The Poems of Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe [e novels for free .txt] 📗

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 continued, "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 loved 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 balanced; 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 doubtfull! Women should learn betimes to serve, according to station, For by serving alone she attains at last to the mast'ry, 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, 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 advanced 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 rescued 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-loved 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 continued 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 Over a foreign land, unless to return we are able. See, here stands the youth to whom for those gifts we're indebted, All those clothes for the child, and all those acceptable viands. Well, he has come, and is anxious that I to his house should go with him, There as a servant to act to his rich and excellent parents, And I have not refused him, for serving appears my vocation, And to be served by others at home would seem like a burden. So I'll go willingly with him; the youth appears to be prudent, Thus will his parents be properly cared for, as rich people should be. Therefore, now, farewell, my much-loved friend, and be joyful In your living infant, who looks so healthily at you. When you press him against your bosom, wrapp'd up in those colourd Swaddling-clothes, then remember the youth who so kindly bestow'd them, And who in future will feed and clothe me also, your loved friend. You too, excellent man," to the magistrate turning, she added "Warmly I thank for so often acting the part of a father."

Then she knelt herself down before the lying-in patient, Kiss'd the weeping woman, her whisper'd blessing receiving. Meanwhile the worthy magistrate spoke to Hermann as follows "You deserve, my friend to be counted amongst the good landlords Who are anxious to manage their house through qualified people. For I have often observed how cautiously men are accustom'd Sheep and cattle and horses to watch, when buying or bart'ring But a man, who's so useful, provided he's good and efficient, And who does so much harm and mischief by treacherous dealings, Him will people admit to their houses by chance and haphazard, And too late find reason to rue an o'erhasty decision. This you appear to understand, for a girl you have chosen As your servant, and that of your parents, who thoroughly good is. Treat her well, and as long as she finds the business suit her, You will not miss your sister, your parents will miss not their daughter."

Other persons now enter'd, the patient's nearest relations, Many articles bringing, and better lodgings announcing. All were inform'd of the maiden's decision, and warmly bless'd Hermann, Both with significant looks, and also with grateful expressions, And one secretly whispered into the ear of another "If the master should turn to a bridegroom, her home is provided." Hermann then presently took her hand, and address'd her as follows "Let us be going; the day is declining, and far off the village." Then the women, with lively expressions, embraced Dorothea; Hermann drew her away; they still continued to greet her. Next the children, with screams and terrible crying attack'd her, Pulling her clothes, their second mother refusing to part from. But first one of the women, and then another rebuked them "Children, hush! to the town she is going, intending to bring you Plenty of gingerbread back, which your brother already had order'd, From the confectioner, when the stork was passing there lately, And she'll soon return, with papers prettily gilded."

So at length the children released her; but scarcely could Hermann Tear her from their embraces and distant-signalling kerchiefs.

VIII. MELPOMENE.

HERMANN AND DOROTHEA.

So tow'rd the sun, now fast sinking to rest, the two walk'd together, Whilst he veil'd himself deep in clouds which thunder portended. Out-of his veil now here, now there, with fiery glances Beaming over the plain with rays foreboding and lurid. "May this threatening weather," said Hermann, "not bring to us shortly Hail and violent rain, for well does the harvest now promise." And they both rejoiced in the corn so lofty and waving, Well nigh reaching the heads of the two tall figures that walk'd there. Then the maiden spoke to her friendly leader as follows "Generous youth, to whom I shall owe a kind destiny shortly, Shelter and home, when so many poor exiles must weather the tempest, In the first place tell me all about your good parents, Whom I intend to serve with all my soul from hence-forward; Knowing one's master, 'tis easier far to give satisfaction, By rememb'ring the things which he deems of the highest importance, And on which he has set his heart with the greatest decision. Tell me, then, how best I can win your father and mother."

Then the good and sensible youth made answer as follows "You are indeed quite right, my kind and excellent maiden, To begin by asking about the tastes of my parents! For I have hitherto striven in vain to satisfy Father, When I look'd after the inn, as well as my regular duty, Working early and late in the field, and tending the vineyard. Mother indeed was contented; she knew how to value my efforts; And she will certainly hold you to be an excellent maiden, If you take care of the house, as though the dwelling your own were. But my father's unlike her; he's fond of outward appearance. Gentle maiden, deem me not cold and void of all feeling, If I disclose my father's nature to you, who're a stranger. Yes, such words have never before escaped, I assure von Out of my mouth, which is little accustom'd to babble and chatter; But you have managed to worm all my secrets from out of my bosom. Well, my worthy father the graces of life holds in honour, Wishes for outward signs of love, as well as of rev'rence, And would doubtless be satisfied with an inferior servant Who understood this fancy, and hate a better, who did not."

Cheerfully she replied, with gentle movement increasing Through the darkening path the speed at which she was walking: I in truth shall hope to satisfy both of your parents, For your mother's character my own nature resembles, And to external graces have I from my youth been accustom'd. Our old neighbours, the French, in their earlier days laid much stress on Courteous demeanour; 'twas common alike to nobles and burghers, And to peasants, and each enjoin'd it on all his acquaintance. in the same way, on the side of the Germans, the children were train'd up Every morning, with plenty of kissing of hands and of curtsies, To salute their parents, and always to act with politeness. All that I have learnt, and all I have practised since childhood, All that comes from my heart,--I will practise it all with the old man. But on what terms shall I--I scarcely dare ask such a question,-- Be with yourself, the only son, and hereafter my master?"

Thus she spoke, and at that moment they came to the peartree. Down from the skies the moon at her full was shining in glory; Night had arrived, and the last pale gleam of the sunset had vanish'd. So before them were lying, in masses all heap'd up together, Lights as clear as the day, and shadows of night and of darkness. And the friendly question was heard by Hermann with pleasure, Under the shade of the noble tree at the spot which he loved so Which that day had witness'd his tears at the fate of the exile. And whilst they sat themselves down, to take a little repose there, Thus the loving youth spoke, whilst he seized the hand of the maiden "Let your heart give the answer, and always obey what it tells you!" But he ventured to say no more, however propitious Was the moment; he feard that a No would be her sole answer, Ah! and he felt the ring on her finger, that sorrowful token. So by the side of each other they quietly sat and in silence, But the maiden began to speak, and said, "How delightful Is the light of the moon! The clearness of day it resembles. Yonder I see in the town the houses and courtyards quite plainly, In the gable a window; methinks all the panes I can reckon."

"That which you see," replied the youth, who spoke with an effort, "That is our house down to