Stella.
To go? Alas!
Servant.
’Tis as I told you! I saw the daughter going over to the inn, and then she came back and spoke to her mother. And then I asked about it over there and they told me that an extra stage had been ordered because the stage had already gone. I then had a talk with them; the mother with tears in her eyes begged me to send their things over to them as secretly as possible and that I should express their best wishes for the gracious lady; they could not remain longer!
Fernando.
Is it the lady who with her daughter came to-day?
Stella.
I was going to take the daughter into my service and keep the mother too! Oh, why should they cause all this worry just at this time, Fernando?
Fernando.
What is the matter with them?
Stella.
Heaven only knows! I don’t know anything about it. I don’t want to lose them! — Yet I have thee, Fernando! — If I had not, I should perish at this dilemma! Speak with them, Fernando; don’t wait a minute! — Persuade the mother to come back, Henry! (Exit Servant.) — Speak with her! She shall have every liberty. — Fernando, I will go into the arboreum! Follow me! follow me! Ye nightingales, ye shall now welcome him!
Fernando.
Loveliest love!
Stella.
(Clinging to him.) And wilt thou come soon?
Fernando.
Immediately! Immediately!
[Exit Stella.
Fernando.
(Alone.) Angel of heaven! How joyous in her presence everything becomes, how free! — Fernando, dost thou know thyself? All that oppressed this heart is gone; every care, every painful recollection of what has been and what might have been! — Will ye return again? — And yet when I see thee, when I hold thy hand, Stella! all vanishes, every other image in my heart is blotted out.
Enter Steward.
Steward.
(Kissing Fernando’s hand.) And have you come back again?
Fernando.
(Withdrawing his hand.) You see me!
Steward.
Let me! let me! O gracious master!
Fernando.
Has all gone well with thee?
Steward.
My wife is still alive, I have two children — and you are home again!
Fernando.
And how hast thou managed the estate?
Steward.
So that I am ready to lay down my reckoning. You will be surprised to see how we have improved the property. — But may I inquire how it has gone with you?
Fernando.
Silence! — But ought I not to tell thee all? Thou art worthy of my confidence, old comrade in my youthful follies.
Steward.
Thank God that you were not a pirate chieftain; at a word from you I would have applied the torch and set the flames!
Fernando.
Thou shalt hear!
Steward.
Your wife? your daughter?
Fernando.
I have failed to find them. I did not dare to go to the city; but from absolutely reliable sources I learn that she placed confidence in a merchant who proved to be a false friend and enticed from her, under the promise of heavier interest, the money which I left her! He deceived her. Making the pretext of going into the country she left the neighborhood and disappeared, and apparently is gaining a precarious livelihood by the labor of her hands and her daughter’s. You know she had courage and character enough to embark in any such enterprise.
Steward.
And you are back again. How can we forgive you for being gone so long!
Fernando.
I have made a long journey of it.
Steward.
If I had not been so happy at home with my wife and children, I should envy you the way that you have travelled about the world. Shall you remain with us now?
Fernando.
God willing!
Steward.
There is after all nothing so satisfactory and nothing so good.
Fernando.
Yes, who could forget the good old times?
Steward.
And yet amid all our pleasure they brought much trouble. I remember perfectly well how lovely we found Cecilia, how we urged our suit upon her, and could not be hasty enough in making way with our youthful freedom!
Fernando.
Yet it was a happy, fortunate epoch in my life!
Steward.
How she brought us a gay, lively little daughter, but at the same time she lost much of her sprightliness and much of her charm.
Fernando.
Pray spare me this biography!
Steward.
How we looked around us here and there and everywhere, and how we at last found this angel, and how there was not any more said about coming and going, but how we had to decide which of the two we would make wretched; and how at last, when it seemed convenient, and the chance offered itself to sell the estates, and how when we got out of it with much loss, we abducted the angel and banished to this spot the beautiful child who did not know herself or the world.
Fernando.
It seems to me that thou art as full of prattle and inclined to preach as thou wert of yore!
Steward.
Have I not had the chance to learn? Have I not been the confidant of your conscience? When you wanted to get away from here — I don’t know whether it was from pure desire to find your wife and daughter again, or because of some mental unrest — how I had to be your assistant in more ways than one.
Fernando.
This time I forgive thee!
Steward.
Only stay with us and all will be well!
[Exit .
Enter Servant.
Servant.
Madame Sommer!
Fernando.
Show her in!
[Exit Servant.
Fernando.
(Alone.) This woman makes me melancholy. How true it is that there is nothing whole, nothing pure in the world! This woman! Her daughter’s courage has disturbed me; what effect will her sorrow have?
Enter Madame Sommer.
Fernando.
(Aside.) O God! and even her figure also must recall my past! O heart! my heart! Oh, when it lies wit
hin thee so to feel and so to act, why hast thou not strength also to pardon what has been done to thee? A shade of the image of my wife! — Oh, where do I not see thee! (Aloud.) Madame!
Madame Sommer.
What is your command, sir?
Fernando.
I should like to engage your services as companion to my Stella and to me. Pray take a seat!
Madame Sommer.
The presence of the sorrowful is burdensome to those who are happy, and alas! still more so is the happy to the sorrowful!
Fernando.
I do not understand you. Can you have misjudged Stella? she who is all love, all divine!
Madame Sommer.
Sir, I wish to go away in secrecy! Permit me! I must go! Be persuaded that I have reasons! But I beg of you to let me go!
Fernando.
(Aside.) What voice is that! What form! (To Cecilia.) Madame! (He turns away.) God! it is my wife! (Aloud.) Pardon me!
[Exit in haste.
Madame Sommer.
(Alone.) He knew me! I thank thee, O God, that thou hast given my heart so much strength at this moment! Is it I, the torn and crushed, who at this critical hour am so full of peace and courage? O Thou kind and infinite Protector, Thou dost take from our hearts nothing except to give it back again at the hour when it is most needed!
Re-enter Fernando.
Fernando.
(Aside.) Can she have recognized me? (Aloud.) I beg you, madame, I implore you to open your heart to me!
Madame Sommer.
You would like me to tell you my story, and how is it possible that you should be disposed to listen to sorrow and lamentation on a day when all the joys of life are given to you again, when you have once again given all the joys of life to the best of women? No, sir, let me go!
Fernando.
I beseech you!
Madame Sommer.
How gladly would I spare yourself and me! The memory of the first happy days of my life gives me deathly pain.
Fernando.
You have not always been unhappy?
Madame Sommer.
No; for then I should not be so unhappy as I am now. (After a pause, with calmness.) My youthful days were bright and joyous. I know not what there was in me that attracted men; a numberous throng wanted to ingratiate themselves with me. For a few I felt friendship, affection; yet was there none with whom I could have brought myself to unite my life. And thus passed the fortunate days of rosy-colored diversions — days of happiness that were seemingly endless. And yet there was something wanting. When I looked deeper into my life, and anticipated the joys and sorrows that must come to men, then I longed for a husband whose hand should lead me through the world, who in return for the love which my young heart could offer him would be in old age my friend, my protector, and take the place of my parents whom for his sake I left.
Fernando.
And now?
Madame Sommer.
Alas! I saw the man! I saw him, on whom in the early days of our acquaintance I concentrated all my hopes. The vivacity of his mind seemed united with such sincerity of heart that my heart quickly disclosed itself to him, that I gave him my friendship, and alas! how quickly followed it with my love. God in heaven, when his head rested on my breast, how did he not seem to thank Thee for the place that Thou hadst prepared for him in my arms! How eagerly he hastened from the tumult of care back to me again, and how in sad hours did I not find consolation on his heart!
Fernando.
What could have destroyed this lovely bond?
Madame Sommer.
Nothing is steadfast! — Alas! he loved, loved me as certainly as I loved him. There was a time when he thought of nothing, dreamed of nothing but to see me happy, to make me happy. That was, alas! the brightest period of my life, the first years of a relationship, when a slight ill-humor, a trifling ennui caused us more sorrow than if they had been real evils. Alas! he led me along the painful path in order to leave me solitary in an empty, fearful wilderness.
Fernando.
(More and more confused.) And how? His feelings, his heart?
Madame Sommer.
Can we know what goes on in the heart of man? I did not notice that little by little everything was growing — how shall I call it? — not more indifferent; that I cannot say. He still loved me, loved me! But he wanted more than my love. I had to share in his wishes, perhaps with a rival. I did not spare him my reproaches, and at last —
Fernando.
Was it possible that he —
Madame Sommer.
He left me. There is no name that befits the grief that I felt! All my hopes annihilated in one moment! in the moment when I was expecting to harvest the fruits of the flowers that I had offered — deserted! — deserted! All the stays of the human heart: love, trust, honor, position, daily increasing property, the charge of a numerous, well cared-for posterity, everything at once fell before me in ruin, and I — and the unfortunate pledge of our love which was left me — a deathlike sorrow followed close upon the raging pain, and the heart which had ceased to weep, given over to despair, sank into apathy. The succession of blows which reduced the estate of a poor deserted creature, I did not perceive, I did not feel, until at last I —
Fernando.
The guilty man!
Madame Sommer.
(With restrained melancholy.) No, he is not! — I commiserate the man who is attached to a maiden.
Fernando.
Madame!
Madame Sommer.
(With mild banter to hide her emotion.) Certainly not! I look upon him as a captive. They always say that it is so. He is removed from his world into ours with which he has nothing in common. He deceives himself for a time, and woe to us if his eyes are opened! After all I could be in his eyes only a blameless housewife who clung to him with the most strenuous endeavor, who tried to be agreeable to him, to be careful for him, who dedicated all her days to the advantage of her house, of her child, and indeed had to devote herself to such petty duties, that her heart and head often grew wild that she could be no entertaining companion, that he with the liveliness of his disposition could not help finding her society stupid. He is not to blame!
Fernando.
(At her feet.) I am he!
Madame Sommer.
(With a torrent of tears, on his neck.) My — !
Fernando.
Cecilia! — My wife! —
Cecilia.
(Turning from him.) Not mine! You would leave me, my heart. (Again on his neck.) Fernando! — Whoever thou art — let these tears of one who sorrows flow on thy bosom! Hold me for this moment and then leave me forever! — It is not thy wife! — Repulse me not!
Fernando.
God! — Cecilia, thy tears on my cheeks — the trembling of thy heart on mine! — Spare me! spare me!
Cecilia.
I ask nothing, Fernando! — Only this moment! — Grant my heart this relief! it will be calm, strong! Thou shalt be free from me —
Fernando.
My life shall be dissevered ere I leave thee!
Cecilia.
I shall see thee again, but not upon this earth! Thou belongest to another from whom I cannot tear thee! — Open, open heaven for me! One glance into that holy distance, into that everlasting abiding place! There alone is consolation at this terrible moment.
Fernando.
(Seizing her by the hand, gazing into her eyes. embracing her.) Nothing, nothing in the world shall separate me from thee. I have found thee again.
Cecilia.
Found what thou didst not seek.
Fernando.
Spare me! spare me! — Yes, I have sought thee; thee, my poor deserted one, my faithful heart! I found even in the arms of this angel here no rest, no joy; everything reminded me of thee, of thy daughter, of my Lucy. Merciful heavens! What joy! Can it be that this lovely creature is my daughter? — I have sought thee everywhere. Three years I wandered from place to place. On the spot where we had lived I fou
nd, alas! our dwelling changed, in the hands of strangers, and I learned the sad story of the loss of thy property. Thy disappearance tore my heart; I could find no trace of thee, and weary of myself, of life, I disguised myself in these clothes, took foreign service, helped suppress the dying freedom of the noble Corsicans, and now thou seest me here, after long and wonderful wanderings, on thy heart, my dearest, my best wife.
Enter Lucy.
Fernando.
Oh, my daughter!
Lucy.
Dearest, best father. If you are my father indeed!
Fernando.
Always and ever!
Cecilia.
And Stella?
Fernando.
Herein we must act quickly. The unfortunate soul! Why, Lucy, could we not have recognized each other this morning? — My heart beat fast; thou knowest how moved I was when I left thee. Why was it? why was it? — Stella! we might have spared her all these pangs! — Yet we will away! I will tell her that thou insisted on going away, that thou would’st not pain her with a farewell, and would take thy departure. And thou, Lucy, hasten over! Have a post-chaise for three persons put in readiness. My servant shall pack up my things with thine. Thou shalt stay over here, dearest, most precious wife! And thou, my daughter, when all is arranged, come back and wait in the large room of the summer-house — wait for me! I will free myself from her, tell her that I am going to escort thee over, provide for thy dedeparture and pay the bill for thee. — Poor soul, how could I deceive thee with thy goodness! — We will away! —
Cecilia.
Away? — Just one word of reason!
Fernando.
Away! let it be so! Yes, my dear ones, we will away!
[Exit Cecilia and Lucy.
Fernando.
(Alone.) Away? — Whither? whither? — A dagger stroke would clear the way for all these pains and hurl me into that dull insensibility for which now I would give everything. Art thou here, thou miserable man? Remember the happy days when thou didst stand in strong sufficiency against the wretch who would throw away life’s burden! How didst thou feel in those fortunate days and now? — Yes, the fortunate, the fortunate! Had this discovery come an hour earlier I should have been saved! I should never have seen her again, nor she me; I could have persuaded myself: “She has forgotten thee in these four years, has conquered her sorrow.” But now! How shall I appear before her? what can I tell her? Oh, my sin, my sin weighs heavy upon me at this moment! Both these dear ones deserted! And I, at the moment when I find them again, deserted by myself! wretched! Oh, my heart!
Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Page 194