Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

  Wildly the turf; he held them in check and stood there all pensive,

  Silently gazing in front, and saw not his friends coming near him,

  Till, as they came, they call’d him and gave him signals of triumph.

  Some way off the druggist already began to address him,

  But they approach’d the youth still nearer, and then the good pastor

  Seiz’d his hand and spoke and took the word from his comrade: —

  “Friend, I wish you joy! Your eye so true and your true heart

  Rightly have chosen! May you and the wife of your young days be happy!

  She is full worthy of you; so come and turn round the carriage,

  That we may reach without delay the end of the village,

  So as to woo her, and shortly escort the dear creature home with us.”

  But the youth stood still, and without any token of pleasure

  Heard the words of the envoy, though sounding consoling and heav’nly,

  Deeply sigh’d and said: — ”We came full speed in the carriage,

  And shall probably go back home asham’d and but slowly;

  For, since I have been waiting care has fallen upon me,

  Doubt and suspicion and all that a heart full of love is expos’d to.

  Do you suppose we have only to come, for the maiden to follow,

  Just because we are rich, and she poor and wandering in exile?

  Poverty, when undeserv’d, itself makes proud. The fair maiden

  Seems to be active and frugal; the world she may claim as her portion.

  Do you suppose that a woman of such great beauty and manners

  Can have grown up without exciting love in man’s bosom?

  Do you suppose that her heart until now has to love been fast closed?

  Do not drive thither in haste, for perchance to our shame and confusion

  We shall have slowly to turn towards home the heads of our horses.

  Yes, some youth, I fear me, possesses her heart, and already

  She has doubtless promis’d her hand and her solemn troth plighted,

  And I shall stand all asham’d before her when making my offer.”

  Then the pastor proceeded to cheer him with words of good comfort,

  But his companion broke in, in his usual talkative manner: —

  “As things used to be, this embarrassment would not have happen’d,

  When each matter was brought to a close in an orthodox fashion.

  Then for their son themselves the bride the parents selected,

  And a friend of the house was secretly call’d in the first place.

  He was then quietly sent as a suitor to visit the parents

  Of the selected bride; and, dress’d in his gayest apparel,

  Went after dinner some Sunday to visit the excellent burgher,

  And began by exchanging polite remarks on all subjects,

  Cleverly turning and bending the talk in the proper direction.

  After long beating about the bush, he flatter’d the daughter,

  And spoke well of the man and the house that gave his commission.

  Sensible people soon saw his drift, and the sensible envoy

  Watch’d how the notion was taken, and then could explain himself farther.

  If they declin’d the proposal, why then the refusal cost nothing,

  But if all prosper’d, why then the suitor forever thereafter

  Play’d the first fiddle at every family feast and rejoicing.

  For the married couple remember’d the whole of their lifetime

  Whose was the skilful hand by which the marriage knot tied was.

  All this now is chang’d, and with many an excellent custom

  Has gone quite out of fashion. Each person woos for himself now.

  Everyone now must bear the weight of a maiden’s refusal

  On his own shoulders, and stand all asham’d before her, if needs be.”

  “Let that be as it may,” then answer’d the young man who scarcely

  Heard what was said, and his mind had made up already in silence: —

  “I will go myself, and out of the mouth of the maiden

  Learn my own fate, for towards her I cherish the most trustful feelings

  That any man ever cherish’d towards any woman whatever.

  That which she says will be good and sensible, — this I am sure of.

  If I am never to see her again, I must once more behold her,

  And the ingenuous gaze of her black eyes must meet for the last time.

  If to my heart I may clasp her never, her bosom and shoulders

  I would once more see, which my arm so longs to encircle;

  Once more the mouth I would see, from which one kiss and a Yes will

  Make me happy forever, a No forever undo me.

  But now leave me alone! Wait here no longer. Return you

  Straight to my father and mother, in order to tell them in person

  That their son was right, and that the maiden is worthy.

  And so leave me alone! I myself shall return by the footpath

  Over the hill by the pear tree and then descend through the vineyard,

  Which is the shortest way back. Oh, may I soon with rejoicing

  Take the belov’d one home! But perchance all alone I must slink back

  By that path to our house and tread it no more with a light heart.”

  Thus he spoke, and then plac’d the reins in the hands of the pastor,

  Who, in a knowing way both the foaming horses restraining,

  Nimbly mounted the carriage, and took the seat of the driver.

  But you still delay’d, good cautious neighbor, and spoke thus: —

  “Friend, I will gladly intrust to you soul, and spirit, and mind too,

  But my body and bones are not preserv’d in the best way

  When the hand of a parson such worldly matters as reins grasps!”

  But you smil’d in return, you sensible pastor, replying: —

  “Pray jump in, nor fear with both body and spirit to trust me,

  For this hand to hold the reins has long been accustom’d,

  And these eyes are train’d to turn the corner with prudence.

  For we were wont to drive the carriage, when living at Strasburg,

  At the time when with the young baron I went there, for daily,

  Driven by me, through the echoing gateway thunder’d the carriage

  By the dusty roads to distant meadows and lindens,

  Through the crowds of the people who spend their lifetime in walking.”

  Partially comforted, then his neighbor mounted the carriage,

  Sitting like one prepar’d to make a wise jump, if needs be,

  And the stallions, eager to reach their stables, cours’d homewards,

  While beneath their powerful hoofs the dust rose in thick clouds.

  Long there stood the youth, and saw the dust rise before him,

  Saw the dust disperse; but still he stood there, unthinking.

  Fr. Pecht del.

  published by george barrie

  [Editor: illegible word]

  Dorothea

  Erato.

  DOROTHEA.

  AS the man on a journey, who, just at the moment of sunset,

  Fixes his gaze once more on the rapidly vanishing planet,

  Then on the side of the rocks and in the dark thicket still sees he

  Hov’ring its image; wherever he turns his looks, on in front still

  Runs it, and glitters and wavers before him in colors all splendid,

  So before Hermann’s eyes did the beautiful form of the maiden

  Softly move, and appear’d to follow the path through the cornfields.

  But he rous’d himself up from his startling dream, and then slowly

  Turn’d tow’rd the village his steps, and once more started, — for once more

  Saw he the noble maiden’s stately figure approaching.
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  Fixedly gaz’d he; it was no phantom in truth; she herself ’twas.

  In her hands by the handle she carried two pitchers, — one larger,

  One of a smaller size, and nimbly walk’d to the fountain.

  And he joyfully went to meet her; the sight of her gave him

  Courage and strength, and so he address’d the surpris’d one as follows: —

  “Do I find you again, brave maiden, engag’d in assisting

  Others so soon, and in giving refreshment to those who may need it?

  Tell me why you have come all alone to the spring so far distant,

  Whilst the rest are content with the water that’s found in the village?

  This one, indeed, special virtue possesses, and pleasant to drink is.

  Is’t for the sake of that sick one you come, whom you sav’d with such courage?”

  Then the good maiden the youth in friendly fashion saluted,

  Saying: — ”Already my walk to the fountain is fully rewarded,

  Since I have found the kind person who gave us so many good presents;

  For the sight of a giver, like that of a gift, is refreshing.

  Come and see for yourself the persons who tasted your kindness,

  And receive the tranquil thanks of all you have aided.

  But that you may know the reason why I have come here,

  Water to draw at a spot where the spring is both pure and unceasing,

  I must inform you that thoughtless men have disturb’d all the water

  Found in the village, by carelessly letting the horses and oxen

  Wade about in the spring which gives the inhabitants water.

  In the same manner, with all their washing and cleaning, they’ve dirtied

  All the troughs of the village, and all the fountains have sullied.

  For each one of them only thinks how quickly and soon he

  May supply his own wants, and cares not for those who come after.”

  Thus she spoke, and soon she arriv’d at the foot of the broad steps

  With her companion, and both of them sat themselves down on the low wall

  Round the spring. She bent herself over, to draw out the water,

  He the other pitcher took up, and bent himself over,

  And in the blue of the heavens they saw their figures reflected,

  Waving, and nodding, and in the mirror their greetings exchanging.

  “Now let me drink,” exclaim’d the youth in accents of gladness,

  And she gave him the pitcher. They then, like old friends, sat together,

  Leaning against the vessels, when she address’d him as follows: —

  “Say, why find I you here without your carriage and horses,

  Far from the place where first I saw you? Pray how came you hither?”

  Hermann thoughtfully gaz’d on the ground, but presently lifted

  Calmly towards her his glances, and gaz’d on her face in kind fashion,

  Feeling quite calm and compos’d. And yet with love to address her

  Found he quite out of the question; for love from her eyes was not beaming,

  But an intellect clear, which bade him use sensible language.

  Soon he collected his thoughts, and quietly said to the maiden: —

  “Let me speak, my child, and let me answer your questions.

  ’Tis for your sake alone I have come, — why seek to conceal it?

  For I happily live with two affectionate parents,

  Whom I faithfully help to look after our house and possessions,

  Being an only son, while numerous are our employments.

  I look after the field-work; the house is carefully manag’d

  By my father; my mother the hostelry cheers and enlivens.

  But you also have doubtless found out how greatly the servants,

  Sometimes by fraud, and sometimes by levity, worry their mistress,

  Constantly making her change them, and barter one fault for another.

  Long has my mother, therefore, been wanting a girl in the household,

  Who, not only with hand, but also with heart might assist her,

  In the place of the daughter she lost, alas, prematurely.

  Now when I saw you to-day near the carriage, so active and sprightly,

  Saw the strength of your arm and the perfect health of your members,

  When I heard your sensible words, I was struck with amazement,

  And I hasten’d back home, deservedly praising the stranger

  Both to my parents and friends. And now I come to inform you

  What they desire, as I do. Forgive my stammering language!”

  “Do not hesitate,” said she, “to tell me the rest of your story;

  I have with gratitude felt that you have not sought to insult me.

  Speak on boldly, I pray; your words shall never alarm me;

  You would fain hire me now as maid to your father and mother,

  To look after the house, which now is in excellent order.

  And you think that in me you have found a qualified maiden,

  One that is able to work, and not of a quarrelsome nature.

  Your proposal was short, and short shall my answer be also: —

  Yes! with you I will go, and the voice of my destiny follow.

  I have fulfill’d my duty, and brought the lyingin woman

  Back to her friends again, who all rejoice at her rescue.

  Most of them now are together, the rest will presently join them.

  All expect that they, in a few short days, will be able

  Homewards to go; ’tis thus that exiles themselves love to flatter.

  But I cannot deceive myself with hopes so delusive

  In these sad days which promise still sadder days in the future;

  For all the bonds of the world are loosen’d, and naught can rejoin them,

  Save that supreme necessity over our future impending.

  If in the house of so worthy a man I can earn my own living,

  Serving under the eye of his excellent wife, I will do so;

  For a wandering girl bears not the best reputation.

  Yes! with you I will go, as soon as I’ve taken the pitcher

  Back to my friends, and receiv’d the blessing of those worthy people.

  Come! you needs must see them, and from their hands shall receive me.”

  Joyfully heard the youth the willing maiden’s decision,

  Doubting whether he now had not better tell her the whole truth;

  But it appear’d to him best to let her remain in her error,

  First to take her home, and then for her love to entreat her.

  Ah! but now he espied a golden ring on her finger,

  And so let her speak, while he attentively listen’d: —

  “Let us now return,” she continu’d; “the custom is always

  To admonish the maidens who tarry too long at the fountain,

  Yet how delightful it is by the fast-flowing water to chatter!”

  Then they both arose, and once more directed their glances

  Into the fountain, and then a blissful longing came o’er them.

  So from the ground by the handles she silently lifted the pitchers,

  Mounted the steps of the well, and Hermann follow’d the lov’d one.

  One of the pitchers he ask’d her to give him, thus sharing the burden.

  “Leave it,” she said; “the weight feels less when thus they are balanc’d;

  And the master I’ve soon to obey should not be my servant.

  Gaze not so earnestly at me, as if my fate were still doubtful!

  Women should learn betimes to serve, according to station,

  For by serving alone she attains at last to the mastery,

  To the due influence which she ought to possess in the household.

  Early the sister must learn to serve her brothers and parents,

  And her life is ever a ceaseless going and coming,
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  Or a lifting and carrying, working and doing for others.

  Well for her if she finds no manner of life too offensive,

  And if to her the hours of night and of day all the same are,

  So that her work never seems too mean, her needle too pointed,

  So that herself she forgets, and liveth only for others!

  For as a mother in truth she needs the whole of the virtues,

  When the suckling awakens the sick one, and nourishment calls for

  From the exhausted parent, heaping cares upon suff’ring.

  Twenty men together could not endure such a burden,

  And they ought not, — and yet they gratefully ought to behold it.”

  Thus she spoke, and with her silent companion advanc’d she

  Through the garden, until the floor of the granary reach’d they,

  Where the sick woman lay, whom she left by her daughters attended,

  Those dear rescu’d maidens, the types of innocent beauty.

  Both of them enter’d the room, and from the other direction,

  Holding a child in each hand, her friend, the magistrate, enter’d.

  These had lately been lost for some time by the sorrowing mother,

  But the old man had now found them out in the crowd of the people.

  And they sprang in with joy, to greet their dearly-lov’d mother,

  To rejoice in a brother, the playmate now seen for the first time!

  Then on Dorothea they sprang, and greeted her warmly,

  Asking for bread and fruit, but asking for drink before all things.

  And they handed the water all round. The children first drank some,

  Then the sick woman drank, with her daughters, the magistrate also.

  All were refresh’d, and sounded the praise of the excellent water;

  Mineral was it, and very reviving, and wholesome for drinking.

  Then with a serious look continu’d the maiden, and spoke thus: —

  “Friends, to your mouths for the last time in truth I have lifted the pitcher,

  And for the last time, alas, have moisten’d your lips with pure water.

  But whenever in scorching heat your drink may refresh you,

  And in the shade you enjoy repose and a fountain unsullied,

  Then remember me, and all my friendly assistance,

  Which I from love, and not from relationship merely, have render’d.

  All your kindness to me, as long as life lasts, I’ll remember.

  I unwillingly leave you; but each one is now to each other

  Rather a burden than comfort. We all must shortly be scatter’d