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

CHAPTER XX.

She was lying on the sofa: she seemed quiet. “Do you think you will be fit to

act  to-morrow?”  he  inquired.  “Oh,  yes!”  cried  she  with  vivacity:  “you  know

there  is  nothing  to  prevent  me.  If  I  but  knew  a  way,”  continued  she,  “to  rid

myself of those applauses! The people mean it well, but they will kill me. Last

night I thought my very heart would break! Once, when I used to please myself,

I could endure this gladly: when I had studied long, and well prepared myself, it

gave  me  joy  to  hear  the  sound,  ‘It  has  succeeded!’  pealing  back  to  me  from

every corner. But now I speak not what I like, nor as I like; I am swept along, I

get confused, I scarce know what I do; and the impression I make is far deeper.

The  applause  grows  louder;  and  I  think,  Did  you  but  know  what  charms  you!

These  dark,  vague,  vehement  tones  of  passion  move  you,  force  you  to  admire;

and you feel not that they are the cries of agony, wrung from the miserable being

whom you praise.

“I learned my part this morning: just now I have been repeating it and trying

it.  I  am  tired,  broken  down;  and  to-morrow  I  must  do  the  same.  To-morrow

evening is the play. Thus do I drag myself to and fro: it is wearisome to rise, it is

wearisome  to  go  to  bed.  All  moves  within  me  in  an  everlasting  circle.  Then

come  their  dreary  consolations,  and  present  themselves  before  me;  and  I  cast

them out, and execrate them. I will not surrender, not surrender to necessity: why

should  that  be  necessary  which  crushes  me  to  the  dust?  Might  it  not  be

otherwise?  I  am  paying  the  penalty  of  being  born  a  German:  it  is  the  nature  of

the  Germans,  that  they  bear  heavily  on  every  thing,  that  every  thing  bears

heavily on them.”

“O  my  friend!”  cried  Wilhelm,  “could  you  cease  to  whet  the  dagger

wherewith you are ever wounding me! Does nothing, then, remain for you? Are

your  youth,  your  form,  your  health,  your  talents,  nothing?  Having  lost  one

blessing, without blame of yours, must you throw all the others after it? Is that

also necessary?”

She was silent for a few moments, and then burst forth, “I know well, it is a

waste  of  time,  nothing  but  a  waste  of  time,  this  love!  What  might  not,  should

not,  I  have  done!  And  now  it  is  all  vanished  into  air.  I  am  a  poor,  wretched,

lovelorn  creature,    —    lovelorn,  that  is  all!  Oh,  have  compassion  on  me!  God

knows I am poor and wretched!”

She  sank  in  thought:  then,  after  a  brief  pause,  she  exclaimed  with  violence,

“You are accustomed to have all things fly into your arms. No: you cannot feel,

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no man is qualified to feel, the worth of a woman that can reverence herself. By

all  the  holy  angels,  by  all  the  images  of  blessedness,  which  a  pure  and  kindly

heart  creates,  there  is  not  any  thing  more  heavenly  than  the  soul  of  a  woman

giving herself to the man she loves!

“We are cold, proud, high, clear-sighted, wise, while we deserve the name of

women; and all these qualities we lay down at your feet, the instant that we love,

that  we  hope  to  excite  a  return  of  love.  Oh,  how  have  I  cast  away  my  whole

existence  wittingly  and  willingly!  But  now  will  I  despair,  purposely  despair.

There  is  no  drop  of  blood  within  me  but  shall  suffer,  no  fibre  that  I  will  not

punish. Smile, I pray you; laugh at this theatrical display of passion.”

Wilhelm  was  far  enough  from  any  tendency  to  laugh.  This  horrible,  half-

natural,  half-factitious  condition  of  his  friend  afflicted  him  but  too  deeply.  He

sympathized in the tortures of that racking misery: his thoughts were wandering

in painful perplexities, his blood was in a feverish tumult.

She had risen, and was walking up and down the room. “I see before me,” she

exclaimed, “all manner of reasons why I should not love him. I know he is not

worthy  of  it;  I  turn  my  mind  aside,  this  way  and  that;  I  seize  upon  whatever

business I can find. At one time I take up a part, though I have not to play it; at

another, I begin to practise old ones, though I know them through and through; I

practise  them  more  diligently,  more  minutely,    —    I  toil  and  toil  at  them.  My

friend,  my  confidant,  what  a  horrid  task  is  it  to  tear  away  one’s  thoughts  from

one’s  self!  My  reason  suffers,  my  brain  is  racked  and  strained:  to  save  myself

from madness, I again admit the feeling that I love him. Yes, I love him, I love

him!” cried she, with a shower of tears: “I love him, I shall die loving him!”

He took her by the hand, and entreated her in the most earnest manner not to

waste herself in such self-torments. “Oh! it seems hard,” said he, “that not only

so  much  that  is  impossible  should  be  denied  us,  but  so  much  also  that  is

possible! It was not your lot to meet with a faithful heart that would have formed

your perfect happiness. It was mine to fix the welfare of my life upon a hapless

creature, whom, by the weight of my fidelity, I drew to the bottom like a reed,

perhaps even broke in pieces!”

He had told Aurelia of his intercourse with Mariana, and could therefore now

refer to it. She looked him intently in the face, and asked, “Can you say that you

never yet betrayed a woman, that you never tried with thoughtless gallantry, with

false asseverations, with cajoling oaths, to wheedle favor from her?”

“I can,” said Wilhelm, “and indeed without much vanity: my life has been so

simple and sequestered, I have had but few enticements to attempt such things.

And what a warning, my beautiful, my noble, friend, is this melancholy state in

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which I see you! Accept of me a vow, which is suited to my heart; which, under

the emotion you have caused me, has settled into words and shape, and will be

hallowed by the hour in which I utter it. Each transitory inclination I will study

to withstand, and even the most earnest I will keep within my bosom: no woman

shall  receive  an  acknowledgment  of  love  from  my  lips  to  whom  I  cannot

consecrate my life!”

She looked at him with a wild indifference, and drew back some steps as he

offered her his hand. “’Tis of no moment!” cried she: “so many women’s tears,

more or fewer; the ocean will not swell by reason of them. And yet,” continued

she,  “among  thousands,  one  woman  saved;  that  still  is  something:  among

thousands, one honest man discovered; this is not to be refused. Do you know,

then, what you promise?”

“I know it,” answered Wilhelm, with a smile, and holding out his hand.

“I accept it, then,” said she, and made a movement with her right hand, as if

meaning to take hold of his; but instantly she darted it into her pocket, pulled out

her dagger quick as lightning, and scored with the edge and point of it across his

hand. He hastily drew it back, but the blood was already running down.

“One  must  mark  you  men  rather  sharply,  if  one  would  have  you  take  heed,”

cried she, with a wild mirth, which soon passed into a quick assiduity. She took

her  handkerchief,  and  bound  his  hand  with  it  to  stanch  the  fast-flowing  blood.

“Forgive  a  half-crazed  being,”  cried  she,  “and  regret  not  these  few  drops  of

blood. I am appeased. I am again myself. On my knees will I crave your pardon:

leave me the comfort of healing you.”

She ran to her drawer, brought lint, with other apparatus, stanched the blood,

and  viewed  the  wound  attentively.  It  went  across  the  palm,  close  under  the

thumb, dividing the life-line, and running towards the little finger. She bound it

up  in  silence,  with  a  significant,  reflective  look.  He  asked,  once  or  twice,

“Aurelia, how could you hurt your friend?”

“Hush!” replied she, laying her finger on her mouth: “Hush!”

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