The Poems of Goethe Part 120

"That which you see," replied the youth, who spoke with an effort, "That is our house down to which I now am about to conduct you, And that window yonder belongs to my room in the attic, Which will probably soon be yours, as we're making great changes.

All these fields are ours, and ripe for the harvest to-morrow; Here in the shade we are wont to rest, enjoying our meal-time.

But let us now descend across the vineyard and garden, For observe how the threatening storm is. .h.i.therward rolling, Lightening first, and then eclipsing the beautiful full moon."

So the pair arose, and wauder'd down by the corn-field,

Through the powerful corn, in the nightly clearness rejoicing; And they reach'd the vineyard, and through its dark shadows proceeded.

So he guided her down the numerous tiers of the flat stones Which, in an unhewn state, served as steps to the walk through the foliage.

Slowly she descended, and placed her hands on his shoulders; And, with a quivering light, the moon through the foliage o'erlook'd them, Till by storm-clouds envelop'd, she left the couple in darkness.

Then the strong youth supported the maiden, who on him was leaning; She, however, not knowing the path, or observing the rough steps, Slipp'd as she walk'd, her foot gave way, and she well nigh was falling.

Hastily held out his arm the youth with nimbleness thoughtful, And held up his beloved one; she gently sank on his shoulders, Breast was press'd against breast, and cheek against cheek, and so stood he Fix'd like a marble statue, restrained by a firm resolution; He embraced her no closer, thoughall her weight he supported; So he felt his n.o.ble burden, the warmth of her bosom, And her balmy breath, against his warm lips exhaling, Bearing with manly feelings the woman's heroical greatness.

But she conceal'd the pain which she felt, and jestingly spoke thus "It betokens misfortune,--so scrupulous people inform us,-- For the foot to give way on entering a house, near the threshold.

I should have wish'd, in truth, for a sign of some happier omen!

Let us tarry a little, for fear your parents should blame you For their limping servant, and you should be thought a bad landlord."

----- IX. URANIA.

CONCLUSION.

O YE Muses, who gladly favour a love that is heartfelt, Who on his way the excellent youth have hitherto guided, Who have press'd the maid to his bosom before their betrothal, Help still further to perfect the bonds of a couple so loving, Drive away the clouds which over their happiness hover!

But begin by saying what now in the house has been pa.s.sing.

For the third time the mother impatiently enter'd the chamber Where the men were sitting, which she had anxiously quitted, Speaking of the approaching storm, and the loss of the moon's light, Then of her son's long absence, and all the perils that night brings.

Strongly she censured their friends for having so soon left the youngster, For not even addressing the maiden, or seeking to woo her.

"Make not the worst of the mischief," the father peevishly answer'd; "For you see we are waiting ourselves, expecting the issue."

But the neighbour sat still, and calmly address'd them as follows:-- "In uneasy moments like these, I always feel grateful To my late father, who when I was young all seeds of impatience In my mind uprooted, and left no fragment remaining, And I learnt how to wait, as well as the best of the wise men.

"Tell us what legerdemain he employ'd," the pastor made answer.

"I will gladly inform you, and each one may gain by the lesson,"

Answer'd the neighbour. "When I was a boy, I was standing one Sunday In a state of impatience, eagerly waiting the carriage Which was to carry us out to the fountain under the lime-trees; But it came not; I ran like a weasel now hither, now thither, Up and down the stairs, and from the door to the window; Both my hands were p.r.i.c.kling, I scratch'd away at the tables, Stamping and trotting about, and scarcely refrain'd I from crying.

All this the calm man composedly saw; but finally when I Carried my folly too far, by the arm he quietly took me, Led me up to the window, and used this significant language 'See you up yonder the joiner's workshop, now closed for the Sunday?

'Twill be re-open'd to-morrow, and plane and saw will be working.

Thus will the busy hours be pa.s.s'd from morning till evening.

But remember this: the r.i.m.m.i.n.g will soon be arriving, When the master, together with all his men, will be busy In preparing and finis.h.i.+ng quickly and deftly your coffin, And they will carefully bring over here that house made of boards, which Will at length receive the patient as well as impatient, And which is destined to carry a roof that's unpleasantly heavy.

All that he mention'd I forthwith saw taking place in my mind's eye, Saw the boards join'd together, and saw the black cover made ready, Patiently then I sat, and meekly awaited the carriage.

And I always think of the coffin whenever I see men Running about in a state of doubtful and wild expectation."

Smilingly answered the pastor:--"Death's stirring image is neither Unto the wise a cause of alarm,--or an end to the pious.

Back into life it urges the former, and teaches him action, And, for the weal of the latter, it strengthens his hope in affliction.

Death is a giver of life unto both. Your father did wrongly When to the sensitive boy he pointed out death in its own form.

Unto the youth should be shown the worth of a n.o.ble and ripen'd Age, and unto the old man, youth, that both may rejoice in The eternal circle, and life may in life be made perfect!"

Here the door was open'd. The handsome couple appear'd there, And the friends were amazed, the loving parents astonish'd At the form of the bride, the form of the bridegroom resembling.

Yes! the door appear'd too small to admit the tall figures Which now cross'd the threshold, in company walking together.

To his parents Hermann presented her, hastily saying:-- "Here is a maiden just of the sort you are wis.h.i.+ng to have here, Welcome her kindly, dear father! she fully deserves it, and you too, Mother dear, ask her questions as to her housekeeping knowledge, That you may see how well she deserves to form one of our party."

Then he hastily took on one side the excellent pastor, Saying:--" Kind sir, I entreat you to help me out of this trouble Quickly, and loosen the knot, whose unravelling I am so dreading; For I have not ventured to woo as my bride the fair maiden, But she believes she's to be a maid in the house, and I fear me She will in anger depart, as soon as we talk about marriage.

But it must be decided at once! no longer in error Shall she remain, and I no longer this doubt can put up with.

Hasten and once more exhibit that wisdom we all hold in honour."

So the pastor forthwith turn'd round to the rest of the party, But the maiden's soul was, unhappily, troubled already By the talk of the father, who just had address'd her as follows, Speaking good humour'dly, and in accents pleasant and lively "Yes, I'm well satisfied, child! I joyfully see that my son has Just as good taste as his father, who in his younger days show'd it, Always leading the fairest one out in the dance, and then lastly Taking the fairest one home as his wife--'twas your dear little mother!

For by the bride whom a man selects, we may easily gather What kind of spirit his is, and whether he knows his own value.

But you will surely need but a short time to form your decision, For I verily think he will find it full easy to follow."

Hermann but partially heard the words; the whole of his members Inwardly quivered, and all the circle were suddenly silent.

But the excellent maiden, by words of such irony wounded, (As she esteem'd them to be) and deeply distress'd in her spirit, Stood, while a pa.s.sing flush from her cheeks as far as her neck was Spreading, but she restrain'd herself, and collected her thoughts soon; Then to the old man she said, not fully concealing her sorrow "Truly I was not prepared by your son for such a reception, When he described his father's nature,--that excellent burgher, And I know I am standing before you, a person of culture, Who behaves himself wisely to all, in a suitable manner.

But it would seem that you feel not pity enough for the poor thing Who has just cross'd your threshold, prepared to enter your service Else you would not seek to point out, with ridicule bitter, How far removed my lot from your son's and that of yourself is.

True, with a little bundle, and poor, I have enter'd your dwelling, Which it is the owner's delight to furnish with all things.

But I know myself well, and feel the whole situation.

Is it generous thus to greet me with language so jeering, Which was well nigh expelled me the house, when just on the threshold?"

Hermann uneasily moved about, and signed to the pastor To interpose without delay, and clear up the error.

Quickly the wise man advanced to the spot, and witness'd the maiden's Silent vexation and tearful eyes and scarce-restrain'd sorrow.

Then his spirit advised him to solve not at once the confusion, But, on the contrary, prove the excited mind of the maiden.

So, in words framed to try her, the pastor address'd her as follows:-- "Surely, my foreign maiden, you did not fully consider, When you made up your mind to serve a stranger so quickly, What it really is to enter the house of a master; For a shake of the hand decides your fate for a twelvemonth, And a single word Yes to much endurance will bind you.

But the worst part of the service is not the wearisome habits, Nor the bitter toil of the work, which seems never-ending; For the active freeman works hard as well as the servant.

But to suffer the whims of the master, who blames you unjustly, Or who calls for this and for that, not knowing his own mind, And the mistress's violence, always so easily kindled, With the children's rough and supercilious bad manners,-- This is indeed hard to bear, whilst still fulfilling your duties Promptly and actively, never becoming morose or ill-natured; Yet for such work you appear little fit, for already the father's Jokes have offended you deeply; yet nothing more commonly happens Than to tease a maiden about her liking a youngster."

Thus he spoke, and the maiden felt the weight of his language, And no more restrain'd herself; mightily all her emotions Show'd themselves, her bosom heaved, and a deep sigh escaped her, And whilst shedding burning tears, she answer'd as follows:-- "Ne'er does the clever man, who seeks to advise us in sorrow, Think how little his chilling words our hearts can deliver From the pangs which an unseen destiny fastens upon us.

You are happy and merry. How then should a jest ever wound you?

But the slightest touch gives torture to those who are suff'ring.

Even dissimulation would nothing avail me at present.

Let me at once disclose what later would deepen my sorrow, And consign me perchance to agony mute and consuming.

Let me depart forthwith! No more in this house dare I linger; I must hence and away, and look once more for my poor friends Whom I left in distress, when seeking to better my fortunes.

This is my firm resolve; and now I may properly tell you That which had else been buried for many a year in my bosom.

Yes, the father's jest has wounded me deeply, I own it, Not that I'm proud and touchy, as ill becometh a servant, But because in truth in my heart a feeling has risen For the youth, who to-day has fill'd the part of my Saviour.

For when first in the road he left me, his image remain'd still Firmly fix'd in my mind; and I thought of the fortunate maiden Whom, as his betroth'd one, he cherish'd perchance in his bosom.

And when I found him again at the well, the sight of him charm'd me Just as if I had-seen an angel descending from heaven.

And I follow'd him willingly, when as a servant he sought me, But by my heart in truth I was flatter'd (I need must confess it), As I hitherward came, that I might possibly win him, If I became in the house an indispensable pillar.

But, alas, I now see the dangers I well nigh fell into, When I bethought me of living so near a silently-loved one.

Now for the first time I feel how far removed a poor maiden Is from a richer youth, however clever she may be.

I have told you all this, that you my heart may mistake not, Which an event that in thought I foreshadow has wounded already.

For I must have expected, my secret wishes concealing, That, ere much time had elapsed, I should see him bringing his bride home.

And how then could I have endured my hidden affliction!

Happily I am warn'd in time, and out of my bosom Has my secret escaped, whilst curable still is the evil.

But no more of the subject! I now must tarry no longer In this house, where I now am standing in pain and confusion, All my foolish hopes and my feelings freely confessing.

Not the night which, with sinking clouds, is spreading around us, Not the rolling thunder (I hear it already) shall stop me, Not the falling rain, which outside is descending in torrents, Not the bl.u.s.tering storm. All this I had to encounter In that sorrowful flight, while the enemy follow'd behind Us.

And once more I go on my way, as I long have been wont to, Seized by the whirlpool of time, and parted from all that I care for.

So farewell! I'll tarry no longer. My fate is accomplish'd!"

Thus she spoke, and towards the door she hastily turn'd her, Holding under her arm the bundle she brought when arriving.

But the mother seized by both of her arms the fair maiden, Clasping her round the body, and cried with surprise and amazement "Say, what signifies this? These fruitless tears, what denote they?

No, I'll not leave you alone! You're surely my dear son's betroth'd one!"

But the father stood still, and show'd a great deal of reluctance, Stared at the weeping girl, and peevishly spoke then as follows "This, then, is all the indulgence my friends are willing to give me, That at the close of the day the most unpleasant thing happens!

For there is nothing I hate so much as the tears of a woman, And their pa.s.sionate cries, set up with such heat and excitement, Which a little plain sense would show to be utterly needless.

Truly, I find the sight of these whimsical doings a nuisance.

Matters must s.h.i.+ft for themselves; as for me, I think it is bed-time."

So he quickly turn'd round, and hasten'd to go to the chamber Where the marriage-bed stood, in which he slept for the most part.

But his son held him back, and spoke in words of entreaty "Father, don't go in a hurry, and be not amniote with the maiden!

I alone have to bear the blame of all this confusion, Which our friend has increased by his unexpected dissembling.

Speak then, honour'd Sir! for to you the affair I confided; Heap not up pain and annoyance, but rather complete the whole matter; For I surely in future should not respect you so highly, If you play practical jokes, instead of displaying true wisdom."

Thereupon the worthy pastor smilingly answer'd "What kind of wisdom could have extracted the charming confession Of this good maiden, and so have reveal'd all her character to us?