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

CHAPTER XV.

Next morning Wilhelm went to visit Frau Melina, but found her not at home.

On  inquiring  here  for  the  other  members  of  the  wandering  community,  he

learned that Philina had invited them to breakfast. Out of curiosity, he hastened

thither,  and  found  them  all  in  very  good  spirits  and  of  good  comfort.  The

cunning  creature  had  collected  them,  was  treating  them  with  chocolate,  and

giving them to understand that some prospects still remained for them; that, by

her influence, she hoped to convince the manager how advantageous it would be

for him to introduce so many clever hands among his company. They listened to

her  with  attention;  swallowed  cup  after  cup  of  her  chocolate;  thought  the  girl

was  not  so  bad,  after  all,  and  went  away  proposing  to  themselves  to  speak

whatever good of her they could.

“Do  you  think,  then,”  said  our  friend,  who  staid  behind,  “that  Serlo  will

determine to retain our comrades?” — “Not at all,” replied Philina; “nor do I

care a fig for it. The sooner they are gone, the better! Laertes alone I could wish

to keep: the rest we shall by and by pack off.”

Next  she  signified  to  Wilhelm  her  firm  persuasion  that  he  should  no  longer

hide his talent, but, under the direction of a Serlo, go upon the boards. She was

lavish  in  her  praises  of  the  order,  the  taste,  the  spirit,  which  prevailed  in  this

establishment: she spoke so flatteringly to Wilhelm, with such admiration of his

gifts, that his heart and his imagination were advancing towards this proposal as

fast as his understanding and his reason were retreating from it. He concealed his

inclination  from  himself  and  from  Philina,  and  passed  a  restless  day,  unable  to

resolve on visiting his trading correspondents, to receive the letters which might

there be lying for him. The anxieties of his people during all this time he easily

conceived;  yet  he  shrank  from  the  precise  account  of  them,  particularly  at  the

present  time,  as  he  promised  to  himself  a  great  and  pure  enjoyment  from  the

exhibition of a new play that evening.

Serlo  had  refused  to  let  him  witness  the  rehearsal.  “You  must  see  us  on  the

best side,” he observed, “before we can allow you to look into our cards.”

The performance, however, where our friend did not fail to be present, yielded

him  a  high  satisfaction.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  a  theatre  in  such

perfection.  The  actors  were  evidently  all  possessed  of  excellent  gifts,  superior

capacities,  and  a  high,  clear  notion  of  their  art;  they  were  not  equal,  but  they

mutually  restrained  and  supported  one  another;  each  breathed  ardor  into  those

around  him;  throughout  all  their  acting,  they  showed  themselves  decided  and

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correct. You soon felt that Serlo was the soul of the whole: as an individual, he

appeared  to  much  advantage.  A  merry  humor,  a  measured  vivacity,  a  settled

feeling of propriety, combined with a great gift of imitation, were to be observed

in him the moment he appeared upon the stage. The inward contentment of his

being  seemed  to  spread  itself  over  all  that  looked  on  him;  and  the  intellectual

style in which he could so easily and gracefully express the finest shadings of his

part, excited more delight, as he could conceal the art which, by long-continued

practice, he had made his own.

Aurelia, his sister, was not inferior: she obtained still greater approbation; for

she touched the souls of the audience, which he had it in his power to exhilarate

and amuse.

After a few days had passed pleasantly enough, Aurelia sent to inquire for our

friend. He hastened to her: she was lying on a sofa; she seemed to be suffering

from  headache;  her  whole  frame  had  visibly  a  feverish  movement.  Her  eye

lighted up as she noticed Wilhelm. “Pardon me!” she cried, as he entered: “the

trust you have inspired me with has made me weak. Till now I have contrived to

bear up against my woes in secret; nay, they gave me strength and consolation:

but now, I know not how it is, you have loosened the bands of silence. You will

now, even against your will, take part in the battle I am fighting with myself!”

Wilhelm answered her in kind and obliging terms. He declared that her image

and her sorrows had not ceased to hover in his thoughts; that he longed for her

confidence, and devoted himself to be her friend.

While he spoke, his eyes were attracted to the boy, who sat before her on the

floor, and was busy rattling a multitude of playthings. This child, as Philina had

observed,  might  be  about  three  years  of  age;  and  Wilhelm  now  conceived  how

that giddy creature, seldom elevated in her phraseology, had likened it to the sun.

For  its  cheerful  eyes  and  full  countenance  were  shaded  by  the  finest  golden

locks,  which  flowed  round  in  copious  curls;  dark,  slender,  softly  bending

eyebrows showed themselves upon a brow of dazzling whiteness; and the living

tinge  of  health  was  glancing  on  its  cheeks.  “Sit  by  me,”  said  Aurelia:  “you  are

looking at the happy child with admiration; in truth, I took it into my arms with

joy; I keep it carefully; yet, by it, too, I can measure the extent of my sufferings;

for they seldom let me feel the worth of such a gift.

“Allow me,” she continued, “to speak to you about myself and my destiny; for

I have it much at heart that you should not misunderstand me. I thought I should

have a few calm instants; and, accordingly, I sent for you. You are now here, and

the thread of my narrative is lost.

“‘One more forsaken woman in the world!’ you will say. You are a man. You

are thinking, ‘What a noise she makes, the fool, about a necessary evil; which,

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certainly  as  death,  awaits  a  woman,  when  such  is  the  fidelity  of  men!’  O  my

friend! if my fate were common, I would gladly undergo a common evil; but it is

so singular! why cannot I present it to you in a mirror, — why not command

some one to tell it you? Oh! had I, had I been seduced, surprised, and afterwards

forsaken,  there  would  then  still  be  comfort  in  despair;  but  I  am  far  more

miserable. I have been my own deceiver; I have wittingly betrayed myself; and

this, this, is what shall never be forgiven me.”

“With  noble  feelings,  such  as  yours,”  said  Wilhelm,  “you  cannot  be  entirely

unhappy.”

“And  do  you  know  to  what  I  am  indebted  for  my  feelings?”  asked  Aurelia.

“To the worst education that ever threatened to contaminate a girl; to the vilest

examples for misleading the senses and inclinations.

“My  mother  dying  early,  the  fairest  years  of  my  youth  were  spent  with  an

aunt, whose principle it was to despise the laws of decency. She resigned herself

headlong to every impulse, careless whether the object of it proved her tyrant or

her slave, so she might forget herself in wild enjoyment.

“By children, with the pure, clear vision of innocence, what ideas of men were

necessarily  formed  in  such  a  scene!  How  stolid,  brutally  bold,  importunate,

unmannerly, was every one she allured! How sated, empty, insolent, and insipid,

as  soon  as  he  had  had  his  wishes  gratified!  I  have  seen  this  woman  live,  for

years,  humbled  under  the  control  of  the  meanest  creatures.  What  incidents  she

had to undergo! With what a front she contrived to accommodate herself to her

destiny; nay, with how much skill, to wear these shameful fetters!

“It  was  thus,  my  friend,  that  I  became  acquainted  with  your  sex;  and  deeply

did  I  hate  it,  when,  as  I  imagined,  I  observed  that  even  tolerable  men,  in  their

conduct  to  ours,  appeared  to  renounce  every  honest  feeling,  of  which  nature

might otherwise have made them capable.

“Unhappily,  moreover,  on  such  occasions,  a  multitude  of  painful  discoveries

about my own sex were forced upon me; and, in truth, I was then wiser, as a girl

of sixteen, than I now am, now that I scarcely understand myself. Why are we so

wise when young, — so wise, and ever growing less so?”

The boy began to make a noise: Aurelia became impatient, and rang. An old

woman  came  to  take  him  out.  “Hast  thou  toothache  still?”  said  Aurelia  to  the

crone, whose face was wrapped in cloth. “Unsufferable,” said the other, with a

muffled  voice,  then  lifted  the  boy,  who  seemed  to  like  going  with  her,  and

carried him away.

Scarcely  was  he  gone,  when  Aurelia  began  bitterly  to  weep.  “I  am  good  for

nothing,”  cried  she,  “but  lamenting  and  complaining;  and  I  feel  ashamed  to  lie

before you like a miserable worm. My recollection is already fled: I can relate no

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more.”  She  faltered,  and  was  silent.  Her  friend,  unwilling  to  reply  with  a

commonplace,  and  unable  to  reply  with  any  thing  particularly  applicable,

pressed  her  hand,  and  looked  at  her  for  some  time  without  speaking.  Thus

embarrassed,  he  at  length  took  up  a  book,  which  he  noticed  lying  on  the  table

before him: it was Shakspeare’s works, and open at “Hamlet.”

Serlo,  at  this  moment  entering,  inquired  about  his  sister,  and,  looking  in  the

book which our friend had hold of, cried, “So you are again at ‘Hamlet’? Very

good!  Many  doubts  have  arisen  in  me,  which  seem  not  a  little  to  impair  the

canonical  aspect  of  the  play  as  you  would  have  it  viewed.  The  English

themselves have admitted that its chief interest concludes with the third act; the

last two lagging sorrily on, and scarcely uniting with the rest: and certainly about

the end it seems to stand stock-still.”

“It is very possible,” said Wilhelm, “that some individuals of a nation, which

has  so  many  masterpieces  to  feel  proud  of,  may  be  led  by  prejudice  and

narrowness  of  mind  to  form  false  judgments;  but  this  cannot  hinder  us  from

looking with our own eyes, and doing justice where we see it due. I am very far

from censuring the plan of ‘Hamlet’: on the other hand, I believe there never was

a grander one invented; nay, it is not invented, it is real.”

“How do you demonstrate that?” inquired Serlo.

“I  will  not  demonstrate  any  thing,”  said  Wilhelm:  “I  will  merely  show  you

what my own conceptions of it are.”

Aurelia raised herself from her cushion, leaned upon her hand, and looked at

Wilhelm,  who,  with  the  firmest  assurance  that  he  was  in  the  right,  went  on  as

follows:  “It  pleases  us,  it  flatters  us,  to  see  a  hero  acting  on  his  own  strength,

loving  and  hating  at  the  bidding  of  his  heart,  undertaking  and  completing,

casting every obstacle aside, and attaining some great end. Poets and historians

would willingly persuade us that so proud a lot may fall to man. In ‘Hamlet’ we

are taught another lesson: the hero is without a plan, but the play is full of plan.

Here  we  have  no  villain  punished  on  some  self-conceived  and  rigidly

accomplished scheme of vengeance: a horrid deed is done; it rolls along with all

its  consequences,  dragging  with  it  even  the  guiltless:  the  guilty  perpetrator

would, as it seems, evade the abyss made ready for him; yet he plunges in, at the

very point by which he thinks he shall escape, and happily complete his course.

“For it is the property of crime to extend its mischief over innocence, as it is

of  virtue  to  extend  its  blessings  over  many  that  deserve  them  not;  while

frequently the author of the one or of the other is not punished or rewarded at all.

Here  in  this  play  of  ours,  how  strange!  The  Pit  of  darkness  sends  its  spirit  and

demands  revenge:  in  vain!  All  circumstances  tend  one  way,  and  hurry  to

revenge:  in  vain!  Neither  earthly  nor  infernal  thing  may  bring  about  what  is

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reserved for Fate alone. The hour of judgment comes; the wicked falls with the

good; one race is mowed away, that another may spring up.”

After a pause, in which they looked at one another, Serlo said, “You pay no

great  compliment  to  Providence,  in  thus  exalting  Shakspeare;  and  besides,  it

appears  to  me,  that  for  the  honor  of  your  poet,  as  others  for  the  honor  of

Providence, you ascribe to him an object and a plan such as he himself had never

thought of.”

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