Delphi Collected Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe \(Illustrated\) pdfdrive com

CHAPTER X.

The main rehearsal was at length concluded: it had lasted very long. Serlo and

Wilhelm  still  found  much  to  care  for:  notwithstanding  all  the  time  which  had

already been consumed in preparation, some highly necessary matters had been

left to the very last moment.

Thus,  the  pictures  of  the  kings,  for  instance,  were  not  ready:  and  the  scene

between  Hamlet  and  his  mother,  from  which  so  powerful  an  effect  was  looked

for,  had  a  very  helpless  aspect,  as  the  business  stood;  for  neither  Ghost  nor

painted  image  of  him  was  at  present  forthcoming.  Serlo  made  a  jest  of  this

perplexity:  “We  should  be  in  a  pretty  scrape,”  said  he,  “if  the  Ghost  were  to

decline  appearing,  and  the  guard  had  nothing  to  fight  with  but  the  air,  and  our

prompter were obliged to speak the spirit’s part from the side-scenes.”

“We  will  not  scare  away  our  strange  friend  by  unbelief,”  said  Wilhelm:

“doubtless  at  the  proper  season  he  will  come,  and  astonish  us  as  much  as  the

spectators.”

“Well, certainly,” said Serlo, “I shall be a happy man to-morrow night, when

once the play will have been acted. It costs us more arrangement than I dreamed

of.”

“But none of you,” exclaimed Philina, “will be happier than I, little as my part

disturbs me. Really, to hear a single subject talked of forever and forever, when,

after  all,  there  is  nothing  to  come  of  it  beyond  an  exhibition,  which  will  be

forgotten  like  so  many  hundred  others,  this  is  what  I  have  not  patience  for.  In

Heaven’s  name,  not  so  many  pros  and  cons!  The  guests  you  entertain  have

always something to object against the dinner; nay, if you could hear them talk

of  it  at  home,  they  cannot  understand  how  it  was  possible  to  undergo  so  sad  a

business.”

“Let  me  turn  your  illustration,  pretty  one,  to  my  own  advantage,”  answered

Wilhelm.  “Consider  how  much  must  be  done  by  art  and  nature,  by  traffickers

and tradesmen, before an entertainment can be given. How many years the stag

must wander in the forest, the fish in the river or the sea, before they can deserve

to grace our table! And what cares and consultations with her cooks and servants

has  the  lady  of  the  house  submitted  to!  Observe  with  what  indifference  the

people  swallow  the  production  of  the  distant  vintager,  the  seaman,  and  the

vintner,  as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  course.  And  ought  these  men  to  cease  from

laboring, providing, and preparing; ought the master of the house to cease from

purchasing  and  laying  up  the  fruit  of  their  exertions,    —    because  at  last  the

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enjoyment  it  affords  is  transitory?  But  no  enjoyment  can  be  transitory;  the

impression  which  it  leaves  is  permanent:  and  what  is  done  with  diligence  and

effort communicates to the spectator a hidden force, of which we cannot say how

far its influence may reach.”

“’Tis all one to me,” replied Philina: “only here again I must observe, that you

men  are  constantly  at  variance  with  yourselves.  With  all  this  conscientious

horror at curtailing Shakspeare, you have missed the finest thought there was in

‘Hamlet’!”

“The finest?” cried our friend.

“Certainly the finest,” said Philina: “the prince himself takes pleasure in it.”

“And it is?” inquired Serlo.

“If you wore a wig,” replied Philina, “I would pluck it very coolly off you; for

I think you need to have your understanding opened.”

The  rest  began  to  think  what  she  could  mean:  the  conversation  paused.  The

party  arose;  it  was  now  grown  late;  they  seemed  about  to  separate.  While  they

were  standing  in  this  undetermined  mood,  Philina  all  at  once  struck  up  a  song,

with  a  very  graceful,  pleasing  tune:    —  “Sing  me  not  with  such  emotion,  How

the night so lonesome is: Pretty maids, I’ve got a notion It is the reverse of this.

For as wife and man are plighted, And the better half the wife; So is night to

day united: Night’s the better half of life.

Can you joy in bustling daytime, Day when none can get his will? It is good

for work, for haytime; For much other it is ill.

But when, in the nightly glooming, Social lamp on table glows, Face for faces

dear  illuming,  And  such  jest  and  joyance  goes;  When  the  fiery,  pert  young

fellow, Wont by day to run or ride, Whispering now some tale would tell O, All

so  gentle  by  your  side;  When  the  nightingale  to  lovers  Lovingly  her  songlet

sings,  Which  for  exiles  and  sad  rovers  Like  mere  woe  and  wailing  rings,    —

With a heart how lightsome feeling, Do ye count the kindly clock, Which twelve

times deliberate pealing, Tells you none to-night shall knock!

Therefore,  on  all  fit  occasions,  Mark  it,  maidens,  what  I  sing:  Every  day  its

own vexations, And the night its joys, will bring.”

She made a slight courtesy on concluding, and Serlo gave a loud “Bravo!” She

scuttled off, and left the room with a teehee of laughter. They heard her singing

and skipping as she went down-stairs.

Serlo  passed  into  another  room:  Wilhelm  bade  Aurelia  good-night;  but  she

continued looking at him for a few moments, and said, — “How I dislike that

woman!  Dislike  her  from  my  heart,  and  to  her  very  slightest  qualities!  Those

brown  eyelashes,  with  her  fair  hair,  which  our  brother  thinks  so  charming,  I

cannot  bear  to  look  at;  and  that  scar  upon  her  brow  has  something  in  it  so

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repulsive,  so  low  and  base,  that  I  could  recoil  ten  paces  every  time  I  meet  her.

She  was  lately  telling  as  a  joke,  that  her  father,  when  she  was  a  child,  threw  a

plate at her head, of which this is the mark. It is well that she is marked in the

eyes and brow, that those about her may be on their guard.”

Wilhelm  made  no  answer;  and  Aurelia  went  on,  apparently  with  greater

spleen, —

“It is next to impossible for me to speak a kind, civil word to her, so deeply do

I hate her, with all her wheedling. Would that we were rid of her! And you, too,

my friend, have a certain complaisance for the creature, a way of acting towards

her,  that  grieves  me  to  the  soul,    —    an  attention  which  borders  on  respect;

which, by Heaven! she does not merit.”

“Whatever she may be,” replied our friend, “I owe her thanks. Her upbringing

is to blame: to her natural character I would do justice.”

“Character!”  exclaimed  Aurelia;  “and  do  you  think  such  a  creature  has  a

character? O you men! It is so like you! These are the women you deserve!”

“My friend, can you suspect me?” answered Wilhelm. “I will give account of

every minute I have spent beside her.”

“Come, come,” replied Aurelia: “it is late, we will not quarrel. All like each,

and  each  like  all!  Good-night,  my  friend!  Good-night,  my  sparkling  bird-of-

paradise!”

Wilhelm asked how he had earned this title.

“Another time,” cried she; “another time. They say it has no feet, but hovers

in  the  air,  and  lives  on  ether.  That,  however,  is  a  story,  a  poetic  fiction.  Good-

night! Dream sweetly, if you are in luck!”

She proceeded to her room; and he, being left alone, made haste to his.

Half angrily he walked along his chamber to and fro. The jesting but decided

tone of Aurelia had hurt him: he felt deeply how unjust she was. Could he treat

Philina with unkindness or ill-nature? She had done no evil to him; but, for any

love to her, he could proudly and confidently take his conscience to witness that

it was not so.

On the point of beginning to undress, he was going forward to his bed to draw

aside  the  curtains,  when,  not  without  extreme  astonishment,  he  saw  a  pair  of

women’s  slippers  lying  on  the  floor  before  it.  One  of  them  was  resting  on  its

sole, the other on its edge. They were Philina’s slippers: he recognized them but

too well. He thought he noticed some disorder in the curtains; nay, it seemed as

if they moved. He stood, and looked with unaverted eyes.

A new impulse, which he took for anger, cut his breath: after a short pause, he

recovered, and cried in a firm tone, —

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“Come  out,  Philina!  What  do  you  mean  by  this?  Where  is  your  sense,  your

modesty? Are we to be the speech of the house to-morrow?”

Nothing stirred.

“I do not jest,” continued he: “these pranks are little to my taste.”

No sound! No motion!

Irritated  and  determined,  he  at  last  went  forward  to  the  bed,  and  tore  the

curtains  asunder.  “Arise,”  said  he,  “if  I  am  not  to  give  you  up  my  room  to-

night.”

With great surprise, he found his bed unoccupied; the sheets and pillows in the

sleekest rest. He looked around: he searched and searched, but found no traces of

the rouge. Behind the bed, the stove, the drawers, there was nothing to be seen:

he  sought  with  great  and  greater  diligence;  a  spiteful  looker-on  might  have

believed that he was seeking in the hope of finding.

All thought of sleep was gone. He put the slippers on his table; went past it, up

and  down;  often  paused  before  it;  and  a  wicked  sprite  that  watched  him  has

asserted  that  our  friend  employed  himself  for  several  hours  about  these  dainty

little shoes; that he viewed them with a certain interest; that he handled them and

played with them; and it was not till towards morning that he threw himself on

the  bed,  without  undressing,  where  he  fell  asleep  amidst  a  world  of  curious

fantasies.

He was still slumbering, when Serlo entered hastily. “Where are you?” cried

he:  “still  in  bed?  Impossible!  I  want  you  in  the  theatre:  we  have  a  thousand

things to do.”

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