Erato   
   
   
DOROTHEA


LIKE as the traveller, who, when the sun is approaching its setting,      
Fixes his eyes on it once again ere quickly it vanish,      
Then on the sides of the rocks, and on all the darkening bushes,      
Sees its hovering image; whatever direction he look in      
That hastes before, and flickers and gleams in radiant colors,—           5   
So before Hermann’s eyes moved the beautiful shape of the maiden      
Softly, and seeming to follow the path that led into the cornfield.      
But he aroused from his wildering dream and turned himself slowly      
Towards where the village lay and was wildered again; for again came      
Moving to meet him the lofty form of the glorious maiden.           10   
Fixedly gazed he upon her; herself it was and no phantom.      
Bearing in either hand a larger jar and a smaller,      
Each by the handle, with busy step she came on to the fountain.      
Joyfully then he hastened to meet her; the sight of her gave him      
Courage and strength; and thus the astonished girl he accosted:           15   
“Do I then find thee, brave-hearted maiden, so soon again busy,      
Rendering aid unto others, and happy in bringing them comfort?      
Say why thou comest alone to this well which lies at such a distance,      
When all the rest are content with the water they find in the village?      
This has peculiar virtues, ’tis true; and the taste is delicious.           20   
Thou to that mother wouldst bring it, I trow, whom thy faithfulness rescued.”      
   
  Straightway with cordial greeting the kindly maiden made answer:      
“Here has my walk to the spring already been amply rewarded,      
Since I have found the good friend who bestowed so abundantly on us;      
For a pleasure not less than the gifts is the sight of the giver.           25   
Come, I pray thee, and see for thyself who has tasted thy bounty;      
Come, and the quiet thanks receive of all it has solaced.      
But that thou straightway the reason mayst know for which I am hither      
Come to draw, where pure and unfailing the water is flowing,      
This I must tell thee,—that all the water we have in the village           30   
Has by improvident people been troubled with horses and oxen      
Wading direct through the source which brings the inhabitants water.      
And furthermore they have also made foul with their washings and rinsings      
All the troughs of the village, and all the fountains have sullied;      
For but one thought is in all, and that how to satisfy quickest           35   
Self and the need of the moment, regardless of what may come after.”      
   
  Thus she spoke, and the broad stone steps meanwhile had descended      
With her companion beside her, and on the low wall of the fountain      
Both sat them down. She bent herself over to draw, and he also      
Took in his hand the jar that remained, and bent himself over;           40   
And in the blue of the heavens, they, seeing their image reflected,      
Friendly greetings and nods exchanged in the quivering mirror.      
   
  “Give me to drink,” the youth thereupon in his gladness petitioned,      
And she handed the pitcher. Familiarly sat they and rested,      
Both leaning over their jars, till she presently asked her companion:           45   
“Tell me, why I find thee here, and without thy horses and wagon,      
Far from the place where I met thee at first? how camest thou hither?”      
   
  Thoughtful he bent his eyes on the ground, then quietly raised them      
Up to her face, and, meeting with frankness the gaze of the maiden,      
Felt himself solaced and stilled. But then impossible was it,           50   
That he of love should speak; her eye told not of affection,      
Only of clear understanding, requiring intelligent answer.      
And he composed himself quickly, and cordially said to the maiden:      
“Hearken to me, my child, and let me reply to thy question.      
’Twas for thy sake that hither I came; why seek to conceal it?           55   
Know I live happy at home with both my affectionate parents,      
Faithfully giving my aid their house and estates in directing,      
Being an only son, and because our affairs are extensive.      
Mine is the charge of the farm; my father bears rule in the household;      
While the presiding spirit of all is the diligent mother.           60   
But thine experience doubtless has taught thee how grievously servants,      
Now through deceit, and now through their carelessness, harass the mistress,      
Forcing her ever to change and replace one fault with another.      
Long for that reason my mother has wished for a maid in the household,      
Who not with hand alone, but with heart, too, will lend her assistance,           65   
Taking the daughter’s place, whom, alas! she was early deprived of.      
Now when to-day by the wagon I saw thee, so ready and cheerful,      
Witnessed the strength of thine arms, and thy limbs of such healthful proportion,      
When thy intelligent speech I heard, I was smitten with wonder.      
Hastening homeward, I there to my parents and neighbors the stranger           70   
Praised as she well deserved. But I now am come hither to tell thee      
What is their wish as mine.—Forgive me my stammering language.”      
   
  “Hesitate not,” she, answering, said, “to tell me what follows.      
Thou dost not give me offense; I have listened with gratitude to thee:      
Speak it out honestly therefore; the sound of it will not alarm me.           75   
Thou wouldst engage me as servant to wait on thy father and mother,      
And to look after the well-ordered house of which ye are the owners;      
And thou thinkest in me to find them a capable servant,      
One who is skilled in her work, and not of a rude disposition.      
Short thy proposal has been, and short shall be also my answer.           80   
Yes, I will go with thee home, and the call of fate I will follow.      
Here my duty is done: I have brought the newly made mother      
Back to her kindred again, who are all in her safety rejoicing.      
Most of our people already are gathered; the others will follow.      
All think a few days more will certainly see them returning           85   
Unto their homes; for such is the exile’s constant delusion.      
But by no easy hope do I suffer myself to be cheated      
During these sorrowful days which promise yet more days of sorrow.      
All the bands of the world have been loosed, and what shall unite them,      
Saving alone the need, the need supreme, that is on us?           90   
If in a good man’s house I can earn my living by service,      
Under the eye of an excellent mistress, I gladly will do it;      
Since of doubtful repute, must be always a wandering maiden.      
Yes, I will go with thee, soon as I first shall have carried the pitchers      
Back to my friends, and prayed the good people to give me their blessing.           95   
Come thou must see them thyself, and from their hands must receive me.”      
   
  Joyfully hearkened the youth to the willing maiden’s decision,      
Doubtful whether he ought not at once to make honest confession.      
Yet it appeared to him best to leave her awhile in her error,      
Nor for her love to sue, before leading her home to his dwelling.           100   
Ah! and the golden ring he perceived on the hand of the maiden,      
Wherefore he let her speak on, and gave diligent ear to her language.      
   
  “Come,” she presently said, “Let us back to the village; for maidens      
Always are sure to be blamed if they tarry too long at the fountain.      
Yet how delightful it is to chat by the murmuring water!”           105   
   
  Then from their seats they rose, and both of them turned to the fountain      
One more look behind, and a tender longing possessed them.      
Both of the water-jars then in silence she took by the handle,      
Carried them up the steps, while behind her followed her lover.      
One of the pitchers he begged her to give him to lighten the burden.           110   
“Nay, let it be!” she said: “I carry them better so balanced.      
Nor shall the master, who is to command, be doing me service.      
Look not so gravely upon me, as thinking my fortune a hard one.      
Early a woman should learn to serve, for that is her calling;      
Since through service alone she finally comes to the headship,           115   
Comes to the due command that is hers of right in the household.      
Early the sister must wait on her brother, and wait on her parents;      
Life must be always with her a perpetual coming and going,      
Or be a fetching and carrying, making and doing for others.      
Happy for her be she wonted to think no way is too grievous,           120   
And if the hours of the night be to her as the hours of the daytime;      
If she find never a needle too fine, nor a labor too trifling;      
Wholly forgetful of self, and caring to live but in others!      
For she will surely, as mother, have need of every virtue,      
When, in the time of her illness, the cries of her infant arouse her           125   
Calling for food from her weakness, and cares are to suffering added.      
Twenty men bound into one were not able to bear such a burden;      
Nor is it meant that they should, yet should they with gratitude view it.”      
   
  Thus she spoke, and was come, meanwhile, with her silent companion,      
Far as the floor of the barn, at the furthermost end of the garden,           130   
Where was the sick woman lying, whom, glad, she had left with her daughters,      
Those late rescued maidens: fair pictures of innocence were they.      
Both of them entered the barn; and, e’en as they did so, the justice,      
Leading a child in each hand, came in from the other direction.      
These had been lost, hitherto, from the sight of their sorrowing mother;           135   
But in the midst of the crowd the old man now had descried them.      
Joyfully sprang they forward to meet their dear mother’s embraces,      
And to salute with delight their brother, their unknown companion.      
Next upon Dorothea they sprang with affectionate greeting,      
Asking for bread and fruit, but more than all else for some water.           140   
So then she handed the water about; and not only the children      
Drank, but the sick woman too, and her daughters, and with them the justice.      
All were refreshed, and highly commended the glorious water;      
Acid it was to the taste, and reviving, and wholesome to drink of.      
   
  Then with a serious face the maiden replied to them, saying:           145   
“Friends, for the last time now to your mouth have I lifted my pitcher;      
And for the last time by me have your lips been moistened with water.      
But henceforth in the heat of the day when the draught shall refresh you,      
When it the shade ye enjoy your rest beside a clear fountain,      
Think of me then sometimes and of all my affectionate service,           150   
Prompted more by my love than the duty I owed you as kindred.      
I shall acknowledge as long as I live the kindness ye’ve shown me.      
’Tis with regret that I leave you; but every one now is a burden,      
More than a help to his neighbor, and all must be finally scattered      
Far through a foreign land, if return to our homes be denied us.           155   
See, here stands the youth to whom we owe thanks for the presents.      
He gave the cloak for the baby, and all these welcome provisions.      
Now he is come, and has asked me if I will make one in his dwelling,      
That I may serve therein his wealthy and excellent parents.      
And I refuse not the offer; for maidens must always be serving;           160   
Burdensome were it for them to rest and be served in the household.      
Therefore I follow him gladly. A youth of intelligence seems he,      
And so will also the parents be, as becometh the wealthy.      
So then farewell, dear friend; and mayst thou rejoice in thy nursling,      
Living, and into thy face already so healthfully looking!           165   
When thou shalt press him against thy breast in these gay-colored wrappings,      
Oh, then remember the kindly youth who bestowed them upon us,      
And who me also henceforth, thy sister, will shelter and nourish.      
Thou, too, excellent man!” she said as she turned to the justice;      
“Take my thanks that in many a need I have found thee a father.”           170   
   
  Then she knelt down on the floor by the side of the newly made mother,      
Kissing the weeping woman, and taking her low-whispered blessing.      
   
  Thou, meanwhile, worshipful justice, wast speaking to Hermann and saying:      
“Justly mayst thou, my friend, be counted among the good masters,      
Careful to manage their household affairs with capable servants.           175   
For I have often observed how in sheep, as in horses and oxen,      
Men conclude never a bargain without making closest inspection,      
While with a servant who all things preserves, if honest and able,      
And who will every thing lose and destroy, if he set to work falsely,      
Him will a chance or an accident make us admit to our dwelling,           180   
And we are left, when too late, to repent an o’er hasty decision.      
Thou understandest the matter it seems; because thou hast chosen,      
Thee and thy parents to serve in the house, a maid who is honest.      
Hold her with care; for as long as thy household is under her keeping,      
Thou shalt not want for a sister, nor yet for a daughter thy parents.”           185   
   
  Many were come, meanwhile, near relatives all of the mother,      
Bringing her various gifts, and more suitable quarters announcing.      
All of them, hearing the maiden’s decision, gave Hermann their blessing,      
Coupled with glances of meaning, while each made his special reflections.      
Hastily one and another would say in the ear of his neighbor:           190   
“If in the master a lover she find, right well were she cared for.”      
Hermann took her at last by the hand, and said as he did so:      
“Let us be going; the day is declining, and distant the city.”      
Eager and voluble then the women embraced Dorothea.      
Hermann drew her away; but other adieus must be spoken:           195   
Lastly the children with cries fell upon her and terrible weeping,      
Clung to her garments, and would not their dear second mother should leave them.      
But in a tone of command the women said, one and another:      
“Hush now, children, she’s going to the town, and will presently bring you      
Plenty of nice sweet cake that was by your brother bespoken           200   
When by the stork just now he was brought past the shop of the baker.      
Soon you will see her come back with sugar-plums splendidly gilded.”      
Then did the little ones loose their hold, and Hermann, though hardly,      
Tore her from further embraces away, and far-waving kerchiefs.

Melpomene   
   
   
HERMANN AND DOROTHEA


TOWARDS the setting sun the two thus went on their journey:      
Close he had wrapped himself round with clouds portending a tempest.      
Out from the veil, now here and now there, with fiery flashes,      
Gleaming over the field shot forth the ominous lightning.      
“May not these threatening heavens,” said Hermann, “be presently sending           5   
Hailstones upon us and violent rains; for fair is the harvest.”      
And in the waving luxuriant grain they delighted together:      
Almost as high it reached as the lofty shapes that moved through it.      
   
  Thereupon spoke the maiden, and said to her guide and companion:      
“Friend, unto whom I soon am to owe so kindly a fortune,           10   
Shelter and home, while many an exile’s exposed to the tempest,      
Tell me concerning thy parents, I pray thee, and teach me to know them,      
Them whom with all my heart I desire to serve in the future.      
Who understands his master, more easily gives satisfaction,      
Having regard to the things which to him seem chief in importance,           15   
And on the doing of which his firm-set mind is determined.      
Tell me therefore, I pray, how to win thy father and mother.”      
   
  And to her question made answer the good and intelligent Hermann:      
“Ah, what wisdom thou showest, thou good, thou excellent maiden,      
Asking thus first of all concerning the tastes of my parents!           20   
Know that in vain hitherto I have labored in serving my father,      
Taking upon me as were it my own, the charge of the household;      
Early and late at work in the fields, and o’er seeing the vineyard.      
But my mother I fully content, who can value my service;      
And thou wilt also appear in her eyes the worthiest of maidens,           25   
If for the house thou carest, as were it thine own thou wast keeping.      
Otherwise is it with father, who cares for the outward appearance.      
Do not regard me, good maiden, as one who is cold and unfeeling,      
That unto thee a stranger I straightway discover my father.      
Nay, I assure thee that never before have words such as these are           30   
Freely dropped from my tongue, which is not accustomed to prattle;      
But from out of my bosom thou lurest its every secret.      
Some of the graces of life my good father covets about him,      
Outward signs of affection he wishes, as well as of honor;      
And an inferior servant might possibly give satisfaction,           35   
Who could turn these to account, while he might be displeased with a better.”      
   
  Thereupon said she with joy, the while her hastening footsteps      
Over the darkening pathway with easy motion she quickened:      
“Truly I hope to them both I shall equally give satisfaction:      
For in thy mother’s nature I find such an one as mine own is,           40   
And to the outward graces I’ve been from my childhood accustomed.      
Greatly was courtesy valued among our neighbors the Frenchmen,      
During their earlier days; it was common to noble and burgher,      
As to the peasant, and every one made it the rule of his household.      
So, on the side of us Germans, the children were likewise accustomed           45   
Daily to bring to their parents, with kissing of hands and with curtseys,      
Morning good-wishes, and all through the day to be prettily mannered.      
Every thing thus that I learned, and to which I’ve been used from my childhood,      
All that my heart shall suggest, shall be brought into play for thy father.      
But who shall tell me of thee, and how thyself shouldst be treated,           50   
Thou the only son of the house, and henceforth my master?”      
   
  Thus she said, and e’en as she spoke they stood under the pear-tree.      
Down from the heavens the moon at her full was shedding her splendor.      
Night had come on, and wholly obscured was the last gleam of sunlight,      
So that contrasting masses lay side by side with each other,           55   
Clear and bright as the day, and black with the shadows of midnight;      
Gratefully fell upon Hermann’s ear the kindly asked question      
Under the shade of the glorious tree, the spot he so treasured,      
Which but this morning had witnessed the tears he had shed for the exile.      
And while they sat themselves down to rest them here for a little,           60   
Thus spoke the amorous youth, as he grasped the hand of the maiden:      
“Suffer thy heart to make answer, and follow it freely in all things.”      
Yet naught further he ventured to say although so propitious      
Seemed the hour: he feared he should only haste on a refusal.      
Ah, and he felt besides the ring on her finger, sad token!           65   
Therefore they sat there, silent and still, beside one another.      
   
  First was the maiden to speak: “How sweet is this glorious moonlight!”      
Said she at length: “It is as the light of the day in its brightness.      
There in the city I plainly can see the houses and courtyards,      
And in the gable—methinks I can number its panes—is a window.”           70   
   
  “What thou seest,” the modest youth thereupon made her answer,—      
“What thou seest is our dwelling, to which I am leading thee downward,      
And that window yonder belongs to my room in the attic,      
Which will be thine perhaps, for various changes are making.      
All these fields, too, are ours; they are ripe for the harvest to-morrow.           75   
Here in the shade we will rest, and partake of our noontide refreshment.      
But it is time we began our descent through the vineyard and garden;      
For dost thou mark how yon threatening storm-cloud comes nearer and nearer,      
Charged with lightning, and ready our fair full moon to extinguish?”      
   
  So they arose from their seats, and over the cornfields descended,           80   
Through the luxuriant grain, enjoying the brightness of evening,      
Until they came to the vineyard, and so entered into its shadow.      
   
  Then he guided her down o’er the numerous blocks that were lying,      
Rough and unhewn on the pathway, and served as the steps of the alley.      
Slowly the maiden descended, and leaning her hands on his shoulder,           85   
While with uncertain beams, the moon through the leaves overlooked them,      
Ere she was veiled by the cloud, and so left the couple in darkness.      
Carefully Hermann’s strength supported the maid that hung o’er him;      
But not knowing the path and the rough-hewn steps that led down it,      
Missed she her footing, her ankle turned, and she surely had fallen,           90   
Had not the dexterous youth his arm outstretched in an instant,      
And his beloved upheld. She gently sank on his shoulder;      
Breast was pressed against breast, and cheek against cheek. Thus he stood there      
Fixed as a marble statue, the force of will keeping him steadfast,      
Drew her not to him more closely, but braced himself under her pressure.           95   
Thus he the glorious burden felt, the warmth of her bosom,      
And the perfume of her breath, that over his lips was exhaling;      
Bore with the heart of a man the majestic form of the woman.      
   
  But she with playfulness said, concealing the pain that she suffered:      
“That is a sign of misfortune, so timorous person would tell us,           100   
When on approaching a house we stumble not far from the threshold;      
And for myself, I confess, I could wish for a happier omen.      
Let us here linger awhile that thy parents may not have to blame thee,      
Seeing a limping maid, and thou seem an incompetent landlord.”

Urania   
   
   
PROSPECT


MUSES, O ye who the course of true love so willingly favor,      
Ye who thus far on his way the excellent youth have conducted,      
Even before the betrothal have pressed to his bosom the maiden;      
Further your aid vouchsafe this charming pair in uniting,      
Straightway dispersing the clouds which over their happiness lower!           5   
Yet first of all declare what is passing meanwhile at the Lion.      
   
  Now for the third time again the mother impatient had entered      
Where were assembled the men, whom anxious but now she had quitted;      
Spoke of the gathering storm, and the moonlight’s rapid obscuring;      
Then of her son’s late tarrying abroad and the dangers of nightfall;           10   
Sharply upbraided her friends that without having speech of the maiden,      
And without urging his suit, they had parted from Hermann so early.      
   
  “Make it not worse that it is,” the father replied with displeasure.      
“For, as thou seest, we tarry ourselves and are waiting the issue.”      
   
  Calmly, however, from where he was sitting the neighbor made answer:           15   
“Never in hours of disquiet like this do I fail to be grateful      
Unto my late, blessed father, who every root of impatience      
Tore from my heart when a child, and left no fibre remaining;      
So that I learned on the instant to wait as do none of your sages.”      
   
  “Tell us,” the pastor returned, “what legerdemain he made use of.”           20   
“That will I gladly relate, for all may draw from it a lesson;”      
So made the neighbor reply. “When a boy I once stood of a Sunday      
Full of impatience, and looking with eagerness out for the carriage      
Which was to carry us forth to the spring that lies under the lindens.      
Still the coach came not. I ran, like a weasel, now hither, now thither,           25   
Up stairs and down, and forward and back, ’twixt the door and the window;      
Even my fingers itched to be moving; I scratched on the tables,      
Went about pounding and stamping, and hardly could keep me from weeping.      
All was observed by the calm-tempered man; but at last when my folly      
Came to be carried too far, by the arm he quietly took me,           30   
Led me away to the window, and spoke in this serious language:      
‘Seest thou yonder the carpenter’s shop that is closed for the Sunday?      
He will re-open to-morrow, when plane and saw will be started,      
And will keep on through the hours of labor from morning till evening.      
But consider you this,—a day will be presently coming           35   
When that man shall himself be astir and all of his workmen,      
Making a coffin for thee to be quickly and skilfully finished.      
Then that house of boards they will busily bring over hither,      
Which must at last receive alike the impatient and patient,      
And which is destined soon with close-pressing roof to be covered.’           40   
Straightway I saw the whole thing in my mind as if it were doing;      
Saw the boards fitting together, and saw the black color preparing,      
Sat me down patiently then, and in quiet awaited the carriage.      
Now when others I see, in seasons of anxious expectance,      
Running distracted about, I cannot but think of the coffin.”           45   
   
  Smiling, the pastor replied: “The affecting picture of death stands      
Not as a dread to the wise, and not as an end to the pious.      
Those it presses again into life, and teaches to use it;      
These by affliction it strengthens in hope to future salvation.      
Death becomes life unto both. Thy father was greatly mistaken           50   
When to a sensitive boy he death in death thus depicted.      
Let us the value of nobly ripe age, point out to the young man,      
And to the aged the youth, that in the eternal progression      
Both may rejoice, and life may in life thus find its completion.”      
   
  But the door was now opened, and showed the majestical couple.           55   
Filled with amaze were the friends, and amazed the affectionate parents,      
Seeing the form of the maid so well matched with that of her lover.      
Yea, the door seemed too low to allow the tall figures to enter,      
As they together now appeared coming over the threshold.      
   
  Hermann, with hurried words, presented her thus to his parents:           60   
“Here is a maiden,” he said; “such a one as ye wish in the household.      
Kindly receive her, dear father: she merits it well; and thou, mother,      
Question her straightway on all that belongs to a housekeeper’s duty,      
That ye may see how well she deserves to ye both to be nearer.”      
   
  Quickly he then drew aside the excellent clergyman, saying:           65   
“Help me, O worthy sir, and speedily out of this trouble;      
Loosen, I pray thee, this knot, at whose untying I tremble.      
Know that ’tis not as a lover that I have brought hither the maiden;      
But she believes that as servant she comes to the house, and I tremble      
Lest in displeasure she fly as soon as there’s mention of marriage.           70   
But be it straightway decided; for she no longer in error      
Thus shall be left, and I this suspense no longer can suffer.      
Hasten and show us in this a proof of the wisdom we honor.”      
   
  Towards the company then the clergyman instantly turned him;      
But already, alas! had the soul of the maiden been troubled,           75   
Hearing the father’s speech; for he, in his sociable fashion,      
Had in these playful words, with the kindest intention addressed her:      
“Ay, this is well, my child! with delight I perceive that my Hermann      
Has the good taste of his father, who often showed his in his young days,      
Leading out always the fairest to dance, and bringing the fairest           80   
Finally home as his wife; our dear little mother here that was.      
For by the bride that a man shall elect we can judge what himself is,      
Tell what the spirit is in him, and whether he feel his own value.      
Nor didst thou need for thyself, I’ll engage, much time for decision;      
For, in good sooth, methinks, he’s no difficult person to follow.”           85   
   
  Hermann had heard but in part; his limbs were inwardly trembling,      
And of a sudden a stillness had fallen on all of the circle.      
   
  But by these words of derision, for such she could not but deem them,      
Wounded, and stung to the depths of her soul, the excellent maiden,      
Stood, while the fugitive blood o’er her cheeks and e’en to her bosom           90   
Poured its flush. But she governed herself, and her courage collecting,      
Answered the old man thus, her pain not wholly concealing:      
“Truly for such a reception thy son had in no wise prepared me,      
When he the ways of his father described, the excellent burgher.      
Thou art a man of culture, I know, before whom I am standing;           95   
Dealest with every one wisely, according as suits his position;      
But thou hast scanty compassion, it seems, on one such as I am,      
Who, a poor girl, am now crossing thy threshold with purpose to serve thee;      
Else, with such bitter derision, thou wouldst not have made me remember      
How far removed my fortune from that of thyself and thy son is.           100   
True, I come poor to thy house, and bring with me naught but my bundle      
Here where is every abundance to gladden the prosperous inmates.      
Yet I know well myself; I feel the relations between us.      
Say, is it noble, with so much of mockery straightway to greet me,      
That I am sent from the house while my foot is scarce yet on the threshold?”           105   
   
  Anxiously Hermann turned and signed to his ally the pastor      
That he should rush to the rescue and straightway dispel the delusion.      
Then stepped the wise man hastily forward and looked on the maiden’s      
Tearful eyes, her silent pain and repressed indignation,      
And in his heart was impelled not at once to clear up the confusion,           110   
Rather to put to the test the girl’s disquieted spirit.      
Therefore he unto her said in language intended to try her:      
“Surely, thou foreign-born maiden, thou didst not maturely consider,      
When thou too rashly decidedst to enter the service of strangers,      
All that is meant by the placing thyself ’neath the rule of a master;           115   
For by our hand to a bargain the fate of the year is determined,      
And but a single ‘yea’ compels to much patient endurance.      
Not the worst part of the service the wearisome steps to be taken,      
Neither the bitter sweat of a labor that presses unceasing;      
Since the industrious freeman must toil as well as the servant.           120   
But ’tis to bear with the master’s caprice when he censures unjustly,      
Or when, at variance with self, he orders now this, now the other;      
Bear with the petulance, too, of the mistress, easily angered,      
And with the rude, overbearing ways of unmannerly children.      
All this is hard to endure, and yet to go on with thy duties           125   
Quickly, without delay, nor thyself grow sullen and stubborn.      
Yet thou appearest ill-fitted for this, since already so deeply      
Stung by the father’s jests: whereas there is nothing more common      
Than for a girl to be teased on account of a youth she may fancy.”      
   
  Thus he spoke. The maiden had felt the full force of his language,           130   
And she restrained her no more; but with passionate outburst her feelings      
Made themselves way; a sob broke forth from her now heaving bosom,      
And, while the scalding tears poured down, the straightway made answer:      
“Ah, that rational man who thinks to advise us in sorrow,      
Knows not how little of power his cold words have in relieving           135   
Ever a heart from that woe which a sovereign fate has inflicted.      
Ye are prosperous and glad; how then should a pleasantry wound you?      
Yet but the lightest touch is a source of pain to the sick man.      
Nay, concealment itself, if successful, had profited nothing.      
Better show now what had later increased to a bitterer anguish,           140   
And to an inward consuming despair might perhaps have reduced me.      
Let me go back! for here in this house I can tarry no longer.      
I will away, and wander in search of my hapless companions,      
Whom I forsook in their need; for myself alone choosing the better.      
This is my firm resolve, and I therefore may make a confession           145   
Which might for years perhaps have else lain hid in my bosom.      
Deeply indeed was I hurt by the father’s words of derision;      
Not that I’m sensitive, proud beyond what is fitting a servant;      
But that my heart in truth had felt itself stirred with affection      
Towards the youth who to-day had appeared to my eyes as a savior.           150   
When he first left me there on the road, he still remained present,      
Haunting my every thought; I fancied the fortunate maiden      
Whom as a bride, perhaps, his heart had already elected.      
When at the fountain I met him again, the sight of him wakened      
Pleasure as great as if there had met me an angel from heaven;           155   
And with what gladness I followed, when asked to come as his servant.      
True, that I flattered myself in my heart,—I will not deny it,—      
While we were hitherward coming, I might peradventure deserve him,      
Should I become at last the important stay of the household.      
Now I, alas! for the first time see what risk I was running,           160   
When I would make my home so near to the secretly loved one;      
Now for the first time feel how far removed a poor maiden      
Is from an opulent youth, no matter how great her deserving.      
All this I now confess, that my heart ye may not misinterpret,      
In that ’twas hurt by a chance to which I owe my awaking.           165   
Hiding my secret desires, this dread had been ever before me,      
That at some early day he would bring him a bride to his dwelling;      
And ah, how could I then my inward anguish have suffered!      
Happily I have been warned, and happily now has my bosom      
Been of its secret relieved, while yet there is cure for the evil.           170   
But no more; I have spoken; and now shall nothing detain me      
Longer here in a house where I stay but in shame and confusion,      
Freely confessing my love and that foolish hope that I cherished.      
Not the night which abroad is covered with lowering storm clouds;      
Not the roll of the thunder—I hear its peal—shall deter me;           175   
Not the pelt of the rain which without is beating in fury;      
Neither the blustering tempest; for all these things have I suffered      
During our sorrowful flight, and while the near foe was pursuing.      
Now I again go forth, as I have so long been accustomed,      
Carried away by the whirl of the times, and from every thing parted.           180   
Fare ye well! I tarry no longer; all now is over.”      
   
  Thus she spoke and back to the door she hastily turned her,      
Still bearing under her arm, as she with her had brought it, her bundle.      
But with both of her arms the mother seized hold of the maiden,      
Clasping her round the waist, and exclaiming, amazed and bewildered:           185   
“Tell me, what means all this? and these idle tears, say, what mean they?      
I will not let thee depart: thou art the betrothed of my Hermann.”      
   
  But still the father stood, observing the scene with displeasure,      
Looked on the weeping girl, and said in a tone of vexation:      
“This then must be the return that I get for all my indulgence,           190   
That at the close of the day this most irksome of all things should happen!      
For there is naught I can tolerate less than womanish weeping,      
Violent outcries, which only involve in disorder and passion,      
What with a little of sense had been more smoothly adjusted.      
Settle the thing for yourselves: I’m going to bed; I’ve no patience           195   
Longer to be a spectator of these your marvellous doings.”      
Quickly he turned as he spoke, and hastened to go to the chamber      
Where he was wonted to rest, and his marriage bed was kept standing,      
But he was held by his son, who said in a tone of entreaty:      
“Father, hasten not from us, and be thou not wroth with the maiden.           200   
I, only I, am to blame as the cause of all this confusion,      
Which by his dissimulation our friend unexpectedly heightened.      
Speak, O worthy sir; for to thee my cause I intrusted.      
Heap not up sorrow and anger, but rather let all this be ended;      
For I could hold thee never again in such high estimation,           205   
If thou shouldst show but delight in pain, not superior wisdom.”      
   
  Thereupon answered and said the excellent clergyman, smiling:      
“Tell me, what other device could have drawn this charming confession      
Out of the good maiden’s lips, and thus have revealed her affection?      
Has not the trouble been straightway transformed into gladness and rapture?           210   
Therefore speak up for thyself; what need of the tongue of another?”      
   
  Thereupon Hermann came forward, and spoke in these words of affection:      
“Do not repent of thy tears, nor repent of these passing distresses;      
For they complete my joy, and—may I not hope it—thine also?      
Not to engage the stranger, the excellent maid, as a servant,           215   
Unto the fountain I came; but to sue for thy love I came thither.      
Only, alas! my timorous look could thy heart’s inclination      
Nowise perceive; I read in thine eyes of nothing but kindness,      
As from the fountain’s tranquil mirror thou gavest me greeting.      
Might I but bring thee home, the half of my joy was accomplished.           220   
But thou completest it unto me now; oh, blest be thou for it!”      
Then with a deep emotion the maiden gazed on the stripling;      
Neither forbade she embrace and kiss, the summit of rapture,      
When to a loving pair they come as the longed-for assurance,      
Pledge of a lifetime of bliss, that appears to them now never-ending.           225   
   
  Unto the others, meanwhile, the pastor had made explanation.      
But with feeling and grace the maid now advanced to the father,      
Bent her before him, and kissing the hand he would fain have withholden,      
Said: “Thou wilt surely be just and forgive one so startled as I was,      
First for my tears of distress, and now for the tears of my gladness.           230   
That emotion forgive me, and oh! forgive me this also.      
For I can scarce comprehend the happiness newly vouchsafed me.      
Yes, let that first vexation of which I, bewildered, was guilty      
Be too the last. Whatever the maid of affectionate service      
Faithfully promised, shall be to thee now performed by the daughter.”           235   
   
  Straightway then, concealing his tears, the father embraced her,      
Cordially, too, the mother came forward and kissed her with fervor,      
Pressing her hands in her own: the weeping women were silent.      
   
  Thereupon quickly he seized, the good and intelligent pastor,      
First the father’s hand, and the wedding-ring drew from his finger,—           240   
Not so easily either: the finger was plump and detained it,—      
Next took the mother’s ring also, and with them betrothed he the children,      
Saying: “These golden circlets once more their office performing      
Firmly a tie shall unite, which in all things shall equal the old one,      
Deeply is this young man imbued with love of the maiden,           245   
And, as the maiden confesses, her heart is gone out to him also.      
Here do I therefore betroth you and bless for the years that are coming,      
With the consent of the parents, and having this friend as a witness.”      
   
  Then the neighbor saluted at once, and expressed his good wishes;      
But when the clergyman now the golden circlet was drawing           250   
Over the maiden’s hand, he observed with amazement the other,      
Which had already by Hermann been anxiously marked at the fountain.      
And with a kindly raillery thus thereupon he addressed her:      
“So, then thy second betrothal is this? let us hope the first bridegroom      
May not appear at the altar, and so prohibit the marriage.”           255   
   
  But she, answering, said: “Oh, let me to this recollection      
Yet one moment devote; for so much is due the good giver,      
Him who bestowed it at parting, and never came back to his kindred.      
All that should come he foresaw, when in haste the passion for freedom,      
When a desire in the newly changed order of things to be working,           260   
Urged him onward to Paris, where chains and death he encountered.      
‘Fare thee well,’ were his words; ‘I go, for all is in motion      
Now for a time on the earth, and every thing seems to be parting.      
E’en in the firmest states fundamental laws are dissolving;      
Property falls away from the hand of the ancient possessor;           265   
Friend is parted from friend; and so parts lover from lover.      
Here I leave thee, and where I shall find thee again, or if ever,      
Who can tell? Perhaps these words are our last ones together.      
Man’s but a stranger here on the earth, we are told and with reason;      
And we are each of us now become more of strangers than ever.           270   
Ours no more is the soil, and our treasures are all of them changing:      
Silver and gold are melting away from their time-honored patterns.      
All is in motion as though the already-shaped world into chaos      
Meant to resolve itself backward into night, and to shape itself over.      
Mine thou wilt keep thine heart, and should we be ever united           275   
Over the ruins of earth, it will be as newly made creatures,      
Beings transformed and free, no longer dependent on fortune;      
For can aught fetter the man who has lived through days such as these are!      
But if it is not to be, that, these dangers happily over,      
Ever again we be granted the bliss of mutual embraces,           280   
Oh, then before thy thoughts so keep my hovering image      
That with unshaken mind thou be ready for good or for evil!      
Should new ties allure thee again, and a new habitation,      
Enter with gratitude into the joys that fate shall prepare thee;      
Love those purely who love thee; be grateful to them who show kindness.           285   
But thine uncertain foot should yet be planted but lightly,      
For there is lurking the twofold pain of a new separation.      
Blessings attend thy life; but value existence no higher      
Than thine other possessions, and all possessions are cheating!’      
Thus spoke the noble youth, and never again I beheld him.           290   
Meanwhile I lost my all, and a thousand times thought of his warning.      
Here, too, I think of his words, when love is sweetly preparing      
Happiness for me anew, and glorious hopes are reviving.      
Oh forgive me, excellent friend, that e’en while I hold thee      
Close to my side I tremble! So unto the late-landed sailor           295   
Seem the most solid foundations of firmest earth to be rocking.”      
   
  Thus she spoke, and placed the two rings on her finger together.      
But her lover replied with a noble and manly emotion:      
“So much the firmer then, amid these universal convulsions,      
Be, Dorothea, our union! We two will hold fast and continue,           300   
Firmly maintaining ourselves, and the right to our ample possessions.      
For that man, who, when times are uncertain, is faltering in spirit,      
Only increases the evil, and further and further transmits it;      
While he refashions the world, who keeps himself steadfastly minded.      
Poorly becomes it the German to give to these fearful excitements           305   
Aught of continuance, or to be this way and that way inclining.      
This is our own! let that be our word, and let us maintain it!      
For to those resolute peoples respect will be ever accorded,      
Who for God and the laws, for parents, women and children,      
Fought and died, as together they stood with their front to the foeman.           310   
Thou art mine own; and now what is mine, is mine more than ever.      
Not with anxiety will I preserve it, and trembling enjoyment;      
Rather with courage and strength. To-day should the enemy threaten,      
Or in the future, equip me thyself and hand me my weapons.      
Let me but know that under thy care are my house and dear parents,           315   
Oh! I can then with assurance expose my breast to the foreman.      
And were but every man minded like me, there would be an upspring      
Might against might, and peace should revisit us all with its gladness.”      

Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship   
Volume XIV   
   
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe   

Translator’s Preface
List of Characters

Book I.
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII

Book II.
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV

Book III.
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII

Book IV.
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX

Book V.
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI

Book VI.
Confessions of a Fair Saint

Book VII.
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX

Book VIII.
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X

   
Translator’s Preface   
     
           
TO THE FIRST EDITION OF MEISTER’S APPRENTICESHIP [Edinburgh, 1824]
WHETHER 1 it be that the quantity of genius among ourselves and the French, and the number of works more lasting than brass produced by it, have of late been so considerable as to make us independent of additional supplies; or that, in our ancient aristocracy of intellect, we disdain to be assisted by the Germans, whom, by a species of second-sight, we have discovered, before knowing any thing about them, to be a tumid, dreaming, extravagant, insane race of mortals; certain it is, that hitherto our literary intercourse with that nation has been very slight and precarious. After a brief period of not too judicious cordiality, the acquaintance on our part was altogether dropped: nor, in the few years since we partially resumed it, have our feelings of affection or esteem been materially increased. Our translators are unfortunate in their selection or execution, or the public is tasteless and absurd in its demands; for, with scarcely more than one or two exceptions, the best works of Germany have lain neglected, or worse than neglected, and the Germans are yet utterly unknown to us. Kotzebue still lives in our minds as the representative of a nation that despises him; Schiller is chiefly known to us by the monstrous production of his boyhood; and Klopstock by a hacked and mangled image of his “Messias,” in which a beautiful poem is distorted into a theosophic rhapsody, and the brother of Virgil and Racine ranks little higher than the author of Meditations among the Tombs.      1   
  But of all these people there is none that has been more unjustly dealt with than Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. For half a century the admiration, we might almost say the idol of his countrymen, to us he is still a stranger. His name, long echoed and reëchoed through reviews and magazines, has become familiar to our ears: but it is a sound and nothing more; it excites no definite idea in almost any mind. To such as know him by the faint and garbled version of his “Werther,” Goethe figures as a sort of poetic Heraclitus; some woe-begone hypochondriac, whose eyes are overflowing with perpetual tears, whose long life has been spent in melting into ecstasy at the sight of waterfalls, and clouds, and the moral sublime, or dissolving into hysterical wailings over hapless love-stories and the miseries of human life. They are not aware that Goethe smiles at this performance of his youth; or that the German Werther, with all his faults, is a very different person from his English namesake; that his Sorrows are in the original recorded in a tone of strength and sarcastic emphasis, of which the other offers no vestige, and intermingled with touches of powerful thought, glimpses of a philosophy deep as it is bitter, which our sagacious translator has seen proper wholly to omit. Others again, who have fallen in with Retzsch’s “Outlines” and the extracts from “Faust,” consider Goethe as a wild mystic, a dealer in demonology and osteology, who draws attention by the aid of skeletons and evil spirits, whose excellence it is to be extravagant, whose chief aim it is to do what no one but himself has tried. The tyro in German may tell us that the charm of “Faust” is altogether unconnected with its preternatural import; that the work delineates the fate of human enthusiasm struggling against doubts and errors from within, against scepticism, contempt and selfishness from without; and that the witchcraft and magic, intended merely as a shadowy frame for so complex and mysterious a picture of the moral world and the human soul, are introduced for the purpose not so much of being trembled at as laughed at. The voice of the tyro is not listened to; our indolence takes part with our ignorance; “Faust” continues to be called a monster; and Goethe is regarded as a man of “some genius,” which he has perverted to produce all manner of misfashioned prodigies; things false, abortive, formless, Gorgons and Hydras and Chimæras dire.      2   
  Now, it must no doubt be granted, that so long as our invaluable constitution is preserved in its pristine purity, the British nation may exist in a state of comparative prosperity with very inadequate ideas of Goethe: but, at the same time, the present arrangement is an evil in its kind; slight, it is true, and easy to be borne, yet still more easy to be remedied, and which therefore ought to have been remedied ere now. Minds like Goethe’s are the common property of all nations; and, for many reasons, all should have correct impressions of them.      3   
  It is partly with the view of doing something to supply this want, that “Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre” is now presented to the English public. Written in its Author’s forty-fifth year, embracing hints or disquisitions on almost every leading point in life and literature, it affords us a more distinct view of his matured genius, his manner of thought and favourite subjects, than any of his other works. Nor is it Goethe alone whom it portrays; the prevailing taste of Germany is likewise indicated by it. Since the year 1795, when it first appeared at Berlin, numerous editions of “Meister” have been printed: critics of all ranks, and some of them dissenting widely from its doctrines, have loaded it with encomiums; its songs and poems are familiar to every German ear; the people read it, and speak of it, with an admiration approaching in many cases to enthusiasm.      4   
  That it will be equally successful in England, I am far indeed from anticipating. Apart from the above considerations, from the curiosity, intelligent or idle, which it may awaken, the number of admiring, or even approving judges it will find can scarcely fail of being very limited. To the great mass of readers, who read to drive away the tedium of mental vacancy, employing the crude phantasmagoria of a modern novel, as their grandfathers employed tobacco and diluted brandy, “Wilhelm Meister” will appear beyond endurance weary, flat, stale and unprofitable. Those, in particular, who take delight in “King Cambyses’ vein.” and open “Meister” with the thought of “Werther” in their minds, will soon pause in utter dismay, and their paroxysm of dismay will pass by degrees into unspeakable contempt. Of romance interest there is next to none in “Meister”; the characters are samples to judge of, rather than persons to love or hate; the incidents are contrived for other objects than moving or affrighting us; the hero is a milksop, whom, with all his gifts, it takes an effort to avoid despising. The author himself, far from “doing it in a passion,” wears a face of the most still indifference throughout the whole affair; often it is even wrinkled by a slight sardonic grin. For the friends of the sublime, then, for those who cannot do without heroical sentiments and “moving accidents by flood and field,” there is nothing here that can be of any service.      5   
  Nor among readers of a far higher character can it be expected that many will take the praiseworthy pains of Germans, reverential of their favourite author, and anxious to hunt out his most elusive charms. Few among us will disturb themselves about the allegories and typical allusions of the work; will stop to inquire whether it includes a remote emblem of human culture, or includes no such matter; whether this is a light airy sketch of the development of man in all his endowments and faculties, gradually proceeding from the first rude exhibitions of puppets and mountebanks, through the perfection of poetic and dramatic art, up to the unfolding of the principle of religion, and the greatest of all arts, the art of life,—or is nothing more than a bungled piece of patch-work, presenting in the shape of a novel much that should have been suppressed entirely, or at least given out by way of lecture. Whether the characters do or do not represent distinct classes of men, including various stages of human nature, from the gay material vivacity of Philina to the severe moral grandeur of the Uncle and the splendid accomplishment of Lothario, will to most of us be of small importance: and the everlasting disquisitions about plays and players, and politeness and activity, and art and nature, will weary many a mind that knows not and heeds not whether they are true or false. Yet every man’s judgment is, in this free country, a lamp to himself; whoever is displeased will censure; and many, it is to be feared, will insist on judging “Meister” by the common rule, and what is worse, condemning it, let Schlegel bawl as loudly as he pleases. “To judge,” says he, “of this book,—new and peculiar as it is, and only to be understood and learned from itself,—by our common notion of the novel, a notion pieced together and produced out of custom and belief, out of accidental and arbitrary requisitions,—is as if a child should grasp at the moon and stars, and insist on packing them into its toy-box,” 2 Unhappily, the most of us have boxes; and some of them are very small!      6   
  Yet, independently of these its more recondite and dubious qualities, there are beauties in “Meister” which cannot but secure it some degree of favour at the hands of many. The philosophical discussions it contains; its keen glances into life and art; the minute and skilful delineation of men; the lively genuine exhibition of the scenes they move in; the occasional touches of eloquence and tenderness, and even of poetry, the very essence of poetry; the quantity of thought and knowledge embodied in a style so rich in general felicities, of which, at least, the new and sometimes exquisitely happy metaphors have been preserved,—cannot wholly escape an observing reader, even on the most cursory perusal. To those who have formed for themselves a picture of the world, who have drawn out, from the thousand variable circumstances of their being, a philosophy of life, it will be interesting and instructive to see how man and his concerns are represented in the first of European minds: to those who have penetrated to the limits of their own conceptions, and wrestled with thoughts and feelings too high for them, it will be pleasing and profitable to see the horizon of their certainties widened, or at least separated with a firmer line from the impalpable obscure which surrounds it on every side. Such persons I can fearlessly invite to study “Meister.” Across the disfigurement of a translation, they will not fail to discern indubitable traces of the greatest genius in our times. And the longer they study, they are likely to discern them the more distinctly. New charms will successively arise to view; and of the many apparent blemishes, while a few superficial ones may be confirmed, the greater and more important part will vanish, or even change from dark to bright. For, if I mistake not, it is with “Meister” as with every work of real and abiding excellence, the first glance is the least favourable. A picture of Raphael, a Greek statue, a play of Sophocles or Shakspeare, appears insignificant to the unpractised eye; and not till after long and patient and intense examination, do we begin to descry the earnest features of that beauty, which has its foundation in the deepest nature of man, and will continue to be pleasing through all ages.      7   
  If this appear excessive praise, as applied in any sense to “Meister,” the curious sceptic is desired to read and weigh the whole performance, with all its references, relations, purposes; and to pronounce his verdict after he has clearly seized and appreciated them all. Or if a more faint conviction will suffice, let him turn to the picture of Wilhelm’s states of mind in the end of the first Book, and the beginning of the second; the eulogies of commerce and poesy, which follow; the description of Hamlet; the character of histrionic life in Serlo and Aurelia; that of sedate and lofty manhood in the Uncle and Lothario. But above all, let him turn to the history of Mignon. This mysterious child, at first neglected by the reader, gradually forced on his attention, at length overpowers him with an emotion more deep and thrilling than any poet since the days of Shakspeare has succeeded in producing. The daughter of enthusiasm, rapture, passion and despair, she is of the earth, but not earthly. When she glides before us through the light mazes of her fairy dance, or twangs her cithern to the notes of her homesick verses, or whirls her tambourine and hurries round us like an antique Mænad, we could almost fancy her a spirit; so pure is she, so full of fervour, so disengaged from the clay of this world. And when all the fearful particulars of her story are at length laid together, and we behold in connected order the image of her hapless existence, there is, in those dim recollections, those feelings so simple, so impassioned and unspeakable, consuming the closely-shrouded, woe-struck, yet ethereal spirit of the poor creature, something which searches into the inmost recesses of the soul. It is not tears which her fate calls forth; but a feeling far too deep for tears. The very fire of heaven seems miserably quenched among the obstructions of this earth. Her little heart, so noble and so helpless, perishes before the smallest of its many beauties is unfolded; and all its loves and thoughts and longings do but add another pang to death, and sink to silence utter and eternal. It is as if the gloomy porch of Dis, and his pale kingdoms, were realised and set before us, and we heard the ineffectual wail of infants reverberating from within their prison-walls forever.
           Continuò auditæ voces, vagitus et ingens,   
Infantumque animæ flentes in limine primo:   
Quos dulcis vitæ exsortes, et ab ubere raptos,   
Abstulit atra dies, et funere mersit acerbo.   
This history of Mignon runs like a thread of gold through the tissue of the narrative, connecting with the heart much that were else addressed only to the head: Philosophy and eloquence might have done the rest; but this is poetry in the highest meaning of the word. It must be fore the power of producing such creations and emotions, that Goethe is by many of his countrymen ranked at the side of Homer and Shakspeare, as one of the only three men of genius that have ever lived.      8   
  But my business here is not to judge of “Meister” or its Author, it is only to prepare others for judging it; and for this purpose the most that I had room to say is said. All I ask in the name of this illustrious foreigner is, that the court which tries him be pure, and the jury instructed in the cause; that the work be not condemned for wanting what it was not meant to have, and by persons nowise called to pass sentence on it.      9   
  Respecting my own humble share in the adventure, it is scarcely necessary to say anything. Fidelity is all the merit I have aimed at: to convey the Author’s sentiments, as he himself expressed them; to follow the original, in all the variations of its style, has been my constant endeavour. In many points, both literary and moral, I may have wished devoutly that he had not written as he has done; but to alter anything was not in my commission. The literary and moral persuasions of a man like Goethe are objects of a rational curiosity; and the duty of a translator is simple and distinct. Accordingly, except a few phrases and sentences, not in all amounting to a page, which I have dropped as evidently unfit for the English taste, I have studied to present the work exactly as it stands in German. That my success has been indifferent, I already know too well. In rendering the ideas of Goethe, often so subtle, so capriciously expressive, the meaning was not always easy to seize, or to convey with adequate effect. There were thin tints of style, shades of ridicule or tenderness or solemnity, resting over large spaces, and so slight as almost to be evanescent: some of these I may have failed to see; to many of them I could do no justice. Nor, even in plainer matters, can I pride myself in having always imitated his colloquial familiarity without falling into sentences bald and rugged, into idioms harsh or foreign; or in having copied the flowing oratory of other passages, without at times exaggerating or defacing the swelling cadences and phrases of my original. But what work, from the translating of a German novel to the writing of an epic, was ever as the workman wished and meant it? This version of “Meister”, with whatever faults it may have, I honestly present to my countrymen: if, while it makes any portion of them more familiar with the richest, most gifted of living minds, it increase their knowledge, or even afford them a transient amusement, they will excuse its errors, and I shall be far more than paid for all my labour.     10   


Note 1.  This preface of Carlyle’s is here reprinted because, in addition to its value as an appreciation of “Wilhelm Meister,” its tone of defense and almost of apology affords an interesting landmark in the advance of Goethe’s reputation outside of his own country.—ED. [back]   
Note 2.  “Charakteristik des Meister.” [back]

List of Characters   
     
WILHELM MEISTER.
His father.
His mother.
His sister, later married to young Werner.
OLD WERNER, partner of Wilhelm’s father.
YOUNG WERNER, son of Old Werner.
MARIANA, an actress, Wilhelm’s first love.
FELIX, her son.
BARBARA, her servant and confidante.
NORBERG, in love with Mariana.
MELINA, an actor.
FRAU MELINA, his wife.
Her parents.
SERLO, a theatrical manager.
AURELIA, his sister.
A manufacturer of Hochdorf.
Head forester of Hochdorf.
DEMOISELLE LANDRINETTE & M. NARCISS, acrobats.
PICKLEHERRING.
MIGNON, a little dancer.
“THE GREAT DEVIL,” a showman, first master of Mignon
LAERTES, an actor.
PHILINA, an actress.
The pedant, an actor.
“OLD BOISTEROUS,” an actor.
ELMIRA, his daughter, later married to Serlo.
“The Fair Saint.”
NARCISS, her betrothed.
PHILO, her friend.
LOTHARIO, FREDERICK, The Countess & NATALIA, “the Amazon,” nephews and nieces of “the Fair Saint.”
Their uncle.
THERESA, later married to Lothario.
LYDIA, in love with Lothario.
The Count.
His stallmeister.
The prince von——
A baron.
A baroness.
The abbé, in various disguises, JARNO, A physician & A surgeon, attached to Lothario.
An Italian marchese.
AUGUSTIN, his brother, “the old harper,”
parents of Mignon.
SPERATA, their sister.

Book I   
Chapter I   
     
THE PLAY was late in breaking up: old Barbara went more than once to the window, and listened for the sound of carriages. She was waiting for Mariana, her pretty mistress, who had that night, in the afterpiece, been acting the part of a young officer, to the no small delight of the public. Barbara’s impatience was greater than it used to be, when she had nothing but a frugal supper to present: on this occasion, Mariana was to be surprised with a packet, which Norberg, a young and wealthy merchant, had sent by the post, to show that, in absence, he still thought of his love.      1   
  As an old servant, as confidante, counsellor, manager and housekeeper, Barbara assumed the privilege of opening seals; and this evening she the less had been able to restrain her curiosity, as the favour of the open-handed gallant was more a matter of anxiety with herself than with her mistress. On breaking up the packet, she had found, with unfeigned satisfaction, that it held a piece of fine muslin and some ribbons of the newest fashion for Mariana; with a quantity of calico, two or three neckerchiefs, and a moderate rouleau of money, for herself. Her esteem for the absent Norberg was of course unbounded: she meditated only how she might best present him to the mind of Mariana, best bring to her recollection what she owed him, and what he had a right to expect from her fidelity and thankfulness.      2   
  The muslin, with the ribbons half unrolled, to set it off by their colours, lay like a Christmas-present on the small table; the position of the lights increased the glitter of the gift; all was in order, when the old woman heard Mariana’s step on the stairs, and hastened to meet her. But what was her disappointment, when the little female officer, without deigning to regard her caresses, rushed past her with unusual speed and agitation; threw her hat and sword upon the table, and walked hastily up and down, bestowing not a look on the lights, or any portion of the apparatus!      3   
  “What ails thee, my darling?” exclaimed the astonished Barbara; “for Heaven’s sake, what is the matter? Look here, my pretty child! See what a present! And who could have sent it but thy kindest of friends? Norberg has given thee the muslin to make a nightgown of: he will soon be here himself; he seems to be fonder and more generous than ever.”      4   
  Barbara went to the table, that she might exhibit the memorials with which Norberg had likewise honoured her, when Mariana, turning away from the presents, exclaimed with vehemence:      5   
  “Off! off! Not a word of all this tonight! I have yielded to thee; thou hast willed it; be it so! When Norberg comes, I am his, am thine, am any one’s; make of me what thou pleasest: but till then I will be my own; and, if thou hadst a thousand tongues, thou shouldst never talk me from my purpose. All, all that is my own will I give up to him who loves me; whom I love. No sour faces! I will abandon myself to this affection, as if it were to last forever.”      6   
  The old damsel had abundance of objections and serious considerations to allege; in the progress of the dialogue, she was growing bitter and keen, when Mariana sprang at her, and seized her by the breast. The old damsel laughed aloud. “I must have a care,” she cried, “that you don’t get into pantaloons again, if I mean to be sure of my life! Come, doff you! The girl will beg my pardon for the foolish things the boy is doing to me. Off with the frock! Off with them all! The dress beseems you not; it is dangerous for you, I observe; the epaulets make you too bold.”      7   
  Thus speaking she had laid hands upon her mistress; Mariana pushed her off, exclaiming, “Not so fast. I expect a visit tonight.”      8   
  “Visit!” rejoined Barbara; “you surely do not look for Meister, the young, soft-hearted, callow merchant’s son?”      9   
  “Just for him,” replied Mariana.     10   
  “Generosity appears to be growing your ruling passion,” said the old woman with a grin; “you connect yourself with minors and moneyless people, as if they were the chosen of the earth. Doubtless it is charming to be worshipped as a benefactress.”     11   
  “Jeer as thou pleasest. I love him! I love him! With what rapture do I now, for the first time, speak the word! This is the passion which I have mimicked so often, when I knew not what it meant. Yes! I will throw myself about his neck; I will clasp him as if I could hold him forever. I will show him all my love; will enjoy all his in its whole extent.”     12   
  “Moderate yourself,” said the old dame coolly; “moderate yourself! A single word will interrupt your rapture: Norberg is coming! Coming in a fortnight! Here is the letter that arrived with the packet.”     13   
  “And, though the morrow were to rob me of my friend, I would conceal it from myself and him. A fortnight! An age! Within a fortnight, what may not happen, what may not alter?”     14   
  Here Wilhelm entered. We need not say how fast she flew to meet him; with what rapture he clasped the red uniform, and pressed the beautiful wearer of it to his bosom. It is not for us to describe the blessedness of two lovers. Old Barbara went grumbling away: we shall retire with her, and leave the happy two alone.

   
Book I   
Chapter II   
     
WHEN Wilhelm saluted his mother, next morning, she informed him that his father was very greatly discontented with him, and meant to forbid him these daily visits to the playhouse. “Though I myself often go with pleasure to the theatre,” she continued, “I could almost detest it entirely, when I think that our fireside peace is broken by your excessive passion for that amusement. Your father is ever repeating: What is the use of it? How can any one waste his time so?”      1   
  “He has already told me this,” said Wilhelm; “and perhaps I answered him too hastily; but, for Heaven’s sake, mother, is nothing then of use but what immediately puts money in our purse; but what procures us some property that we can lay our hands on? Had we not, for instance, room enough in the old house; and was it indispensable to build a new one? Does not my father every year expend a large part of his profit in ornamenting his chambers? Are not these silk carpets, this English furniture, likewise of no use?      2   
  Might we not content ourselves with worse? For my own part, I confess, these striped walls, these hundred times repeated flowers, and knots, and baskets, and figures, produce a really disagreeable effect upon me. At best, they but remind me of the front curtain of our theatre. But what a different thing it is to sit and look at that! There, if you must wait for a while, you are always sure that it will rise at last, and disclose to you a thousand curious objects, to entertain, to instruct and to exalt you.”      3   
  “But you go to excess with it,” said the mother; “your father wishes to be entertained in the evenings as well as you; besides, he thinks it dissipates your attention; and when he grows ill-humoured on the subject, it is I that must bear the blame. How often have I been upbraided with that miserable puppet-show, which I was unlucky enough to provide for you at Christmas, twelve years ago! It was the first thing that put these plays into your head.”      4   
  “O, do not blame the poor puppets; do not repent of your love and motherly care! It was the only happy hour I had enjoyed in the new empty house. I never can forget that hour; I see it still before me; I recollect how surprised I was when, after we had got our customary presents, you made us seat ourselves before the door that leads to the other room. The door opened; but not as formerly, to let us pass and repass; the entrance was occupied by an unexpected show. Within it rose a porch, concealed by a mysterious curtain. All of us were standing at a distance; our eagerness to see what glittering or jingling article lay hid behind the half-transparent veil was mounting higher and higher, when you bade us each sit down upon his stool and wait with patience.      5   
  “At length all of us were seated and silent: a whistle gave the signal; the curtain rolled aloft, and showed us the interior of the Temple, painted in deep red colours. The high-priest Samuel appeared with Jonathan, and their strange alternating voices seemed to me the most striking thing on earth. Shortly after entered Saul, overwhelmed with confusion at the impertinence of that heavy-limbed warrior, who had defied him and all his people. But how glad was I when the little dapper son of Jesse, with his crook and shepherd’s pouch and sling, came hopping forth and said: ‘Dread king and sovereign lord! let no one’s heart sink down because of this; if your Majesty will grant me leave, I will go out to battle with this blustering giant.’ Here ended the first act; leaving the spectators more curious than ever to see what farther would happen, each praying that the music might soon be done. At last the curtain rose again. David devoted the flesh of the monster to the fowls of the air and the beasts of the field; the Philistine scorned and bullied him, stamped mightily with both his feet, and at length fell like a mass of clay, affording a splendid termination to the piece. And then the virgins sang: ‘Saul hath slain his thousands, but David his ten thousands!’ The giant’s head was borne before his little victor, who received the King’s beautiful daughter to wife. Yet withal, I remember, I was vexed at the dwarfish statue of this lucky prince; for the great Goliath and the small David had both been formed, according to the common notion, with a due regard to their figures and proportions. I pray you, mother, tell me what has now become of those puppets? I promised to show them to a friend, whom I was lately entertaining with a history of all this child’s work.”      6   
  “I can easily conceive,” said the mother, “how these things should stick so firmly in your mind: I well remember what an interest you took in them; how you stole the little book from me, and learned the whole piece by heart. I first noticed it one evening when you had made a Goliath and a David of wax; you set them both to declaim against each other, and at length gave a deadly stab to the giant, fixing his shapeless head, stuck upon a large pin with a wax handle, in little David’s hand. I then felt such a motherly contentment at your fine recitation and good memory, that I resolved to give you up the whole wooden troop to your own disposal. I did not then foresee that it would cause me so many heavy hours.”      7   
  “Do not repent of it,” said Wilhelm; “this little sport has often made us happy.” So saying, he got the keys; made haste to find the puppets; and, for a moment, was transported back into those times when they almost seemed to him alive, when he felt as if he himself could give them life by the cunning of his voice and the movements of his hands. He took them to his room, and locked them up with care.

   
Book I   
Chapter III   
     
IF the first love is indeed, as I hear it everywhere maintained to be, the most delicious feeling which the heart of man, before it or after, can experience,—then our hero must be reckoned doubly happy, as permitted to enjoy the pleasure of this chosen period in all its fulness. Few men are so peculiarly favoured; by far the greater part are led by the feelings of their youth into nothing but a school of hardship, where, after a stinted and checkered season of enjoyment, they are at length constrained to renounce their dearest wishes, and to learn forever to dispense with what once hovered before them as the highest happiness of existence.      1   
  Wilhelm’s passion for that charming girl now soared aloft on the wings of imagination: after a short acquaintance, he had gained her affections; he found himself in possession of a being whom with all his heart he not only loved, but honoured: for she had first appeared before him in the flattering light of theatric pomp, and his passion for the stage combined itself with his earliest love for woman. His youth allowed him to enjoy rich pleasures, which the activity of his fancy exalted and maintained. The situation of his mistress, too, gave a turn to her conduct, which greatly enlivened his emotions. The fear, lest her lover might, before the time, detect the real state in which she stood, diffused over all her conduct an interesting tinge of anxiety and bashfulness; her attachment to the youth was deep; her inquietude itself appeared but to augment her tenderness; she was the loveliest of creatures while beside him.      2   
  When the first tumult of joy had passed, and our friend began to look back upon his life and its concerns, everything appeared new to him; his duties seemed holier, his inclinations keener, his knowledge clearer, his talents stronger, his purposes more decided. Accordingly, he soon fell upon a plan to avoid the reproaches of his father, to still the cares of his mother, and at the same time to enjoy Mariana’s love without disturbance. Through the day he punctually transacted his business, commonly forbore attending the theatre, strove to be entertaining at table in the evening; and when all were asleep, he glided softly out into the garden, and hastened, wrapt up in his mantle, with all the feelings of Leander in his bosom, to meet his mistress without delay.      3   
  “What is this you bring?” inquired Mariana, as he entered one evening, with a bundle, which Barbara, in hopes it might turn out to be some valuable present, fixed her eyes upon with great attention. “You will never guess,” said Wilhelm.      4   
  Great was the surprise of Mariana, great the scorn of Barbara, when the napkin being loosened gave to view a perplexed multitude of span-long puppets. Mariana laughed aloud, as Wilhelm set himself to disentangle the confusion of the wires, and show her each figure by itself. Barbara glided sulkily out of the room.      5   
  A very little thing will entertain two lovers; and accordingly our friends, this evening, were as happy as they wished to be. The little troop was mustered; each figure was minutely examined, and laughed at, in its turn. King Saul, with his golden crown and his black velvet robe, Mariana did not like; he looked, she said, too stiff and pedantic. She was far better pleased with Jonathan, his sleek chin, his turban, his cloak of red and yellow. She soon got the art of turning him deftly on his wire; she made him bow, and repeat declarations of love. On the other hand, she refused to give the least attention to the prophet Samuel, though Wilhelm commended the pontifical breastplate, and told her that the taffeta of the cassock had been taken from a gown of his own grandmother’s. David she thought too small, Goliath was too large; she held by Jonathan. She grew to manage him so featly, and at last to extend her caresses from the puppet to its owner, that, on this occasion, as on others, a silly sport became the introduction to happy hours.      6   
  Their soft, sweet dreams were broken in upon by a noise which arose on the street. Mariana called for the old dame, who, as usual, was occupied in furbishing the changeful materials of the playhouse wardrobe for the service of the piece next to be acted. Barbara said, the disturbance arose from a set of jolly companions, who were just then sallying out of the Italian Tavern, hard by, where they had been busy discussing fresh oysters, a cargo of which had just arrived, and by no means sparing their champagne.      7   
  “Pity,” Mariana said, “that we did not think of it in time; we might have had some entertainment to ourselves.”      8   
  “It is not yet too late,” said Wilhelm, giving Barbara a louis-d’or: “get us what we want; then come and take a share with us.”      9   
  The old dame made speedy work; ere long a trimly-covered table, with a neat collation, stood before the lovers. They made Barbara sit with them; they ate and drank, and enjoyed themselves.     10   
  On such occasions, there is never want of enough to say. Mariana soon took up little Jonathan again, and the old dame turned the conversation upon Wilhelm’s favourite topic. “You were once telling us,” she said, “about the first exhibition of a puppet-show on Christmas-eve: I remember you were interrupted, just as the ballet was going to begin. We have now the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the honourable company by whom those wonderful effects were brought about.”     11   
  “O yes!” cried Mariana, “do tell us how it all went on, and how you felt then.”     12   
  “It is a fine emotion, Mariana,” said the youth, “when we bethink ourselves of old times, and old harmless errors; especially if this is at a period when we have happily gained some elevation, from which we can look around us, and survey the path we have left behind. It is so pleasant to think, with composure and satisfaction, of many obstacles, which often with painful feelings we may have regarded as invincible; pleasant to compare what we now are, with what we then were struggling to become. But I am happy above others in this matter, that I speak to you about the past, at a moment when I can also look forth into the blooming country, which we are yet to wander through together, hand in hand.”     13   
  “But how was it with the ballet?” said Barbara. “I fear it did not quite go off as it should have done.”     14   
  “I assure you,” said Wilhelm, “it went off quite well. And certainly the strange caperings of these Moors and Mooresses, these shepherds and shepherdesses, these dwarfs and dwarfesses, will never altogether leave my recollection, while I live. When the curtain dropped, and the door closed, our little party skipped away, frolicking as if they had been tipsy, to their beds; for myself, however, I remember that I could not go to sleep: still wanting to have something told me on the subject, I continued putting questions to every one, and would hardly let the maid away who had brought me up to bed.     15   
  “Next morning, alas! the magic apparatus had altogether vanished; the mysterious veil was carried off, the door permitted us again to go and come through it without obstruction; the manifold adventures of the evening had passed away, and left no trace behind. My brothers and sisters were running up and down with their playthings; I alone kept gliding to and fro; it seemed to me impossible that two bare door-posts could be all that now remained, where the night before so much enchantment had displayed itself. Alas! the man that seeks a lost love can hardly be unhappier than I then thought myself.”     16   
  A rapturous look, which he cast on Mariana, convinced her that he was not much afraid of ever having a misfortune such as this to strive with.

   
Book I   
Chapter IV   
     
“MY sole wish now,” continued Wilhelm, “was to witness a second exhibition of the piece. For this purpose I had recourse, by constant entreaties, to my mother; and she attempted in a favourable hour to persuade my father. Her labour, however, was in vain. My father’s principle was, that none but enjoyments of rare occurrence were adequately prized; that neither young nor old could set a proper value on pleasures which they tasted every day.      1   
  “We might have waited long, perhaps till Christmas returned, had not the contriver and secret director of the spectacle himself felt a pleasure in repeating the display of it; partly incited, I suppose, by the wish to produce a brand-new Harlequin expressly prepared for the afterpiece.      2   
  “A young officer of the artillery, a person of great gifts in all sorts of mechanical contrivance, had served my father in many essential particulars during the building of the house; for which, having been handsomely rewarded, he felt desirous of expressing his thankfulness to the family of his patron, and so made us young ones a present of this complete theatre, which, in hours of leisure, he had already carved and painted and strung together. It was this young man, who, with the help of a servant, had himself managed the puppets, disguising his voice to pronounce their various speeches. He had no great difficulty in persuading my father, who granted, out of complaisance to a friend, what he had denied from conviction to his children. In short, our theatre was again set up, some little ones of the neighbourhood were invited, and the piece was again represented.      3   
  “If I had formerly experienced the delights of surprise and astonishment, I enjoyed on this second occasion the pleasure of examining and scrutinising. How all this happened was my present concern. That the puppets themselves did not speak, I had already decided; that of themselves they did not move, I also conjectured: but then how came it all to be so pretty, and to look just as if they both spoke and moved of themselves; and where were the lights, and the people that managed the deception? These enigmas perplexed me the more, as I wished at once to be among the enchanters and the enchanted, at once to have a secret hand in the play, and to enjoy, as a looker-on, the pleasure of illusion.      4   
  “The piece being finished, preparations were making for the farce; the spectators had risen, and were all busy talking together. I squeezed myself closer to the door, and heard, by the rattling within, that the people were packing up some articles. I lifted the lowest screen, and poked in my head between the posts. As our mother noticed it, she drew me back; but I had seen well enough, that here friends and foes, Saul and Goliath, and whatever else their names might be, were lying quietly down together in a drawer; and thus my half-contented curiosity received a fresh excitement. To my great surprise, moreover, I had noticed the lieutenant very diligently occupied in the interior of the shrine. Henceforth, Jack-pudding, however he might clatter with his heels, could not any longer entertain me. I sank into deep meditation; my discovery at once made me more satisfied, and less so than before. After a little, it first struck me that I yet comprehended nothing; and here I was right; for the connection of the parts with each other was entirely unknown to me, and everything depends on that.