The Online Library of Liberty

A project of Liberty Fund, Inc.

• Götz Von Berlichingen With the Iron Hand. a Drama.
• Dramatis PersonÆ
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: An Inn At Schwarzenberg In Franconia.
• Scene II.—: A Cottage In a Thick Forest.
• Scene III.—: An Apartment In Jaxthausen, the Castle of Goetz Von Berlichingen.
• Scene IV.—: The Bishop of Bamberg’s Palace.
• Scene V.—: Jaxthausen.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Bamberg. a Hall.
• Scene II.—: Jaxthausen. a Hall In Goetz’s Castle.
• Scene III.—: The Bishop’s Palace At Bamberg.
• Scene IV.—: The Spessart.
• Scene V.—: The Bishop’s Palace. His Cabinet.
• Scene VI.—: Adelaide’s Apartment.
• Scene VII.—: An Ante-room.
• Scene VIII.—: The Spessart.
• Scene IX.—: Hall In the Bishop’s Palace At Bamberg.
• Scene X—: an Inn.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: A Garden At Augsburg.
• Scene II.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene III.—: The Camp of the Party Sent to Execute the Imperial Mandate.
• Scene IV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene V.—: Bamberg. Adelaide’s Chamber.
• Scene VI.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene VII.—: A Wood On the Borders of a Morass.
• Scene VIII.—: Camp of the Imperialists.
• Scene IX.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene X.—: The Imperial Camp.
• Scene XI.—: Mountains and a Wood.
• Scene XII.—: A Heath—on One Side an Eminence, With a Ruined Tower, On the Other the Forest.
• Scene XIII.—: The Camp.
• Scene XIV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene XV.—: Camp.
• Scene XVI.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene XVII.—: The Kitchen.
• Scene XVIII.—: A Hall.
• Scene XIX.—: The Court of the Castle.
• Scene XX.: The Armory.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: An Inn In the City of Heilbronn
• Scene II.—: The Council-house At Heilbronn.
• Scene III.—: A Large Hall In the Council-house, Beset By Sickingen’s Troops.
• Scene IV.—: The Castle of Adelaide. Augsburg.
• Scene V.—: Jaxthausen.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: A Village Plundered By the Insurgent Peasantry. Shrieks and Tumult.
• Scene II.—: Open Country. In the Distance Two Villages and an Abbey Are Burning.
• Scene III.—: A Hill and Prospect of the Country. In the Flat Scene a Mill. a Body of Horsemen.
• Scene IV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene V.—: A Village.
• Scene VI.—: The Front of a Gypsy-hut In a Wild Forest.—night.—a Fire Before the Hut, At Which Are Seated the Mother of the Gypsies and a Girl.
• Scene VII.—: Inside the Hut.
• Scene VIII.—: Adelaide’s Bedchamber.
• Scene IX.—: Street Before the Prison At Heilbronn.
• Scene X.—: An Apartment In Weislingen’s Castle.
• Scene XI.—: A Narrow Vault Dimly Illuminated. the Judges of the Secret Tribunal Discovered Seated, All Muffled In Black Cloaks.
• Scene XII.—: The Court of an Inn.
• Scene XIII.—: The Prison At Heilbronn.
• Scene the Last. —: the Prison Garden.
• Iphigenia In Tauris a Drama
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: A Grove Before the Temple of Diana.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Act II.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Act III.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act V.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Scene VI.
• Torquato Tasso
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.: A Garden Adorned With Busts of the Epic Poets. to the Right a Bust of Virgil: to the Left, One of Ariosto.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: A Room.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act III.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: A Chamber.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: A Garden.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Clavigo
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s Dwelling.
• Scene II.—: Guilbert’s Dwelling.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s House.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: Guilbert’s Abode.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s Abode. Carlos, Alone.
• Scene II.—: Guilbert’s Abode.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: The Street Before the House of Guilbert. Night.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Scene VI.
• Stella. a Tragedy.
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Act II.
• Act III.
• Act IV.
• Act V.
• The Brother and Sister
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• A Tale.
• The Good Women.
• Reynard the Fox.
• Chapter I.: The Accusation.
• Chapter II.: The First Summons.
• Chapter III.: The Second Summons.
• Chapter IV.: The Trial.
• Chapter V.: The Pardon.
• Chapter VI.: The Relapse.
• Chapter VII.: The Outlawry.
• Chapter VIII.: The Journey.
• Chapter IX.: The Advocacy.
• Chapter X.: The Second Pardon.
• Chapter XI.: The Defiance.
• Chapter XII.: The Battle.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

William,a merchant.

Marian,his sister.

Fabricius.

Postman.

William.

(Seated at a desk with account books and papers.) Two new customers again this week! If one lifts his hand, there is always something happens; even if it’s little it counts up in the long run, and a small game gives its own pleasure, though the gain’s small, and little losses can be borne with equanimity. (EnterPostman.) What is it?

Postman.

A registered letter for twenty ducats, half paid.

William.

Good! Very good! Put it down on my account. (ExitPostman.) I didn’t want to keep saying all day long that I was expecting this. (Contemplating the letter.) Now I can pay Fabricius right off, and not abuse his kindness any longer. Yesterday he said to me: “I am coming round to see you to-morrow.” I was sorry to hear it. I knew that he wouldn’t dun me, and for that very reason his presence is a kind of double dun. (He opens the packet and counts.) In the good old times when I kept up a rather gayer establishment than this I couldn’t bear these silent creditors at all. Anyone who importunes me, who bores me, deserves nothing but the cold shoulder and all that that implies; while he who holds his peace touches my heart, and appeals to me in the most importunate way, since he puts it upon me to make his demand for him. (He piles money upon the table.) Good God! how I thank Thee that I am out of my trouble and on my feet again. (He takes up a book.) Thy blessing at retail or me who have wasted Thy gifts wholesale.—And so—can I express it?—Yet ’tis not for me that Thou art doing any more than I am doing for myself. If it were not for that dear good creature, should I be sitting here settling up losses? O Marian! If you only knew that he whom you call your brother is working for you with a very different heart, with very different hopes.—Maybe!—ah!—but it is cruel!—She loves me—certainly—but as a brother.—No! how absurd! This is unbelief, and that has never yet bred any good. Marian! I will be happy; and so shalt thou, Marian!

EnterMarian.

Marian.

What do you want, brother? You called me.

William.

No, I did not. Marian.

Marian.

Did something vex you that you conjured me out of the kitchen?

William.

It was spirits that you heard.

Marian.

Very well, William! Only I know your voice quite too well.

William.

Come, now, what are you doing out there?

Marian.

I’ve only been plucking a couple of pigeons, because Fabricius is going to take supper with us this evening.

William.

Perhaps he will.

Marian.

They’ll be done soon; you must not say anything about it till afterwards. I want him to teach me his new song.

William.

Do you like to study with him?

Marian.

He can sing lovely songs. And when afterwards you sit at table and your head nods, then I will begin. For I know that you laugh at me when I sing any of your favorite songs.

William.

Have you noticed that in me?

Marian.

Certainly; whoever failed to notice what you menfolks do? But if you don’t want me for anything, I’m off again; for I have still all sorts of things to do. Goodby.—Now give me just one kiss.

William.

If the pigeons are well roasted I will give you a kiss for dessert.

Marian.

It’s detestable that brothers should be so cross. If Fabricius or any other nice young man dared to steal a kiss they would jump over high walls for the chance, and that man there scorns the one that I want to give him.—Now I’m going to burn up the pigeons.

[Exit.

William.

The angel, the dear angel! How can I restrain myself from taking her into my arms and telling her everything?—Dost thou look down upon us from heaven, O lady, who didst give this treasure into my keeping?—Yes, those above know about us here, they know about us!—Charlotte, thou could’st not reward my love to thee more gloriously, more sacredly than by leaving thy daughter in my care. Thou gavest me all that I lacked, thou madest life dear to me. I loved her as thy child—and now! Yet it is as though I were deceived. Methinks I see thee again, methinks Fate has given thee back to me again with youth renewed, so that I now may remain and dwell with thee in union as in that first dream of life I was not allowed to do and had no right to do. O joy! joy! Give the whole measure of thy blessing, Father in heaven!

EnterFabricius.

Fabricius.

Good-evening.

William.

I am very happy, my dear Fabricius; everything good has come to me this evening. However, let us not speak of business now. There lie your three hundred dollars. Pocket ’em quick. My I. O. U. you can return to me at your convenience. And now let us have a little talk.

Fabricius.

If you need the money longer—

William.

If I need it again, well and good; I’m always deeply indebted to you. But now take it.—Listen! The memory of Charlotte came back to me again this evening with eternal freshness and life.

Fabricius.

That is a frequent occurrence.

William.

You ought to have known her. I tell you she was one of the most magnificent of creatures.

Fabricius.

She was a widow; how did you come to know her?

William.

So pure and stately. Yesterday I was reading over one of her letters. You are the only man who has ever known anything about it.

[Goes to the portfolio.

Fabricius.

(Aside.) If he would only spare me this time! I have heard the story so many, many times before. As a general thing I like to hear him tell it, for it always comes from his heart; but to-day I have quite different things on my mind, and yet I want to keep him in good humor.

William.

It was during the early days of our acquaintance. “The world will become dear to me again,” she wrote; “I had cut myself loose from it, but it will be dear to me again through you. My heart reproaches me; I feel that I am going to be a cause of sorrow to you and myself. Six months ago I was ready to die, and now I feel so no longer.”

Fabricius.

A lovely soul.

William.

The earth was not worthy of her. Fabricius, I’ve told you many times before that through her I became quite a different man. I cannot describe the pain that I felt when I looked back and saw how I had squandered my paternal inheritance. I could not offer her my hand, could not make her lot more endurable. I felt then for the first time the necessity to earn a suitable support; to extricate myself from the slothfulness in which I was drifting along day after day. I went to work—but what did that amount to?—I kept at work, and thus a wearisome year passed away; at last came a ray of hope; my pittance increased visibly—then she died.—I could not stay. You have no idea how I suffered. No longer could I behold the region where I had lived with her, or leave the sacred soil where she rested. She wrote me just before she died.

[Taking a letter from the portfolio.

Fabricius.

It is a splendid letter; you read it to me only a short time ago. Hark, William—

William.

I know it by heart, and yet I read it again and again. When I see her writing, the sheet on which her hand rested, it seems to me as if she were here again. She is still here. (The voice of a child crying is heard.) I wonder why Marian can’t be sensible! There, she’s got our neighbor’s youngster again; every day she comes romping round with him and disturbs me just at the wrong moment. (At the door.) Marian, be still with the child, or send him home if he’s naughty. We want to talk.

[He stands, full of emotion.

Fabricius.

You ought not to bring up these recollections so frequently.

William.

These are the very lines; these were the last that she wrote. The farewell sigh of the departing angel. (He folds the letter again.) You are right, it is sinful. How seldom are we worthy of recalling the bitter-sweet moments of our past lives!

Fabricius.

Your story always goes to my heart. You told me that she left a daughter, who shortly afterwards followed her mother. If she had only lived, you would have had at least something of hers, you would have had some interest through which your cares and your grief might have been appeased.

William.

(Turning eagerly to him.) Her daughter? It was an exquisite flower that she intrusted to me. What fate has done for me is beyond words to express. Fabricius—if I could only tell you all—

Fabricius.

If there is anything on thy heart—

William.

Why should I not?

Marian.

(Coming in with a little boy.) He wants to say good-night, brother. You must not scowl at him, nor at me either. You always say that you would like to be married and have lots of children. One couldn’t hold them in such a way that they would never cry and never disturb you.

William.

But they would be my own children.

Marian.

Maybe there would be a difference in that.

Fabricius.

Do you think so, Marian?

Marian.

It would be too lovely for anything. (She kneels before the child and kisses him.) I love little Christopher so dearly! If he were only my own!—He already knows his letters; I have been teaching him.

William.

And so you think that a child of your own at his age would know how to read?

Marian.

Why certainly! for all day long I wouldn’t do anything else but take him out to walk and teach him and feed him and dress him and everything else.

Fabricius.

And your husband?

Marian.

He would have to help; his love for him would be as great as mine. But Christopher has got to go home and wants to say good-night. (She leads him toWilliam.) Here! give your hand like a good little boy; that’s a nice boy!

Fabricius.

(Aside.) She is the loveliest creature; I must tell her my hopes!

Marian.

(Leading the child toFabricius.) Here! shake hands with this gentleman too!

William.

(Aside.) She shall be mine! I will—no! I do not deserve it! (ToMarian.) Marian, take the child away and entertain Fabricius till supper-time. I am going out for a little run: I’ve been sitting all day long. (ExitMarian.) Just one good full breath of the fresh air this lovely star-light night!—My heart is so full!—I shall be back directly

[Exit.

Fabricius.

Make an end to thy suspense, Master Fabricius! If thou bearest it any longer, the matter won’t be any nearer conclusion. Thou hast made up thy mind. Good! Admirable! Thou wilt still help her brother; and she—she does not love me as I love her, that’s certain. But it isn’t in her to love passionately; she isn’t that kind of a woman. Dear girl! She hasn’t the slightest idea that I feel anything else but friendship for her! O Marian, we shall get along famously! This opportunity is just what I should have wished it to be! I must explain to her my intentions! And if her heart does not scorn me—anyway, I am sure of her brother!

EnterMarian.

Fabricius.

Have you sent the little fellow home?

Marian.

I should love to have kept him here; but I know that my brother does not like him, and so I let him go. Many and many a time the little rascal has begged me to let him sleep here all night.

Fabricius.

But don’t you ever get tired of him?

Marian.

Oh, no, indeed! He is as wild as he can be the whole day, but when I go to put him to bed he is as good as a kitten! He’s a little flatterer, and he loves to kiss me; sometimes I can’t get him to sleep at all.

Fabricius.

(Half aside.) What a sweet nature!

Marian.

He loves me even better than his own mother.

Fabricius.

You are also a mother to him. (Marianstands lost in thought;Fabriciusgazes at her for some moments.) Does the name of mother make you sad?

Marian.

Not exactly sad; but I was thinking

Fabricius.

What were you thinking about, sweet Marian?

Marian.

I was thinking—oh, nothing, nothing. Sometimes it seems very strange to me.

Fabricius.

Haven’t you ever had any longings to—

Marian.

What were you going to ask?

Fabricius.

Can Fabricius presume so far?

Marian.

No, I have never had any longings, Fabricius. And if ever any such thought flashed through my head, it was gone in an instant. To leave my brother would be unendurable—impossible for me—no matter how attractive any other prospect might be.

Fabricius.

Now that is strange! If you lived near him in the same city, you wouldn’t call that leaving him, would you?

Marian.

Oh, never, never speak of such a thing! Who would keep house for him? Who would take care of him? Let a servant take my place? Or let him get married? No, indeed, that couldn’t be!

Fabricius.

Couldn’t he go and live with you? Mightn’t your husband be his friend? Couldn’t you three live together just as happily as now, even happier? Couldn’t your brother be in this way assisted in his perplexing business cares? Think what such a life might be!

Marian.

It can easily be imagined. And when I think about it, it is quite possible. But then again, it seems to me as though it would never come about.

Fabricius.

I don’t understand you.

Marian.

It is just so now. When I wake in the morning I listen to hear if my brother is up before me: if no one is stirring, quick as a flash I get out of bed and run to the kitchen and build a fire, so that the water is thoroughly heated, and then the maid comes down, and my brother has his coffee as soon as he opens his eyes!

Fabricius.

What an admirable housewife!

Marian.

And then I sit down and knit stockings for him, and keep very happy, and measure a dozen times to see if they are long enough yet and if they set well round the calf, and if the feet are not too short, until he sometimes actually gets vexed. It isn’t that I always want to be trying them on, but it seems to me that I must have something to do near him, as though he ought to see me at least once when he has been writing a couple of hours; he can’t be gloomy with me, for it always brightens him up to see me. I can read it by his eyes if he will not let me know any other way. Often I laugh in my sleeve, because he acts as though he were solemn or angry. He is wise, for if he didn’t I should plague him all day long.

Fabricius.

He is a lucky man.

Marian.

No, I am the lucky one. If I hadn’t him I shouldn’t know what to do in this world. I do everything for myself, however, and it seems to me as if I did everything for him, because even when I am working for myself I am always thinking of him.

Fabricius.

And now if you did everything for a husband, how absolutely happy he would be! How grateful he would be, and what a contented life you would lead!

Marian.

Many times I imagine it to myself, and tell myself a long story, as I sit and knit, or sew, how everything might be and would be! But when I come back to the reality, then I know that it will never come to pass.

Fabricius.

Why not?

Marian.

Where should I find a spouse who would like it if I said “I will love you!” but had to add to it “You cannot be dearer to me than my brother; I must take care of him just as I always have done.” Ah! you see it is impossible.

Fabricius.

You would after a while help your husband in the same way; you would transfer your love to him.

Marian.

Ah! there lies the trouble. Certainly, if love could be taken and exchanged like money, or if you could go to a different lord and master every quarter as servants do, it would be a different thing. But with a husband everything would have to become exactly as it already is here, and that could never be.

Fabricius.

That is a stumbling-block.

Marian.

I don’t know why it is; but when he sits at table and leans his head on his hand and looks down and seems full of anxiety, I could sit for hours and gaze at him. He is not handsome, I say to myself oftentimes, and yet I love to look at him. Of course I feel that it is on my account that he is anxious; the first glance that he gives me when he looks up tells me so, and that is a good deal.

Fabricius.

It’s everything, Marian. And a husband who would care for you—

Marian.

There is one thing more, and that’s moods. William also has his moods; but when he has them they do not trouble me: but in anybody else they would be unendurable. He easily loses his temper; oftentimes it pains me. If in such unhappy moments he repulses a kind, sympathetic, loving effort to cheer him, I confess it touches me, but only for an instant, and if I reprove him it is rather because he does not appreciate my love for him than because I love him the less.

Fabricius.

But suppose there were some one who, in spite of all that, were bold enough to offer you his hand.

Marian.

But there isn’t any such person! And even then the question would arise whether I should be equally daring.

Fabricius.

Why should you not?

Marian.

But there’s no such person.

Fabricius.

Marian, there is.

Marian.

Fabricius!

Fabricius.

You see him before you. Need I make a long defence? Shall I pour out before you what my heart has so long treasured? I love you. You have known it long. I offer you my hand: that you did not expect. Never did I see a maiden who so little as you realized the fact that she moved the hearts of those who see her. Marian, it is not a fiery, impulsive suitor who talks with you; I know you well; I have chosen you deliberately; my house is all in order: will you be mine? I have had many experiences in love, and more than once I have vowed to end my days as an old bachelor. But you have conquered me! Do not stand aloof from me! You know me. I am a friend of your brother; you cannot conceive of a parer union. Open your heart to me! Only one word, Marian!

Marian.

Dear Fabricius, only allow me a little time. I like you.

Fabricius.

Tell me that you love me. I will give your brother his own place; I will be a brother to him; together we will care for him. My property added to his will help him over many an anxious hour; he will gain fresh courage, he will—Marian, don’t let me have to persuade you!

[He seizes her hand.

Marian.

Fabricius, I never thought of such a thing. What an embarrassing dilemma you have brought me into.

Fabricius.

Just one word! may I hope?

Marian.

Speak with my brother!

Fabricius.

(Kneeling.) Angel! darling!

Marian.

(Silent for a moment.) Great heavens! What have I done!

[Exit.

Fabricius.

She is thine!—I can well afford to let the dear little thing caress her brother; that will soon cure itself when we come to get better acquainted, and he won’t lose anything by it. Ah, it does me good to be so in love again and to be loved again so luckily. It is a thing, however, for which one never really loses the taste. We will live together. If it had not been for that, long ago I should have enlarged somewhat the good man’s scrupulous economy. When I am his brother-in-law things will run smoother. He is becoming a regular hypochondriac with his everlasting reminiscences, doubts, business anxieties and mysteries. Everything will be lovely! He shall breathe freely again; the girl will get a husband—that’s no trifle—and I—I shall get a wife honorably—and that’s worth something.

EnterWilliam.

Fabricius.

Did you have a good walk?

William.

I went up along the market and Church Street and back again by the Bourse. It always gives me a wonderful sensation to walk through the city at night. After the toil of the day most men are at rest, but others are hurrying to their night-work, and thus the little wheels of trade are constantly revolving. I took special pleasure in an old cheesemonger who, with her spectacles on her nose, was laying one piece after another on the scales, by the light of a candle end, and trimming off the edges until the purchaser got the quantity she wanted.

Fabricius.

Every one has his own powers of observation. I think that there are few people on the street who would have stopped to gaze at an old cheese-woman and her glasses.

William.

In every one’s business gain is precious, and a small retail trade seems to me respectable since I know how costly a dollar is when it has to be earned a penny at a time. (He stands a few moments lost in thought.) I have had quite a wonderful experience since I have been out. So many things have come into my mind all at once and all in confusion—and that which troubled my heart to its deepest foundations.

[He stops in a brown study.

Fabricius.

(Aside.) I act like a fool. Just as soon as he comes in, the courage leaks out of my fingers’ ends to confess that I love Marian. Yet I must tell him what has happened. (ToWilliam.) William, tell me, do you want to move from here? You have too little room and the rent is high. Do you know of any other rooms?

William.

(Absently.) No!

Fabricius.

I thought perhaps we might both help each other. I have my father’s house and occupy only the upper floors; you might take possession of the lower rooms. You are not likely to get married yet awhile. You can use the court and the warerooms for your business and give me a nominal rent, and so it would help both of us.

William.

You are very kind. Truly, I have often thought of this plan after I have been to visit you and seen so much waste room, when I have to put up with such narrow quarters. But there are reasons—we must let it go; it is impossible.

Fabricius.

Why so?

William.

Supposing I were to marry immediately.

Fabricius.

That could be managed. You have plenty of room with your sister, and if you had a wife there would be no trouble.

William.

(Smiling.) And my sister?

Fabricius.

I would take her home with me, in that case. (Williamis silent.) And even if you didn’t. Let me speak frankly—I love Marian; let her be my wife!

William.

What?

Fabricius.

Why not? Say yes. Listen to me, brother. I love Marian. I have thought it over this long time. She only, you only can make me as happy as I can possibly be in this world. Give her to me! Give her to me!

William.

(In confusion.) You do not know what you are asking.

Fabricius.

Ah! How could I know? Must I tell you all my wants and what I should have if she became my wife and you my brother-in-law?

William.

(Losing his self-possession.) Never! never!

Fabricius.

What is the reason? I am sorry.—Your aversion!—If you are ever going to have a brother-in-law, as must come sooner or later, why not me?—Me whom you know, whom you love? At least I thought—

artist: max volkhart.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

william and fabricius

William.

Leave me!—I cannot understand it.

Fabricius.

I must tell you all. On you alone depends my fate. Her heart is inclined towards me. You must have seen that. She loves you better than she loves me, but I am content. She will come to love her husband better than her brother; I shall then stand in your place, you in mine, and we shall all be satisfied. I never in my life knew of a union which seemed to promise a more beautiful human relationship. (Williamspeechless.) To seal the holy compact, best friend, give me thy consent, thy sanction. Tell her that it rejoices you, that it makes you happy. I have her promise.

William.

Her promise!

Fabricius.

She gave it in a parting glance which said more than if she had stayed to speak it. Her embarrassment and her love, her willingness and her hesitation,—it was lovely!

William.

No! no!

Fabricius.

I do not understand you. I am sure that you have no prejudice against me, and yet why are you so opposed to me? Do not be! Do not set yourself against her happiness, against mine.—And I keep thinking that you will be happy with us. Do not refuse thy acquiescence, thy friendly acquiescence in my wishes! (Williamstill speechless, with contending emotions.) I cannot comprehend you—

William.

Marian? you want to marry her?

Fabricius.

What do you mean?

William.

And she wants you?

Fabricius.

She answered as becomes a modest maiden.

William.

Go! go!—Marian!—I suspected it, I foresaw it!

Fabricius.

Only tell me—

William.

What shall I tell you? It was this that lay on my mind this evening, like a thunder-cloud. The lightning flashed, it struck!—Take her!—take her!—My only treasure—my all! (Fabriciuslooks at him with astonishment.) Take her! And that you may know what you have taken from me—(Pause. He collects himself.) I have told you of Charlotte, the angel, who was snatched from my arms and who left me her image, her daughter.—And this daughter—I have deceived you—she is not dead; this daughter is Marian!—Marian is not my sister!

Fabricius.

I was not prepared for this revelation.

William.

This blow I ought to have expected from you!—Why did I not follow the dictates of my heart and shut my house to you as to every one else, in the first days when I came here? To you alone I granted entrance into this sanctuary, and you succeeded in lulling my suspicions by your kindness, your friendliness, your encouragement, your apparent coldness towards women. Just as I was, according to all appearances, her brother, so I considered your feeling for her a genuine brotherly one. And even if sometimes a suspicion arose in my mind, I put it away as ignoble, ascribed her affection for you to her angelic heart, which looks upon all the world with friendly glances. And you!—And she!

Fabricius.

It is not right for me to listen longer and I have nothing to say. So goodby!

[Exit.

William.

Yes, go!—You take all my happiness away with you! So undermined, so hopelessly destroyed are all my prospects—my nearest hopes—suddenly! All precipitated into the abyss—and with them the magic golden bridge that was to bear me over to the bliss of paradise!—and through him, the traitor who has so abused my frankness, my confidence! O William, William! Hast thou gone so far as to be unjust to thy good friend? What sin has he committed? O Fate, thy retribution weighs heavy upon me, and thou art just.—Why am I standing here? Why? Just at this moment? Forgive me! Have I not been punished for it? Forgive me! It is long I have suffered infinitely. I seemed to love you; I believed that I loved you; with inconsiderate amiability, courtesies, I shut fast your heart and brought you pain. Forgive me and let me go! Must I be so punished?—Must I lose Marian? the last hope of my life, the epitome of my solicitude. It cannot be! it cannot be!

[He is silent.

Marian.

(Approaching with embarrassment.) Brother.

William.

Ah!

Marian.

Dear brother, you must forgive me, I bother you about everything. You are vexed; I might have known it. I have done a piece of stupidity.—It is a most extraordinary thing to me.

William.

(Collecting his thoughts.) What is the matter, my girl?

Marian.

I wish that I could tell it to you. Everything is whirling about so in my head. Fabricius wants to marry me and I—

William.

(Half bitterly.) Speak it out, you gave him your promise.

Marian.

No, not for the world! Never will I marry him; I cannot marry him.

William.

How strange that sounds!

Marian.

Strange enough. You are very unkind, my brother; I should be glad to go away and wait a good long hour did not my heart oblige me to say first and last: I cannot marry Fabricius.

William.

(Standing up and takingMarianby the hand.) How so, Marian?

Marian.

He was here and he brought up so many reasons that I imagined that it would be possible. He was so importunate that without due consideration I told him to speak with you. He took this for yes, and in that very instant I felt that it could never be.

William.

He has spoken to me.

Marian.

I beg of you, with all my heart and soul, by all the love which I have for you, by all the love which you feel for me, set it right again, tell him!

William.

(Aside.) Merciful heavens!

Marian.

Do not be angry! He will not be angry either. We will live just as we have always lived. For I could not live with any one besides you. It has always been deep in my soul, and this accident has brought it out, brought it out with emphasis that I love no one besides you!

William.

Marian!

Marian.

Kindest brother, I cannot tell you what has passed through my heart during these last moments. It seemed to me very much as it did lately, when there was a fire in the market, and first there was smoke and steam over everything, until all at once the fire caught the roof and then at last the whole house was one flame. Do not let me go! Do not force me away from thee, my brother!

William.

But it cannot always remain as it is!

Marian.

That is the very thing that troubles me so! I will gladly promise you not to get married; I will always take care of you, always and always. A little distance up the street just such a brother and sister live together; I have often thought of it in fun: “If I should get as old and wrinkled—provided only we still lived together.”

William.

(Mastering his heart, half aside.) If I can withstand this, I will never again get into such a tight place.

Marian.

I know that you do not like it; of course you will marry in time, and I should always be sorry if I could not love her as well as I love you.—No one loves you as well as I; no one could love you so. (Williamessays to speak.) You are always so reserved; I always have it on my tongue’s end to tell you just how I feel and I do not dare. Thank God, this accident has unlocked my lips!

William.

Marian, say no more!

Marian.

You must not forbid me! Let me tell you all! Then I will go back to the kitchen and sit for days at a time at my work, seeing you only once in a while, as if to say: “Thou knowest my secret.” (Williamis speechless in the excess of his joy.) You might have known it long ago, you know how long, ever since our mother’s death, as I grew up out of childhood and was always with you. See! I feel more contented to be near you than gratified by your more than fraternal watchfulness. And gradually you so completely occupied my whole heart, my whole intellect, that now anything else would find it hard to get a resting-place. I know well that you have often laughed at me when I was reading novels: it happened once that I was reading “Julia Mandeville” and I asked if Henry, or whatever his name was, did not look like you. You laughed and I didn’t like it. So the next time I kept quiet. But I was perfectly in earnest about it; for whoever seemed to be the dearest, best men, they all looked to me like you. I saw you walking in the great gardens, and riding and travelling and fighting duels.

[She laughs at the remembrance.

William.

What pleases you?

Marian.

Because I must also confess that if a lady were very beautiful and very good and very much loved—and very much in love—it always seemed to be myself, except at the end when the disentanglement came and they got married after all the hindrances; but I am certainly a very impulsive, fond, talkative creature!

William.

Go on! (Aside.) I must drink the cup of joy to the dregs! God in heaven, keep me in my senses!

Marian.

Least of all could I endure it when I read of a couple of people loving each other, and finally finding out that they were relations, or were brother and sister. That “Miss Fanny” I could have burned alive! I cried so over it! It is such a pathetic story.

[She turns away and weeps bitterly.

William.

(Taking her to his heart with a flood of tears.) Marian! my Marian!

Marian.

William! no! no! never will I let thee go from me! Thou art mine! I will hold thee fast! I will not let thee go!

EnterFabricius.

Marian.

Ah, Fabricius, you come at the right time! My heart is full and strong, so that I can tell you all. I did not give any promise. Be our friend; but I can never marry you!

Fabricius.

(Cold and bitter.) I foresaw it, William! If you put all your weight on the scale, of course I should be found too light. I come back to put out of my heart what has no right there. I renounce all claims and perceive that things have already accommodated themselves! At least I am glad that I am the innocent cause of it.

William.

Be not petulant at this moment, and still more do not lose a sensation for which you would vainly seek in a pilgrimage around the world! Look at this creature—she is entirely mine—and yet she has not the slightest idea—

Fabricius.

(Half scornfully.) She does not know—

Marian.

What don’t I know?

William.

Could one tell a falsehood thus, Fabricius?

Fabricius.

(Touched.) She does not know?

William.

I assure you.

Fabricius.

Live for each other then! You are worthy of each other!

Marian.

What does this mean?

William.

(Taking her in his arms.) Thou art mine, Marian!

Marian.

Heavens! What does this mean? Can I give thee back this kiss! What a kiss that was, my brother!

William.

Not the kiss of a reserved, apparently cold brother, but the kiss of an eternally happy lover! (Kneeling.) Marian, thou art not my sister. Charlotte was thy mother, not mine.

Marian.

Thou! thou!

William.

Thy lover!—From this moment forth, thy husband, unless thou scornest me.

Marian.

Tell me how it all came about!

Fabricius.

Enjoy what God himself can only give once in a lifetime. Accept it, Marian, and ask no questions!—You will find time enough to make all explanations.

Marian.

(Looking at him.) No, it is impossible!

William.

My sweetheart, my wife!

Marian.

(In his arms.) William! it is impossible!