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Title: Wilhelm Meister's apprenticeship and travels, vol. 1 (of 2)

Author: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Translator: Thomas Carlyle

Release date: June 20, 2011 [eBook #36483]
Most recently updated: December 10, 2025

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILHELM
MEISTER'S APPRENTICESHIP AND TRAVELS, VOL. 1 (OF 2) ***

WILHELM MEISTER'S

APPRENTICESHIP AND
TRAVELS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

By THOMAS CARLYLE.
COMPLETE IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOLUME I.

NEW YORK:
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER.

CONTENTS.
PAGE
Book I. 15
Book II. 74
Book III. 134
Book IV. 185
Book V. 254
Book VI. 320
Book VII. 372

TO THE READER.
These two translations, "Meister's Apprenticeship" and "Meister's Travels,"
have long been out of print, but never altogether out of demand; nay, it
would seem, the originally somewhat moderate demand has gone on
increasing, and continues to increase. They are, therefore, here republished;
and the one being in some sort a sequel to the other, though in rather
unexpected sort, they are now printed together. The English version of
"Meister's Travels" has been extracted, or extricated, from a compilation of
very various quality named "German Romance," and placed by the side of
the "Apprenticeship," its forerunner, which, in the translated as in the
original state, appeared hitherto as a separate work.
In the "Apprenticeship," the first of these translations, which was executed
some fifteen years ago, under questionable auspices, I have made many
little changes, but could not, unfortunately, change it into a right translation;
it hung, in many places, stiff and labored, too like some unfortunate
buckram cloak round the light, harmonious movement of the original,—
and, alas! still hangs so, here and there, and may now hang. In the second
translation, "Meister's Travels," two years later in date, I have changed little
or nothing. I might have added much; for the original, since that time, was,
as it were, taken to pieces by the author himself in his last years, and
constructed anew, and, in the final edition of his works, appears with
multifarious intercalations, giving a great expansion, both of size and of
scope. Not pedagogy only, and husbandry and art and religion and human
conduct in the nineteenth century, but geology, astronomy, cotton-spinning,
metallurgy, anatomical lecturing, and much else, are typically shadowed
forth in this second form of the "Travels," which, however, continues a
fragment like the first, significantly pointing on all hands towards
infinitude,—not more complete than the first was, or indeed perhaps less so.
It will well reward the trustful student of Goethe to read this new form of
the "Travels," and see how in that great mind, beaming in mildest mellow
splendor, beaming if also trembling, like a great sun on the verge of the

horizon, near now to its long farewell, all these things were illuminated and
illustrated: but, for the mere English reader, there are probably in our prior
edition of the "Travels" already novelties enough; for us, at all events, it
seemed unadvisable to meddle with it further at present.
Goethe's position towards the English public is greatly altered since these
translations first made their appearance. Criticisms near the mark, or farther
from the mark, or even altogether far and away from any mark,—of these
there have been enough. These pass on their road: the man and his works
remain what they are and were,—more and more recognizable for what
they are. Few English readers can require now to be apprised that these two
books, named novels, come not under the Minerva-Press category, nor the
Ballantyne-Press category, nor any such category; that the author is one
whose secret, by no means worn upon his sleeve, will never, by any
ingenuity, be got at in that way.
For a translator, in the present case, it is enough to reflect, that he who
imports into his own country any true delineation, a rationally spoken word
on any subject, has done well. Ours is a wide world, peaceably admitting
many different modes of speech. In our wide world, there is but one
altogether fatal personage,—the dunce,—he that speaks irrationally, that
sees not, and yet thinks he sees. A genuine seer and speaker, under what
conditions soever, shall be welcome to us: has he not seen somewhat of
great Nature our common mother's bringing forth,—seen it, loved it, laid
his heart open to it and to the mother of it, so that he can now rationally
speak it for us? He is our brother, and a good, not a bad, man: his words are
like gold, precious, whether stamped in our mint, or in what mint soever
stamped.
T. CARLYLE.
London, November, 1839.

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
TO THE

First Edition of Meister's Apprenticeship.
Whether 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 "Messiah," 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."
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 re-echoed 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 Retsch'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 witch-craft 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
chimeras dire.
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.
It is partly with the view of doing something to supply this want, that
"Wilhelm Meister's 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 favorite 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.
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.

Nor among readers of a far higher character, can it be expected that many
will take the praiseworthy pains of Germans, reverential of their favorite
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 patchwork, 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."[1] Unhappily the most of us have boxes, and some of them are very
small.
Yet, independently of these its more recondite and dubious qualities, there
are beauties in "Meister" which cannot but secure it some degree of favor 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 favorable.
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.
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 fervor,
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
realized 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."

The 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 for 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.
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.
Respecting my own humble share in the adventure, it is scarcely necessary
to say any thing. 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 endeavor. In many
points, both literary and moral, I could have wished devoutly that he had
not written as he has done; but to alter any thing 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 labor.

MEISTER'S APPRENTICESHIP.

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.
As an old servant, as confidant, counsellor, manager, and housekeeper,
Barbara assumed the privilege of opening seals; and this evening she had
the less been able to restrain her curiosity, as the favor 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.
The muslin, with the ribbons half unrolled, to set it off by their colors, lay
like a Christmas present on the small table; the position of the lights
increased the glitter of the gilt; 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.
"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 night-gown of; he will soon be here
himself; he seems to be fonder and more generous than ever."
Barbara went to the table, that she might exhibit the memorials with which
Norberg had likewise honored her, when Mariana, turning away from the
presents, exclaimed with vehemence, "Off! off! Not a word of all this to-
night. 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."
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."
Thus speaking, she laid hands upon her mistress: Mariana pushed her off,
exclaiming, "Not so fast! I expect a visit to-night."
"Visit!" rejoined Barbara: "you surely do not look for Meister, the young,
soft-hearted, callow merchant's son?"
"Just for him," replied Mariana.
"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."
"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 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."
"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."
"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?"
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.

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?'"
"He has told me this already," 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 these silk carpets, this English furniture, likewise of no use? 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."
"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 diverts your
attention; and, when he grows ill-humored 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."
"Oh, 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.
"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 colors. 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
further 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 stature 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."
"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."
"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.

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
favored: 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.
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 honored; 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 very inquietude appeared but to augment her tenderness; she
was the loveliest of creatures while beside him.
When the first tumult of joy had passed, and our friend began to look back
upon his life and its concerns, every thing 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, wrapped up in his
mantle, with all the feelings of Leander in his bosom, to meet his mistress
without delay.

"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.
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.
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 big; 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.
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 play 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.
"Pity," Mariana said, "that we did not think of it in time: we might have had
some entertainment to ourselves."

"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."
The old dame made speedy work: erelong 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.
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 favorite 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 honorable company by whom those
wonderful effects were brought about."
"Oh, yes!" cried Mariana: "do tell us how it all went on, and how you felt
then."
"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."
"But how was it with the ballet?" said Barbara. "I fear it did not quite go off
as it should have done."
"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.
"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 been displayed. Alas! the
man that seeks a lost love can hardly be unhappier than I then thought
myself."
A rapturous look, which he cast on Mariana, convinced her that he was not
afraid of such ever being his case.

CHAPTER IV.
"My sole wish now," continued Wilhelm, "was to witness a second
exhibition of the play. For this purpose I had recourse, by constant
entreaties, to my mother; and she attempted in a favorable hour to persuade
my father. Her labor, 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.
"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.
"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 neighborhood were invited, and the play was again represented.
"If I had formerly experienced the delights of surprise and astonishment, I
enjoyed on this second occasion the pleasure of examining and scrutinizing.
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 to be at the same time among the
enchanters and the enchanted, at the same time to have a secret hand in the
play, and to enjoy, as a looker-on, the pleasure of illusion.
"The play 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 made me both 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 every thing depends on that."

CHAPTER V.
"In well adjusted and regulated houses," continued Wilhelm, "children have
a feeling not unlike what I conceive rats and mice to have: they keep a
sharp eye on all crevices and holes, where they may come at any forbidden
dainty; they enjoy it also with a fearful, stolen satisfaction, which forms no
small part of the happiness of childhood.
"More than any other of the young ones, I was in the habit of looking out
attentively, to see if I could notice any cupboard left open, or key standing
in its lock. The more reverence I bore in my heart for those closed doors, on
the outside of which I had to pass by for weeks and months, catching only a
furtive glance when our mother now and then opened the consecrated place
to take something from it, the quicker was I to make use of any
opportunities which the forgetfulness of our housekeepers at times afforded
me.
"Among all the doors, that of the storeroom was, of course, the one I
watched most narrowly. Few of the joyful anticipations in life can equal the
feeling which I used to have when my mother happened to call me, that I
might help her to carry out something, whereupon I might pick up a few
dried plums, either with her kind permission, or by help of my own
dexterity. The accumulated treasures of this chamber took hold of my
imagination by their magnitude: the very fragrance exhaled by so
multifarious a collection of sweet-smelling spices produced such a craving
effect on me, that I never failed, when passing near, to linger for a little, and
regale myself at least on the unbolted atmosphere. At length, one Sunday
morning, my mother, being hurried by the ringing of the church-bells,
forgot to take this precious key with her on shutting the door, and went
away, leaving all the house in a deep Sabbath stillness. No sooner had I
marked this oversight than, gliding softly once or twice to and from the
place, I at last approached very gingerly, opened the door, and felt myself,
after a single step, in immediate contact with these manifold and long-
wished-for means of happiness. I glanced over glasses, chests, and bags,
and drawers and boxes, with a quick and doubtful eye, considering what I
ought to choose and take; turned finally to my dear withered plums,
provided myself also with a few dried apples, and completed the forage

with an orange-chip. I was quietly retreating with my plunder, when some
little chests, lying piled over one another, caught my attention,—the more
so as I noticed a wire, with hooks at the end of it, sticking through the joint
of the lid in one of them. Full of eager hopes, I opened this singular
package; and judge of my emotions, when I found my glad world of heroes
all sleeping safe within! I meant to pick out the topmost, and, having
examined them, to pull up those below; but in this attempt the wires got
very soon entangled: and I fell into a fright and flutter, more particularly as
the cook just then began making some stir in the kitchen, which was close
by; so that I had nothing for it but to squeeze the whole together the best
way I could, and to shut the chest, having stolen from it nothing but a little
written book, which happened to be lying above, and contained the whole
drama of Goliath and David. With this booty I made good my retreat into
the garret.
"Henceforth all my stolen hours of solitude were devoted to perusing the
play, to learning it by heart, and picturing in thought how glorious it would
be, could I but get the figures, to make them move along with it. In idea I
myself became David and Goliath by turns. In every corner of the court-
yard, of the stables, of the garden, under all kinds of circumstances, I
labored to stamp the whole piece upon my mind; laid hold of all the
characters, and learned their speeches by heart, most commonly, however,
taking up the parts of the chief personages, and allowing all the rest to move
along with them, but as satellites, across my memory. Thus day and night
the heroic words of David, wherewith he challenged the braggart giant,
Goliath of Gath, kept their place in my thoughts. I often muttered them to
myself; while no one gave heed to me, except my father, who, frequently
observing some such detached exclamation, would in secret praise the
excellent memory of his boy, that had retained so much from only two
recitations.
"By this means growing bolder and bolder, I one evening repeated almost
the entire piece before my mother, whilst I was busied in fashioning some
bits of wax into players. She observed it, questioned me hard; and I
confessed.
"By good fortune, this detection happened at a time when the lieutenant had
himself been expressing a wish to initiate me in the mysteries of the art. My

mother forthwith gave him notice of these unexpected talents; and he now
contrived to make my parents offer him a couple of chambers in the top
story, which commonly stood empty, that he might accommodate the
spectators in the one, while the other held his actors, the proscenium again
filling up the opening of the door: my father had allowed his friend to
arrange all this; himself, in the mean time, seeming only to look at the
transaction, as it were, through his fingers; for his maxim was, that children
should not be allowed to see the kindness which is felt towards them, lest
their pretensions come to extend too far. He was of opinion, that, in the
enjoyments of the young, one should assume a serious air; often
interrupting the course of their festivities, to prevent their satisfaction from
degenerating into excess and presumption."

CHAPTER VI.
"The lieutenant now set up his theatre, and managed all the rest. During the
week I readily observed that he often came into the house at unusual hours,
and I soon guessed the cause. My eagerness increased immensely; for I well
understood, that, till Sunday evening, I could have no share in what was
going on. At last the wished-for day arrived. At five in the evening my
conductor came, and took me up with him. Quivering with joy, I entered,
and descried, on both sides of the framework, the puppets all hanging in
order as they were to advance to view. I considered them narrowly, and
mounted on the steps, which raised them above the scene, and allowed me
to hover aloft over all that little world. Not without reverence did I look
down between the pieces of board, and recollect what a glorious effect the
whole would produce, and feel into what mighty secrets I was now
admitted. We made a trial, which succeeded well.
"Next day a party of children were invited: we performed rarely; except that
once, in the fire of action, I let poor Jonathan fall, and was obliged to reach
down with my hand, and pick him up,—an accident which sadly marred the
illusion, produced a peal of laughter, and vexed me unspeakably. My father,
however, seemed to relish this misfortune not a little. Prudently shrouding

up the contentment he felt at the expertness of his little boy, after the play
was finished, he dwelt on the mistakes we had committed, saying it would
all have been very pretty had not this or that gone wrong with us.
"I was vexed to the heart at these things, and sad for all the evening. By
next morning, however, I had quite slept off my sorrow, and was blessed in
the persuasion, that, but for this one fault, I had acted delightfully. The
spectators also flattered me with their unanimous approval: they all
maintained, that though the lieutenant, in regard to the coarse and the fine
voices, had done great things, yet his declamation was in general too stiff
and affected; whereas the new aspirant spoke his Jonathan and David with
exquisite grace. My mother in particular commended the gallant tone in
which I had challenged Goliath, and acted the modest victor before the
king.
"From this time, to my extreme delight, the theatre continued open; and as
the spring advanced, so that fires could be dispensed with, I passed all my
hours of recreation lying in the garret, and making the puppets caper and
play together. Often I invited up my comrades, or my brothers and sisters;
but, when they would not come, I staid by myself not the less. My
imagination brooded over that tiny world, which soon afterwards acquired
another form.
"Scarcely had I once or twice exhibited the first play, for which my scenery
and actors had been formed and decorated, when it ceased to give me any
pleasure. On the other hand, among some of my grandfather's books, I had
happened to fall in with 'The German Theatre,' and a few translations of
Italian operas; in which works I soon got very deeply immersed, on each
occasion first reckoning up the characters, and then, without further
ceremony, proceeding to exhibit the play. King Saul, with his black velvet
cloak, was therefore now obliged to personate Darius or Cato, or some
other pagan hero; in which cases, it may be observed, the plays were never
wholly represented,—for most part, only the fifth acts, where the cutting
and stabbing lay.
"It was natural that the operas, with their manifold adventures and
vicissitudes, should attract me more than any thing beside. In these
compositions I found stormy seas, gods descending in chariots of cloud,

and, what most of all delighted me, abundance of thunder and lightning. I
did my best with pasteboard, paint, and paper: I could make night very
prettily; my lightning was fearful to behold; only my thunder did not always
prosper, which, however, was of less importance. In operas, moreover, I
found frequent opportunities of introducing my David and Goliath,—
persons whom the regular drama would hardly admit. Daily I felt more
attachment for the hampered spot where I enjoyed so many pleasures; and, I
must confess, the fragrance which the puppets had acquired from the
storeroom added not a little to my satisfaction.
"The decorations of my theatre were now in a tolerable state of
completeness. I had always had the knack of drawing with compasses, and
clipping pasteboard, and coloring figures; and here it served me in good
stead. But the more sorry was I, on the other hand, when, as frequently
happened, my stock of actors would not suffice for representing great
affairs.
"My sisters, dressing and undressing their dolls, awoke in me the project of
furnishing my heroes by and by with garments which might also be put off
and on. Accordingly, I slit the scraps of cloth from off their bodies, tacked
the fragments together as well as possible, saved a particle of money to buy
new ribbons and lace, begged many a rag of taffeta, and so formed, by
degrees, a full theatrical wardrobe, in which hoop-petticoats for the ladies
were especially remembered.
"My troop was now fairly provided with dresses for the most important
play, and you might have expected that henceforth one exhibition would
follow close upon the heels of another; but it happened with me, as it often
happens with children,—they embrace wide plans, make mighty
preparations, then a few trials, and the whole undertaking is abandoned. I
was guilty of this fault. My greatest pleasure lay in the inventive part, and
the employment of my fancy. This or that piece inspired me with interest for
a few scenes of it, and immediately I set about providing new apparel
suitable for the occasion. In such fluctuating operations, many parts of the
primary dresses of my heroes had fallen into disorder, or totally gone out of
sight; so that now the first great play could no longer be exhibited. I
surrendered myself to my imagination; I rehearsed and prepared forever;

built a thousand castles in the air, and failed to see that I was at the same
time undermining the foundations of these little edifices."
During this recital, Mariana had called up and put in action all her courtesy
for Wilhelm, that she might conceal her sleepiness. Diverting as the matter
seemed on one side, it was too simple for her taste, and her lover's view of
it too serious. She softly pressed her foot on his, however, and gave him all
visible signs of attention and approval. She drank out of his glass: Wilhelm
was convinced that no word of his history had fallen to the ground. After a
short pause, he said, "It is now your turn, Mariana, to tell me what were
your first childish joys. Till now we have always been too busy with the
present to trouble ourselves, on either side, about our previous way of life.
Let me hear, Mariana, under what circumstances you were reared: what are
the first lively impressions which you still remember?"
These questions would have very much embarrassed Mariana, had not
Barbara made haste to help her. "Think you," said the cunning old woman,
"we have been so mindful of what happened to us long ago, that we have
merry things like these to talk about, and, though we had, that we could
give them such an air in talking of them?"
"As if they needed it!" cried Wilhelm. "I love this soft, good, amiable
creature so much, that I regret every instant of my life which has not been
spent beside her. Allow me, at least in fancy, to have a share in thy by-gone
life; tell me every thing; I will tell every thing to thee! If possible, we will
deceive ourselves, and win back those days that have been lost to love."
"If you require it so eagerly," replied the old dame, "we can easily content
you. Only, in the first place, let us hear how your taste for the theatre
gradually reached a head; how you practised, how you improved so happily,
that now you can pass for a superior actor. No doubt you must have met
with droll adventures in your progress. It is not worth while to go to bed
now: I have still one flask in reserve; and who knows whether we shall soon
all sit together so quiet and cheery again?"
Mariana cast upon her a mournful look, not noticed by Wilhelm, who
proceeded with his narrative.

CHAPTER VII.
"The recreations of youth, as my companions began to increase in number,
interfered with this solitary, still enjoyment. I was by turns a hunter, a
soldier, a knight, as our games required; and constantly I had this small
advantage above the rest, that I was qualified to furnish them suitably with
the necessary equipments. The swords, for example, were generally of my
manufacture; I gilded and decorated the scabbards; and a secret instinct
allowed me not to stop till our militia was accoutred according to the
antique model. Helmets, with plumes of paper, were got ready; shields,
even coats of mail, were provided; undertakings in which such of the
servants as had aught of the tailor in them, and the seamstresses of the
house, broke many a needle.
"A part of my comrades I had now got well equipped; by degrees, the rest
were likewise furbished up, though on a thriftier plan; and so a very seemly
corps at length was mustered. We marched about the court-yards and
gardens, smote fearfully upon each other's shields and heads: many flaws of
discord rose among us, but none that lasted.
"This diversion greatly entertained my fellows; but scarcely had it been
twice or thrice repeated, when it ceased to content me. The aspect of so
many harnessed figures naturally stimulated in my mind those ideas of
chivalry, which for some time, since I had commenced the reading of old
romances, were filling my imagination.
"Koppen's translation of 'Jerusalem Delivered' at length fell into my hands,
and gave these wandering thoughts a settled direction. The whole poem, it
is true, I could not read; but there were passages which I learned by heart,
and the images expressed in these hovered round me. Particularly was I
captivated with Clorinda, and all her deeds and bearing. The masculine
womanhood, the peaceful completeness of her being, had a greater
influence upon my mind, just beginning to unfold itself, than the factitious
charms of Armida; though the garden of that enchantress was by no means
an object of my contempt.
"But a hundred and a hundred times, while walking in the evenings on the
balcony which stretches along the front of the house, and looking over the

neighborhood, as the quivering splendor streamed up at the horizon from
the departed sun, and the stars came forth, and night pressed forward from
every cleft and hollow, and the small, shrill tone of the cricket tinkled
through the solemn stillness,—a hundred and a hundred times have I
repeated to myself the history of the mournful duel between Tancred and
Clorinda.
"However strongly I inclined by nature to the party of the Christians, I
could not help declaring for the Paynim heroine with all my heart when she
engaged to set on fire the great tower of the besiegers. And when Tancred in
the darkness met the supposed knight, and the strife began between them
under that veil of gloom, and the two battled fiercely, I could never
pronounce the words,—

"'But now the sure and fated hour is nigh:
Clorinda's course is ended,—she must die;'—

without tears rushing into my eyes, which flowed plentifully when the
hapless lover, plunging his sword into her breast, opened the departing
warrior's helmet, recognized the lady of his heart, and, shuddering, brought
water to baptize her.
"How my heart ran over when Tancred struck with his sword that tree in the
enchanted wood; when blood flowed from the gash, and a voice sounded in
his ears, that now again he was wounding Clorinda; that Destiny had
marked him out ever unwittingly to injure what he loved beyond all else.
"The recital took such hold of my imagination, that what I had read of the
poem began dimly, in my mind, to conglomerate into a whole; wherewith I
was so taken that I could not but propose to have it some way represented. I
meant to have Tancred and Rinaldo acted; and, for this purpose, two coats
of mail, which I had before manufactured, seemed expressly suitable. The
one, formed of dark-gray paper with scales, was to serve for the solemn
Tancred; the other, of silver and gilt paper, for the magnificent Rinaldo. In
the vivacity of my anticipations, I told the whole project to my comrades,
who felt quite charmed with it, except that they could not well comprehend
how so glorious a thing could be exhibited, and, above all, exhibited by
them.

"Such scruples I easily set aside. Without hesitation, I took upon me, in
idea, the management of two rooms in the house of a neighboring playmate;
not calculating that his venerable aunt would never give them up, or
considering how a theatre could be made of them, whereof I had no settled
notion, except that it was to be fixed on beams, to have side-scenes made of
parted folding-screens, and on the floor a large piece of cloth. From what
quarter these materials and furnishings were to come, I had not determined.
"So far as concerned the forest, we fell upon a good expedient. We betook
ourselves to an old servant of one of our families, who had now become a
woodman, with many entreaties that he would get us a few young firs and
birches; which actually arrived more speedily than we had reason to expect.
But, in the next place, great was our embarrassment as to how the piece
should be got up before the trees were withered. Now was the time for
prudent counsel. We had no house, no scenery, no curtain: the folding-
screens were all we had.
"In this forlorn condition we again applied to the lieutenant, giving him a
copious description of all the glorious things we meant to do. Little as he
understood us, he was very helpful: he piled all the tables he could get in
the house or neighborhood, one above the other, in a little room: to these he
fixed our folding-screens, and made a back-view with green curtains,
sticking up our trees along with it.
"At length the appointed evening came: the candles were lit, the maids and
children were sitting in their places, the piece was to go forward, the whole
corps of heroes was equipped and dressed,—when each for the first time
discovered that he knew not what he was to say. In the heat of invention,
being quite immersed in present difficulties, I had forgotten the necessity of
each understanding what and where he was to speak; nor, in the midst of
our bustling preparations, had it once occurred to the rest; each believing he
could easily enact a hero, easily so speak and bear himself, as became the
personage into whose world I had transplanted him. They all stood wonder-
struck, asking, What was to come first? I alone, having previously got ready
Tancred's part, entered solus on the scene, and began reciting some verses
of the epic. But as the passage soon changed into narrative, and I, while
speaking, was at once transformed into a third party, and the bold Godfredo,
when his turn came, would not venture forth, I was at last obliged to take

leave of my spectators under peals of laughter,—a disaster which cut me to
the heart. Thus had our undertaking proved abortive; but the company still
kept their places, still wishing to see something. All of us were dressed: I
screwed my courage up, and determined, foul or fair, to give them David
and Goliath. Some of my companions had before this helped me to exhibit
the puppet-play; all of them had often seen it; we shared the characters
among us; each promised to do his best; and one small, grinning urchin
painted a black beard upon his chin, and undertook, if any lacuna should
occur, to fill it with drollery as harlequin,—an arrangement to which, as
contradicting the solemnity of the piece, I did not consent without extreme
reluctance; and I vowed within myself, that, if once delivered out of this
perplexity, I would think long and well before risking the exhibition of
another play."

CHAPTER VIII.
Mariana, overpowered with sleep, leaned upon her lover, who clasped her
close to him, and proceeded in his narrative; while the old damsel prudently
sipped up the remainder of the wine.
"The embarrassment," he said, "into which, along with my companions, I
had fallen, by attempting to act a play that did not anywhere exist, was soon
forgotten. My passion for representing each romance I read, each story that
was told me, would not yield before the most unmanageable materials. I felt
convinced that whatever gave delight in narrative must produce a far deeper
impression when exhibited: I wanted to have every thing before my eyes,
every thing brought forth upon the stage. At school, when the elements of
general history were related to us, I carefully marked the passages where
any person had been slain or poisoned in a singular way; and my
imagination, glancing rapidly along the exposition and intrigue, hastened to
the interesting fifth act. Indeed, I actually began to write some plays from
the end backwards, without, however, in any of them reaching the
beginning.

"At the same time, partly by inclination, partly by the counsel of my good
friends, who had caught the fancy of acting plays, I read a whole wilderness
of theatrical productions, as chance put them into my hands. I was still in
those happy years when all things please us, when number and variety yield
us abundant satisfaction. Unfortunately, too, my taste was corrupted by
another circumstance. Any piece delighted me especially, in which I could
hope to give delight; there were few which I did not peruse in this agreeable
delusion: and my lively conceptive power enabling me to transfer myself
into all the characters, seduced me to believe that I might likewise represent
them all. Hence, in the distribution of the parts, I commonly selected such
as did not fit me, and always more than one part, if I could by any means
accomplish more.
"In their games, children can make all things out of any: a staff becomes a
musket, a splinter of wood a sword, any bunch of cloth a puppet, any
crevice a chamber. Upon this principle was our private theatre got up.
Totally unacquainted with the measure of our strength, we undertook all: we
stuck at no quid pro quo, and felt convinced that every one would take us
for what we gave ourselves out to be. Now, however, our affairs went on so
soberly and smoothly, that I have not even a curious insipidity to tell you of.
We first acted all the few plays in which only males are requisite, next we
travestied some of ourselves, and at last took our sisters into the concern
along with us. In one or two houses, our amusement was looked upon as
profitable; and company was invited to see it. Nor did our lieutenant of
artillery now turn his back upon us. He showed us how we ought to make
our exits and our entrances; how we should declaim, and with what
attitudes and gestures. Yet generally he earned small thanks for his toil, we
conceiving ourselves to be much deeper in the secrets of theatrical art than
he himself was.
"We very soon began to grow tired of tragedy; for all of us believed, as we
had often heard, that it was easier to write or represent a tragedy than to
attain proficiency in comedy. In our first attempts, accordingly, we had felt
as if exactly in our element: dignity of rank, elevation of character, we
studied to approach by stiffness and affectation, and imagined that we
succeeded rarely; but our happiness was not complete, except we might
rave outright, might stamp with our feet, and, full of fury and despair, cast
ourselves upon the ground.

"Boys and girls had not long carried on these amusements in concert, till
Nature began to take her course; and our society branched itself off into
sundry little love-associations, as generally more than one sort of comedy is
acted in the playhouse. Behind the scenes, each happy pair pressed hands in
the most tender style; they floated in blessedness, appearing to one another
quite ideal persons, when so transformed and decorated; whilst, on the other
hand, unlucky rivals consumed themselves with envy, and out of malice and
spite worked every species of mischief.
"Our amusements, though undertaken without judgment, and carried on
without instruction, were not without their use to us. We trained our
memories and persons, and acquired more dexterity in speech and gesture
than is usually met with at so early an age. But, for me in particular, this
time was in truth an epoch: my mind turned all its faculties exclusively to
the theatre; and my highest happiness was in reading, in writing, or in
acting, plays.
"Meanwhile the labors of my regular teachers continued: I had been set
apart for the mercantile life, and placed under the guidance of our neighbor
in the counting-house; yet my spirit at this very time recoiled more forcibly
than ever from all that was to bind me to a low profession. It was to the
stage that I aimed at consecrating all my powers,—on the stage that I meant
to seek all my happiness and satisfaction.
"I recollect a poem, which must be among my papers, where the Muse of
tragic art and another female form, by which I personified Commerce, were
made to strive very bravely for my most important self. The idea is
common, nor do I recollect that the verses were of any worth; but you shall
see it, for the sake of the fear, the abhorrence, the love and passion, which
are prominent in it. How repulsively did I paint the old housewife, with the
distaff in her girdle, the bunch of keys by her side, the spectacles on her
nose, ever toiling, ever restless, quarrelsome, and penurious, pitiful and
dissatisfied! How feelingly did I describe the condition of that poor man
who has to cringe beneath her rod, and earn his slavish day's wages by the
sweat of his brow!
"And how differently advanced the other! What an apparition for the
overclouded mind! Formed as a queen, in her thoughts and looks she

announced herself the child of freedom. The feeling of her own worth gave
her dignity without pride: her apparel became her, it veiled her form without
constraining it; and the rich folds repeated, like a thousand-voiced echo, the
graceful movements of the goddess. What a contrast! How easy for me to
decide! Nor had I forgotten the more peculiar characteristics of my Muse.
Crowns and daggers, chains and masks, as my predecessors had delivered
them, were here produced once more. The contention was keen: the
speeches of both were palpably enough contrasted, for at fourteen years of
age one usually paints the black lines and the white pretty near each other.
The old lady spoke as beseemed a person that would pick up a pin from her
path; the other, like one that could give away kingdoms. The warning
threats of the housewife were disregarded; I turned my back upon her
promised riches: disinherited and naked, I gave myself up to the Muse; she
threw her golden veil over me, and called me hers.
"Could I have thought, my dearest," he exclaimed, pressing Mariana close
to him, "that another, a more lovely goddess would come to encourage me
in my purpose, to travel with me on my journey, the poem might have had a
finer turn, a far more interesting end. Yet it is no poetry, it is truth and life
that I feel in thy arms: let us prize the sweet happiness, and consciously
enjoy it."
The pressure of his arms, the emotion of his elevated voice, awoke Mariana,
who hastened by caresses to conceal her embarrassment; for no word of the
last part of his story had reached her. It is to be wished, that in future, our
hero, when recounting his favorite histories, may find more attentive
hearers.

CHAPTER IX.
Thus Wilhelm passed his nights in the enjoyment of confiding love, his
days in the expectation of new happy hours. When desire and hope had first
attracted him to Mariana, he already felt as if inspired with new life; felt as
if he were beginning to be another man: he was now united to her; the

contentment of his wishes had become a delicious habitude. His heart
strove to ennoble the object of his passion; his spirit, to exalt with it the
young creature whom he loved. In the shortest absence, thoughts of her
arose within him. If she had once been necessary to him, she was now
grown indispensable, now that he was bound to her by all the ties of nature.
His pure soul felt that she was the half, more than the half, of himself. He
was grateful and devoted without limit.
Mariana, too, succeeded in deceiving herself for a season: she shared with
him the feeling of his liveliest blessedness. Alas! if but the cold hand of
self-reproach had not often come across her heart! She was not secure from
it, even in Wilhelm's bosom, even under the wings of his love. And when
she was again left alone, again left to sink from the clouds, to which passion
had exalted her, into the consciousness of her real condition, then she was
indeed to be pitied. So long as she had lived among degrading perplexities,
disguising from herself her real situation, or rather never thinking of it,
frivolity had helped her through; the incidents she was exposed to had come
upon her each by itself; satisfaction and vexation had cancelled one another;
humiliation had been compensated by vanity; want by frequent, though
momentary, superfluity; she could plead necessity and custom as a law or
an excuse; and hitherto all painful emotions from hour to hour, and from
day to day, had by these means been shaken off. But now, for some instants,
the poor girl had felt herself transported to a better world; aloft, as it were,
in the midst of light and joy, she had looked down upon the abject desert of
her life, had felt what a miserable creature is the woman, who, inspiring
desire, does not also inspire reverence and love: she regretted and repented,
but found herself outwardly or inwardly no better for regret. She had
nothing that she could accomplish or resolve upon. When she looked into
and searched herself, all was waste and void within her soul: her heart had
no place of strength or refuge. But the more sorrowful her state was, the
more vehemently did her feelings cling to the man she loved: her passion
for him even waxed stronger daily, as the danger of losing him came daily
nearer.
Wilhelm, on the other hand, soared serenely happy in higher regions: to him
also a new world had been disclosed, but a world rich in the most glorious
prospects. Scarcely had the first excess of joy subsided, when all that had
long been gliding dimly through his soul stood up in bright distinctness

before it. She is mine! She has given herself up to me! She, the loved, the
wished for, the adored, has given herself up to me in trust and faith: she
shall not find me ungrateful for the gift. Standing or walking, he talked to
himself; his heart constantly overflowed; with a copiousness of splendid
words, he uttered to himself the loftiest emotions. He imagined that he
understood the visible beckoning of Fate, reaching out its hand by Mariana
to save him from the stagnant, weary, drudging life, out of which he had so
often wished for deliverance. To leave his father's house and people, now
appeared a light matter. He was young, and had not tried the world: his
eagerness to range over its expanses, seeking fortune and contentment, was
stimulated by his love. His vocation for the theatre was now clear to him:
the high goal, which he saw raised before him, seemed nearer whilst he was
advancing to it with Mariana's hand in his; and, in his comfortable
prudence, he beheld in himself the embryo of a great actor,—the future
founder of that national theatre, for which he heard so much and various
sighing on every side. All that till now had slumbered in the innermost
corners of his soul, at length awoke. He painted for himself a picture of his
manifold ideas, in the colors of love, upon a canvas of cloud: the figures of
it, indeed, ran sadly into one another; yet the whole had an air but the more
brilliant on that account.

CHAPTER X.
He was now in his chamber at home, ransacking his papers, making ready
for departure. Whatever savored of his previous employment he threw
aside, meaning at his entrance upon life to be free, even from recollections
that could pain him. Works of taste alone, poets and critics, were, as
acknowledged friends, placed among the chosen few. Heretofore he had
given little heed to the critical authors: his desire for instruction now
revived, when, again looking through his books, he found the theoretical
part of them lying generally still uncut. In the full persuasion that such
works were absolutely necessary, he had bought a number of them; but,
with the best disposition in the world, he had not reached midway in any.

The more steadfastly, on the other hand, he had dwelt upon examples, and,
in every kind that was known to him, had made attempts himself.
Werner entered the room; and, seeing his friend busied with the well-known
sheets, he exclaimed, "Again among your papers? And without intending, I
dare swear, to finish any one of them! You look them through and through
once or twice, then throw them by, and begin something new."
"To finish is not the scholar's care: it is enough if he improves himself by
practice."
"But also completes according to his best ability."
"And still the question might be asked, 'Is there not good hope of a youth,
who, on commencing some unsuitable affair, soon discovers its
unsuitableness, and discontinues his exertions, not choosing to spend toil
and time on what never can be of any value?'"
"I know well enough it was never your concern to bring aught to a
conclusion: you have always sickened on it before it came half way. When
you were the director of our puppet-show, for instance, how many times
were fresh clothes got ready for the dwarfish troop, fresh decorations
furbished up? Now this tragedy was to be acted, now that; and at the very
best you gave us some fifth act, where all was going topsy-turvy, and
people cutting one another's throats."
"If you talk of those times, whose blame really was it that we ripped off
from our puppets the clothes that fitted them, and were fast stitched to their
bodies, and laid out money for a large and useless wardrobe? Was it not
yours, my good friend, who had always some fragment of ribbon to traffic
with; and skill, at the same time, to stimulate my taste, and turn it to your
profit?"
Werner laughed, and continued, "I still recollect, with pleasure, how I used
to extract gain from your theatrical campaigns, as army contractors do from
war. When you mustered for the 'Deliverance of Jerusalem,' I, for my part,
made a pretty thing of profit, like the Venetians in the corresponding case. I
know of nothing in the world more rational than to turn the folly of others
to our own advantage."

"Perhaps it were a nobler satisfaction to cure men of their follies."
"From the little I know of men, this might seem a vain endeavor. But
something towards it is always done, when any individual man grows wise
and rich; and generally this happens at the cost of others."
"Well, here is 'The Youth at the Parting of the Ways;' it has just come into
my hand," said Wilhelm, drawing out a bunch of papers from the rest; "this
at least is finished, whatever else it may be."
"Away with it! to the fire with it!" cried Werner. "The invention does not
deserve the smallest praise: that affair has plagued me enough already, and
drawn upon yourself your father's wrath. The verses may be altogether
beautiful, but the meaning of them is fundamentally false. I still recollect
your Commerce personified: a shrivelled, wretched-looking sibyl she was. I
suppose you picked up the image of her from some miserable huckster's
shop. At that time you had no true idea at all of trade; whilst I could not
think of any man whose spirit was, or needed to be, more enlarged than the
spirit of a genuine merchant. What a thing is it to see the order which
prevails throughout his business! By means of this he can at any time
survey the general whole, without needing to perplex himself in the details.
What advantages does he derive from the system of book-keeping by
double entry! It is among the finest inventions of the human mind: every
prudent master of a house should introduce it into his economy."
"Pardon me," said Wilhelm, smiling; "you begin by the form, as if it were
the matter: you traders commonly, in your additions and balancings, forget
what is the proper net result of life."
"My good friend, you do not see how form and matter are in this case one,
how neither can exist without the other. Order and arrangement increase the
desire to save and get. A man embarrassed in his circumstances, and
conducting them imprudently, likes best to continue in the dark: he will not
gladly reckon up the debtor entries he is charged with. But, on the other
hand, there is nothing to a prudent manager more pleasant than daily to set
before himself the sums of his growing fortune. Even a mischance, if it
surprise and vex, will not affright, him; for he knows at once what gains he
has acquired to cast into the other scale. I am convinced, my friend, that, if

you once had a proper taste for our employments, you would grant that
many faculties of the mind are called into full and vigorous play by them."
"Possibly this journey I am thinking of may bring me to other thoughts."
"Oh, certainly! Believe me, you want but to look upon some great scene of
activity to make you ours forever; and, when you come back, you will
joyfully enroll yourself among that class of men whose art it is to draw
towards themselves a portion of the money, and materials of enjoyment,
which circulate in their appointed courses through the world. Cast a look on
the natural and artificial productions of all the regions of the earth; consider
how they have become, one here, another there, articles of necessity for
men. How pleasant and how intellectual a task is it to calculate, at any
moment, what is most required, and yet is wanting, or hard to find; to
procure for each easily and soon what he demands; to lay in your stock
prudently beforehand, and then to enjoy the profit of every pulse in that
mighty circulation. This, it appears to me, is what no man that has a head
can attend to without pleasure."
Wilhelm seemed to acquiesce, and Werner continued.
"Do but visit one or two great trading-towns, one or two seaports, and see if
you can withstand the impression. When you observe how many men are
busied, whence so many things have come, and whither they are going, you
will feel as if you, too, could gladly mingle in the business. You will then
see the smallest piece of ware in its connection with the whole mercantile
concern; and for that very reason you will reckon nothing paltry, because
every thing augments the circulation by which you yourself are supported."
Werner had formed his solid understanding in constant intercourse with
Wilhelm; he was thus accustomed to think also of his profession, of his
employments, with elevation of soul; and he firmly believed that he did so
with more justice than his otherwise more gifted and valued friend, who, as
it seemed to him, had placed his dearest hopes, and directed all the force of
his mind, upon the most imaginary objects in the world. Many a time he
thought his false enthusiasm would infallibly be got the better of, and so
excellent a soul be brought back to the right path. So hoping in the present
instance, he continued, "The great ones of the world have taken this earth of
ours to themselves; they live in the midst of splendor and superfluity. The

smallest nook of the land is already a possession which none may touch or
meddle with: offices and civil callings bring in little profit. Where, then,
will you find more honest acquisitions, juster conquests, than those of
trade? If the princes of this world hold the rivers, the highways, the havens,
in their power, and take a heavy tribute from every thing that passes through
them, may not we embrace with joy the opportunity of levying tax and toll,
by our activity, on those commodities which the real or imaginary wants of
men have rendered indispensable? I can promise you, if you would rightly
apply your poetic view, my goddess might be represented as an invincible,
victorious queen, and boldly opposed to yours. It is true, she bears the olive
rather than the sword: dagger or chain she knows not. But she, too, gives
crowns to her favorites; which, without offence to yours be it said, are of
true gold from the furnace and the mine, and glance with genuine pearls,
which she brings up from the depths of the ocean by the hands of her
unwearied servants."
This sally somewhat nettled Wilhelm; but he concealed his sentiments,
remembering that Werner used to listen with composure to his apostrophes.
Besides, he had fairness enough to be pleased at seeing each man think the
best of his own peculiar craft, provided only his, of which he was so
passionately fond, were likewise left in peace.
"And for you," exclaimed Werner, "who take so warm an interest in human
concerns, what a sight will it be to behold the fortune, which accompanies
bold undertakings, distributed to men before your eyes! What is more spirit-
stirring than the aspect of a ship arriving from a lucky voyage, or soon
returning with a rich capture? Not only the relatives, the acquaintances, and
those that share with the adventurers, but every unconcerned spectator also,
is excited, when he sees the joy with which the long-imprisoned shipman
springs on land before his keel has wholly reached it, feeling that he is free
once more, and now can trust what he has rescued from the false sea to the
firm and faithful earth. It is not, my friend, in figures of arithmetic alone
that gain presents itself before us. Fortune is the goddess of breathing men:
to feel her favors truly, we must live and be men who toil with their living
minds and bodies, and enjoy with them also."

CHAPTER XI.
It is now time that we should know something more of Wilhelm's father and
of Werner's,—two men of very different modes of thinking, but whose
opinions so far coincided, that both regarded commerce as the noblest
calling; and both were peculiarly attentive to every advantage which any
kind of speculation might produce to them. Old Meister, when his father
died, had turned into money a valuable collection of pictures, drawings,
copper-plates, and antiquities: he had entirely rebuilt and furnished his
house in the newest style, and turned his other property to profit in all
possible ways. A considerable portion of it he had embarked in trade, under
the direction of the elder Werner,—a man noted as an active merchant,
whose speculations were commonly favored by fortune. But nothing was so
much desired by Meister as to confer upon his son those qualities of which
himself was destitute, and to leave his children advantages which he
reckoned it of the highest importance to possess. Withal, he felt a peculiar
inclination for magnificence,—for whatever catches the eye, and possesses
at the same time real worth and durability. In his house he would have all
things solid and massive; his stores must be copious and rich, all his plate
must be heavy, the furniture of his table must be costly. On the other hand,
his guests were seldom invited; for every dinner was a festival, which, both
for its expense and for its inconvenience, could not often be repeated. The
economy of his house went on at a settled, uniform rate; and every thing
that moved or had place in it was just what yielded no one any real
enjoyment.
The elder Werner, in his dark and hampered house, led quite another sort of
life. The business of the day, in his narrow counting-house, at his ancient
desk, once done, Werner liked to eat well, and, if possible, to drink better.
Nor could he fully enjoy good things in solitude; with his family he must
always see at table his friends, and any stranger that had the slightest
connection with his house. His chairs were of unknown age and antic
fashion, but he daily invited some to sit on them. The dainty victuals
arrested the attention of his guests, and none remarked that they were
served up in common ware. His cellar held no great stock of wine, but the
emptied niches were usually filled by more of a superior sort.

So lived these two fathers, often meeting to take counsel about their
common concerns. On the day we are speaking of, it had been determined
to send Wilhelm out from home, for the despatch of some commercial
affairs.
"Let him look about him in the world," said old Meister, "and at the same
time carry on our business in distant parts. One cannot do a young man any
greater kindness than initiate him early in the future business of his life.
Your son returned so happily from his first expedition, and transacted his
affairs so cleverly, that I am very curious to see how mine will do: his
experience, I fear, will cost him dearer."
Old Meister had a high notion of his son's faculties and capabilities: he said
this in the hope that his friend would contradict him, and hold up to view
the admirable gifts of the youth. Here, however, he deceived himself. Old
Werner, who, in practical concerns, would trust no man but such as he had
proved, answered placidly, "One must try all things. We can send him on
the same journey: we shall give him a paper of directions to conduct him.
There are sundry debts to be gathered in, old connections are to be renewed,
new ones to be made. He may likewise help the speculation I was lately
talking of; for, without punctual intelligence gathered on the spot, there is
little to be done in it."
"He must prepare," said Meister, "and set forth as soon as possible. Where
shall we get a horse for him to suit this business?"
"We shall not seek far. The shopkeeper in H——, who owes us somewhat,
but is withal a good man, has offered me a horse instead of payment. My
son knows it, and tells me it is a serviceable beast."
"He may fetch it himself. Let him go with the diligence; the day after to-
morrow he is back again betimes; we have his saddle-bags and letters made
ready in the mean time; he can set out on Monday morning."
Wilhelm was sent for, and informed of their determination. Who so glad as
he, now seeing the means of executing his purpose put into his hands, the
opportunity made ready for him, without co-operation of his own! So
intense was his love, so full was his conviction of the perfect rectitude of
his intention to escape from the pressure of his actual mode of life, and

follow a new and nobler career, that his conscience did not in the least
rebel; no anxiety arose within him; he even reckoned the deception he was
meditating holy. He felt certain, that, in the long-run, parents and relations
would praise and bless him for this resolution: he acknowledged in these
concurring circumstances the signal of a guiding fate.
How slowly the time passed with him till night, till the hour when he should
again see his Mariana! He sat in his chamber, and revolved the plan of his
journey; as a conjurer, or a cunning thief in durance, often draws out his
feet from the fast-locked irons, to cherish in himself the conviction that his
deliverance is possible, nay, nearer than short-sighted turnkeys believe.
At last the appointed hour struck: he went out, shook off all anxiety, and
hastened through the silent streets. In the middle of the great square he
raised his hands to the sky, feeling as if all was behind him and below him:
he had freed himself from all. One moment he figured himself as in the
arms of his beloved, the next as glancing with her in the splendors of the
stage: he soared aloft in a world of hopes, only now and then the call of
some watchman brought to his recollection that he was still wandering on
the vulgar earth.
Mariana came to the stairs to meet him,—and how beautiful, how lovely!
She received him in the new white negligée: he thought he had never seen
her so charming. Thus did she handsel the gift of her absent lover in the
arms of a present one; with true passion she lavished on her darling the
whole treasure of those caresses which nature suggested, or art had taught:
need we ask if he was happy, if he was blessed?
He disclosed to her what had passed, and showed her, in general terms, his
plan and his wishes. He would try, he said, to find a residence, then come
back for her: he hoped she would not refuse him her hand. The poor girl
was silent: she concealed her tears, and pressed her friend against her
bosom. Wilhelm, though interpreting her silence in the most favorable
manner, could have wished for a distinct reply; and still more, when at last
he inquired of her in the tenderest and most delicate terms, if he might not
think himself a father. But to this she answered only with a sigh, with a kiss.

CHAPTER XII.
Next morning Mariana awoke only to new despondency; she felt herself
very solitary; she wished not to see the light of day, but staid in bed, and
wept. Old Barbara sat down by her, and tried to persuade and console her;
but it was not in her power so soon to heal the wounded heart. The moment
was now at hand to which the poor girl had been looking forward as to the
last of her life. Who could be placed in a more painful situation? The man
she loved was departing; a disagreeable lover was threatening to come; and
the most fearful mischiefs were to be anticipated, if the two, as might easily
happen, should meet together.
"Calm yourself, my dear," said the old woman: "do not spoil your pretty
eyes with crying. Is it, then, so terrible a thing to have two lovers? And
though you can bestow your love but on the one, yet be thankful to the
other, who, caring for you as he does, certainly deserves to be named your
friend."
"My poor Wilhelm," said the other, all in tears, "had warning that a
separation was at hand. A dream discovered to him what we strove so much
to hide. He was sleeping calmly at my side; on a sudden I heard him mutter
some unintelligible sounds: I grew frightened, and awoke him. Ah! with
what love and tenderness and warmth did he clasp me! 'O Mariana!' cried
he, 'what a horrid fate have you freed me from! How shall I thank you for
deliverance from such torment? I dreamed that I was far from you in an
unknown country, but your figure hovered before me; I saw you on a
beautiful hill, the sunshine was glancing over it all; how charming you
looked! But it had not lasted long, before I observed your image sinking
down, sinking, sinking: I stretched out my arms towards you; they could not
reach you through the distance. Your image still kept gliding down: it
approached a great sea that lay far extended at the foot of the hill,—a marsh
rather than a sea. All at once a man gave you his hand, and seemed meaning
to conduct you upwards; but he led you sidewards, and appeared to draw
you after him. I cried out: as I could not reach you, I hoped to warn you. If I
tried to walk, the ground seemed to hold me fast; if I could walk, the water
hindered me; and even my cries were smothered in my breast.' So said the

poor youth, while recovering from his terror, and reckoning himself happy
to see a frightful dream thrust aside by the most delicious reality."
Barbara made every effort to reduce, by her prose, the poetry of her friend
to the domain of common life; employing, in the present case, the ingenious
craft which so often succeeds with bird-catchers, when they imitate with a
whistle the tones of those luckless creatures they soon hope to see by
dozens safely lodged in their nets. She praised Wilhelm: she expatiated on
his figure, his eyes, his love. The poor girl heard her with a gratified heart,
then arose, let herself be dressed, and appeared calmer. "My child, my
darling," continued the old woman, in a cozening tone, "I will not trouble
you or injure you: I cannot think of tearing from you your dearest
happiness. Could you mistake my intention? Have you forgotten that on all
occasions I have cared for you more than for myself? Tell me only what you
wish: we shall soon see how it may be brought about."
"What can I wish?" said Mariana; "I am miserable, miserable for life: I love
him, and he loves me; yet I see that I must part with him, and know not how
I shall survive it. Norberg is coming, to whom we owe our whole
subsistence, whom we cannot live without. Wilhelm is straitened in his
fortune: he can do nothing for me."
"Yes, unfortunately, he is of those lovers who bring nothing but their hearts;
and these people, too, have the highest pretensions of any."
"No jesting! The unhappy youth thinks of leaving his home, of going upon
the stage, of offering me his hand."
"Of empty hands we have already four."
"I have no choice," continued Mariana; "do you decide for me. Cast me
away to this side or to that: mark only one thing,—I think I carry in my
bosom a pledge that ought to unite me with him still more closely. Consider
and determine: whom shall I forsake? whom shall I follow?"
After a short silence, Barbara exclaimed. "Strange, that youth should
always be for extremes! To my view, nothing would be easier than for us to
combine both the profit and the enjoyment. Do you love the one, let the
other pay for it: all we have to mind, is being sharp enough to keep the two
from meeting."

"Do as you please: I can imagine nothing, but I will obey."
"We have this advantage: we can humor the manager's caprice and pride
about the morals of his troop. Both lovers are accustomed already to go
secretly and cautiously to work. For hours and opportunity I will take
thought: only henceforth you must act the part that I prescribe to you. Who
knows what circumstances may arise to help us? If Norberg would arrive
even now, when Wilhelm is away! Who can hinder you from thinking of the
one in the arms of the other? I wish you a son, and good fortune with him:
he will have a rich father."
These projects lightened Mariana's despondency only for a very short time.
She could not bring her situation into harmony with her feelings, with her
convictions: she would fain have forgotten the painful relations in which
she stood, and a thousand little circumstances forced them back every
moment to her recollection.

CHAPTER XIII.
In the mean time, Wilhelm had completed the short preliminary journey.
His merchant being from home, he delivered the letter of introduction to the
mistress of the house. But neither did this lady give him much furtherance
in his purposes: she was in a violent passion, and her whole economy was
in confusion.
He had not waited long when she disclosed to him, what in truth could not
be kept a secret, that her step-daughter had run off with a player,—a person
who had parted lately from a small strolling company, and had staid in the
place, and commenced teaching French. The father, distracted with grief
and vexation, had run to the Amt to have the fugitives pursued. She blamed
her daughter bitterly, and vilified the lover, till she left no tolerable quality
with either: she deplored at great length the shame thus brought upon the
family; embarrassing our hero not a little, who here felt his own private
scheme beforehand judged and punished, in the spirit of prophecy as it
were, by this frenzied sibyl. Still stronger and deeper was the interest he

took in the sorrows of the father, who now returned from the Amt, and with
fixed sorrow, in broken sentences, gave his wife an account of the errand,
and strove to hide the embarrassment and distraction of his mind; while,
after looking at the letter, he directed that the horse it spoke of should be
given to Wilhelm.
Our friend thought it best to mount his steed immediately, and quit a house
where, in its present state, he could not possibly be comfortable; but the
honest man would not allow the son of one to whom he had so many
obligations to depart without tasting of his hospitality, without remaining at
least a night beneath his roof.
Wilhelm had partaken of a melancholy supper, worn out a restless night,
and hastened, early in the morning, to get rid of these people, who, without
knowing it, had, by their narratives and utterances, been constantly
wounding him to the quick.
In a musing mood, he was riding slowly along, when all at once he
observed a number of armed men coming through the fields. By their long,
loose coats, with enormous cuffs; by their shapeless hats, clumsy muskets;
by their unpretending gait, and contented bearing of the body,—he
recognized in these people a detachment of provincial militia. They halted
beneath an old oak, set down their fire-arms, and placed themselves at their
ease upon the sward, to smoke a pipe of tobacco. Wilhelm lingered near
them, and entered into conversation with a young man who came up on
horseback. The history of the two runaways, which he knew but too well,
was again detailed to him, and that with comments not particularly
flattering, either to the young pair themselves, or to the parents. He also
learned that the military had come hither to take into custody the loving
couple, who had already been seized and detained in a neighboring village.
After some time, accordingly, a cart was seen advancing to the place,
encircled with a city guard more ludicrous than appalling. An amorphous
town-clerk rode forth, and made his compliments to the Actuarius (for such
was the young man Wilhelm had been speaking to), on the border of their
several districts, with great conscientiousness and queer grimaces; as
perhaps the ghost and the conjurer do, when they meet, the one within the
circle and the other out of it, in their dismal midnight operations.

But the chief attention of the lookers-on was directed to the cart: they could
not behold, without compassion, the poor, misguided creatures, who were
sitting upon bundles of straw, looking tenderly at one another, and scarcely
seeming to observe the by-standers. Accident had forced their conductors to
bring them from the last village in that unseemly style; the old chaise,
which had previously transported the lady, having there broken down. On
that occurrence she had begged for permission to sit beside her friend;
whom, in the conviction that his crime was of a capital sort, the rustic
bailiffs had so far brought along in irons. These irons certainly contributed
to give the tender group a more interesting appearance, particularly as the
young man moved and bore himself with great dignity, while he kissed
more than once the hands of his fair companion.
"We are unfortunate," she cried to the by-standers, "but not so guilty as we
seem. It is thus that cruel men reward true love; and parents, who entirely
neglect the happiness of their children, tear them with fury from the arms of
joy, when it has found them after many weary days."
The spectators were expressing their sympathy in various ways, when, the
officers of law having finished their ceremonial, the cart went on; and
Wilhelm, who took a deep interest in the fate of the lovers, hastened
forward by a foot path to get some acquaintance with the Amtmann before
the procession should arrive. But scarcely had he reached the Amthaus,
where all was in motion, and ready to receive the fugitives, when his new
friend, the Actuarius, laid hold of him; and giving him a circumstantial
detail of the whole proceedings, and then launching out into a
comprehensive eulogy of his own horse, which he had got by barter the
night before, put a stop to every other sort of conversation.
The luckless pair, in the mean time, had been set down behind, at the
garden, which communicated by a little door with the Amthaus, and thus
brought in unobserved. The Actuarius, for this mild and handsome
treatment, accepted of a just encomium from Wilhelm; though in truth his
sole object had been to mortify the crowd collected in front of the Amthaus,
by denying them the satisfaction of looking at a neighbor in disgrace.
The Amtmann, who had no particular taste for such extraordinary
occurrences, being wont on these occasions to commit frequent errors, and,

with the best intentions, to be often paid with sour admonitions from the
higher powers, went with heavy steps into his office-room; the Actuarius
with Wilhelm and a few respectable citizens following him.
The lady was first produced; she advanced without pertness, calm and self-
possessed. The manner of her dress, the way in which she bore herself,
showed that she was a person not without value in her own eyes. She
accordingly began, without any questions being put, to speak, not
unskilfully, about her situation.
The Actuarius bade her be silent, and held his pen over the folded sheet.
The Amtmann gathered up his resolution, looked at his assistant, cleared his
throat by two or three hems, and asked the poor girl what was her name,
and how old she was.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said she, "but it seems very strange to me that you
ask my name and age, seeing you know very well what my name is, and
that I am just of the age of your oldest son. What you do want to know of
me, and need to know, I will tell freely without circumlocution.
"Since my father's second marriage, my situation in his house has not been
of the most enviable sort. Oftener than once I have had it in my power to
make a suitable marriage, had not my step-mother, dreading the expense of
my portion, taken care to thwart all such proposals. At length I grew
acquainted with the young Melina; I felt constrained to love him; and, as we
both foresaw the obstacles that stood in the way of our regular union, we
determined to go forth together, and seek in the wide world the happiness
denied us at home. I took nothing with me that was not my own: we did not
run away like thieves and robbers; and my lover does not merit to be hauled
about in this way, with chains and handcuffs. The prince is just, and will not
sanction such severity. If we are liable to punishment, it is not punishment
of this kind."
The old Amtmann hereupon fell into double and treble confusion. Sounds of
the most gracious eulogies were already humming through his brain, and
the girl's voluble speech had entirely confounded the plan of his protocol.
The mischief increased, when to repeated official questions she refused
giving any answer, but constantly referred to what she had already said.

"I am no criminal," she said. "They have brought me hither on bundles of
straw to put me to shame, but there is a higher court that will bring us back
to honor."
The Actuarius, in the mean time, had kept writing down her words: he
whispered the Amtmann, "just to go on,—a formal protocol might be made
out by and by."
The senior then again took heart, and began, with his heavy words, in dry
prescribed formulas, to seek information about the sweet secrets of love.
The red mounted into Wilhelm's cheeks, and those of the pretty criminal
likewise glowed with the charming tinge of modesty. She was silent, she
stammered, till at last her embarrassment itself seemed to exalt her courage.
"Be assured," she cried, "that I should have strength enough to confess the
truth, though it made against myself; and shall I now hesitate and stammer,
when it does me honor? Yes: from the moment when I first felt certain of
his love and faith, I looked upon him as my husband; I freely gave him all
that love requires,—that a heart once convinced cannot long refuse. Now do
with me what you please. If I hesitated for a moment to confess, it was
solely owing to fear lest the admission might prove hurtful to my lover."
On hearing this confession, Wilhelm formed a high opinion of the young
woman's feelings, while her judges marked her as an impudent strumpet;
and the townsfolk present thanked God that in their families no such
scandal had occurred, or at least been brought to light.
Wilhelm transported his Mariana into this conjuncture, answering at the bar:
he put still finer words in her mouth, making her uprightness yet more
affecting, her confession still nobler. The most violent desire to help the two
lovers took possession of him. Nor did he conceal this feeling, but signified
in private to the wavering Amtmann, that it were better to end the business;
all being clear as possible, and requiring no further investigation.
This was so far of service that the young woman was allowed to retire;
though, in her stead, the lover was brought in, his fetters having previously
been taken off him at the door. This person seemed a little more concerned
about his fate. His answers were more careful; and, if he showed less heroic

generosity, he recommended himself by the precision and distinctness of his
expressions.
When this audience also was finished, and found to agree in all points with
the former, except that, from regard for his mistress, Melina stubbornly
denied what had already been confessed by herself, the young woman was
again brought forward; and a scene took place between the two, which
made the heart of our friend entirely their own.
What usually occurs nowhere but in romances and plays, he saw here in a
paltry court-room before his eyes,—the contest of reciprocal magnanimity,
the strength of love in misfortune.
"Is it, then, true," said he internally, "that timorous affection, which
conceals itself from the eye of the sun and of men, not daring to taste of
enjoyment save in remote solitude and deep secrecy, yet, if torn rudely by
some cruel chance into light, will show itself more courageous, strong, and
resolute than any of our loud and ostentatious passions?"
To his comfort, the business now soon came to a conclusion. The lovers
were detained in tolerable quarters: had it been possible, he would that very
evening have brought back the young lady to her parents. For he firmly
determined to act as intercessor in this case, and to forward a happy and
lawful union between the lovers.
He begged permission of the Amtmann to speak in private with Melina, a
request which was granted without difficulty.

CHAPTER XIV.
The conversation of these new acquaintances very soon grew confidential
and lively. When Wilhelm told the downcast youth of his connection with
the lady's parents, and offered to mediate in the affair, showing at the same
time the strongest expectation of success, a light was shed across the dreary
and anxious mind of the prisoner: he felt himself already free, already

reconciled with the parents of his bride, and now began to speak about his
future occupation and support.
"On this point," said our friend, "you cannot long be in difficulty; for you
seem to me directed, not more by your circumstances than by nature, to
make your fortune in the noble profession you have chosen. A pleasing
figure, a sonorous voice, a feeling heart! Could an actor be better furnished?
If I can serve you with a few introductions, it will give me the greatest
pleasure."
"I thank you with all my heart," replied the other, "but I shall hardly be able
to make use of them; for it is my purpose, if possible, not to return to the
stage."
"Here you are certainly to blame," said Wilhelm, after a pause, during
which he had partly recovered out of his astonishment; for it had never once
entered his head, but that the player, the moment his young wife and he
were out of durance, would repair to some theatre. It seemed to him as
natural and as necessary as for the frog to seek pools of water. He had not
doubted of it for a moment, and he now heard the contrary with boundless
surprise.
"Yes," replied Melina, "I have it in view not to re-appear upon the stage, but
rather to take up some civil calling, be it what it will, so that I can but
obtain one."
"This is a strange resolution, which I cannot give my approbation to.
Without especial reasons, it can never be advisable to change the mode of
life we have begun with; and, besides, I know of no condition that presents
so much allurement, so many charming prospects, as the condition of an
actor."
"It is easy to see that you have never been one," said the other.
"Alas, sir," answered Wilhelm, "how seldom is any man contented with the
station where he happens to be placed! He is ever coveting that of his
neighbor, from which the neighbor in his turn is longing to be free."
"Yet still there is a difference," said Melina, "between bad and worse.
Experience, not impatience, makes me determine as you see. Is there in the

world any creature whose morsel of bread is attended with such vexation,
uncertainty, and toil? It were almost as good to take the staff and wallet, and
beg from door to door. What things to be endured from the envy of rivals,
from the partiality of managers, from the ever-altering caprices of the
public! In truth, one would need to have a hide like a bear's, that is led
about in a chain along with apes, and dogs of knowledge, and cudgelled
into dancing at the sound of a bagpipe before the populace and children."
Wilhelm thought a thousand things, which he would not vex the worthy
man by uttering. He merely, therefore, led the conversation round them at a
distance. His friend explained himself the more candidly and
circumstantially on that account. "Is not the manager obliged," said he, "to
fall down at the feet of every little Stadtrath, that he may get permission,
for a month between the fairs, to cause another groschen or two to circulate
in the place? Ours, on the whole, a worthy man, I have often pitied; though
at other times he gave me cause enough for discontentment. A good actor
drains him by extortion; of the bad he cannot rid himself; and, should he try
to make his income at all equal to his outlay, the public immediately takes
umbrage, the house stands empty; and, not to go to wreck entirely, he must
continue acting in the midst of sorrow and vexation. No, no, sir! Since you
are so good as to undertake to help me, have the kindness, I entreat you, to
plead with the parents of my bride: let them get me a little post of clerk or
collector, and I shall think myself well dealt with."
After exchanging a few words more, Wilhelm went away with the promise
to visit the parents early in the morning, and see what could be done.
Scarcely was he by himself, when he gave utterance to his thoughts in these
exclamations: "Unhappy Melina! not in thy condition, but in thyself, lies
the mean impediment over which thou canst not gain the mastery. What
mortal in the world, if without inward calling he take up a trade, an art, or
any mode of life, will not feel his situation miserable? But he who is born
with capacities for any undertaking, finds in executing this the fairest
portion of his being. Nothing upon earth without its difficulties! It is the
secret impulse within, it is the love and the delight we feel, that help us to
conquer obstacles, to clear out new paths, and to overleap the bounds of that
narrow circle in which others poorly toil. For thee the stage is but a few
boards: the parts assigned thee are but what a task is to a school-boy. The
spectators thou regardest as on work-days they regard each other. For thee,

then, it may be well to wish thyself behind a desk, over ruled ledgers,
collecting tolls, and picking out reversions. Thou feelest not the co-
operating, co-inspiring whole, which the mind alone can invent,
comprehend, and complete: thou feelest not that in man there lives a spark
of purer fire, which, when it is not fed, when it is not fanned, gets covered
by the ashes of indifference and daily wants, yet not till late, perhaps never,
can be altogether quenched. Thou feelest in thy soul no strength to fan this
spark into a flame, no riches in thy heart to feed it when aroused. Hunger
drives thee on, inconveniences withstand thee; and it is hidden from thee,
that, in every human condition, foes lie in wait for us, invincible except by
cheerfulness and equanimity. Thou dost well to wish thyself within the
limits of a common station, for what station that required soul and
resolution couldst thou rightly fill? Give a soldier, a statesman, a divine, thy
sentiments, and as justly will he fret himself about the miseries of his
condition. Nay, have there not been men so totally forsaken by all feeling of
existence, that they have held the life and nature of mortals as a nothing, a
painful, short, and tarnished gleam of being? Did the forms of active men
rise up living in thy soul; were thy breast warmed by a sympathetic fire; did
the vocation which proceeds from within diffuse itself over all thy frame;
were the tones of thy voice, the words of thy mouth, delightful to hear; didst
thou feel thy own being sufficient for thyself,—then wouldst thou doubtless
seek place and opportunity likewise to feel it in others."
Amid such words and thoughts, our friend undressed himself, and went to
bed, with feelings of the deepest satisfaction. A whole romance of what he
now hoped to do, instead of the worthless occupations which should have
filled the approaching day, arose within his mind: pleasant fantasies softly
conducted him into the kingdom of sleep, and then gave him up to their
sisters, sweet dreams, who received him with open arms, and encircled his
reposing head with the images of heaven.
Early in the morning he was awake again, and thinking of the business that
lay before him. He revisited the house of the forsaken family, where his
presence caused no small surprise. He introduced his proposal in the most
prudent manner, and soon found both more and fewer difficulties than he
had anticipated. For one thing, the evil was already done: and though
people of a singularly strict and harsh temper are wont to set themselves
forcibly against the past, and thus to increase the evil that cannot now be

remedied; yet, on the other hand, what is actually done exerts an irresistible
effect upon most minds: an event which lately appeared impossible takes its
place, so soon as it has really occurred, with what occurs daily. It was
accordingly soon settled, that Herr Melina was to wed the daughter; who,
however, in return, because of her misconduct, was to take no marriage-
portion with her, and to promise that she would leave her aunt's legacy, for a
few years more, at an easy interest, in her father's hands. But the second
point, touching a civil provision for Melina, was attended with greater
difficulties. They liked not to have the luckless pair continually living in
their sight: they would not have a present object ever calling to their minds
the connection of a mean vagabond with so respectable a family,—a family
which could number even a superintendent among its relatives; nay, it was
not to be looked for, that the government would trust him with a charge.
Both parents were alike inflexible in this matter; and Wilhelm, who pleaded
very hard, unwilling that a man whom he contemned should return to the
stage, and convinced that he deserved not such a happiness, could not, with
all his rhetoric, produce the slenderest impression. Had he known the secret
springs of the business, he would have spared himself the labor of
attempting to persuade. The father would gladly have kept his daughter near
him; but he hated the young man, because his wife herself had cast an eye
upon him: while the latter could not bear to have, in her step-daughter, a
happy rival constantly before her eyes. So Melina with his young wife, who
already manifested no dislike to go and see the world, and be seen of it, was
obliged, against his will, to set forth in a few days, and seek some place in
any acting company where he could find one.

CHAPTER XV.
Happy season of youth! Happy times of the first wish of love! A man is then
like a child that can for hours delight itself with an echo, can support alone
the charges of conversation, and be well contented with its entertainment if
the unseen interlocutor will but repeat the concluding syllables of the words
addressed to it.

So was it with Wilhelm in the earlier and still more in the later period of his
passion for Mariana; he transferred the whole wealth of his own emotions
to her, and looked upon himself as a beggar that lived upon her alms: and as
a landscape is more delightful, nay, is delightful only, when it is enlightened
by the sun; so likewise in his eyes were all things beautified and glorified
which lay round her or related to her.
Often would he stand in the theatre behind the scenes, to which he had
obtained the freedom of access from the manager. In such cases, it is true,
the perspective magic was away; but the far mightier sorcery of love then
first began to act. For hours he could stand by the sooty light-frame,
inhaling the vapor of tallow lamps, looking out at his mistress; and when
she returned, and cast a kindly glance upon him, he could feel himself lost
in ecstasy: and, though close upon laths and bare spars, he seemed
transported into paradise. The stuffed bunches of wool denominated lambs,
the waterfalls of tin, the paper roses, and the one-sided huts of straw, awoke
in him fair poetic visions of an old pastoral world. Nay, the very dancing-
girls, ugly as they were when seen at hand, did not always inspire him with
disgust: they trod the same floor with Mariana. So true is it, that love, which
alone can give their full charm to rose-bowers, myrtle-groves, and
moonshine, can also communicate, even to shavings of wood, and paper-
clippings, the aspect of animated nature. It is so strong a spice, that tasteless
or even nauseous soups are by it rendered palatable.
So potent a spice was certainly required to render tolerable, nay, at last
agreeable, the state in which he usually found her chamber, not to say
herself.
Brought up in a substantial burgher's house, cleanliness and order were the
elements in which he breathed; and, inheriting as he did a portion of his
father's taste for finery, it had always been his care, in boyhood, to furbish
up his chamber, which he regarded as his little kingdom, in the stateliest
fashion. His bed-curtains were drawn together in large, massy folds, and
fastened with tassels, as they are usually seen in thrones; he had got himself
a carpet for the middle of his chamber, and a finer one for his table; his
books and apparatus he had, almost instinctively, arranged in such a
manner, that a Dutch painter might have imitated them for groups in his
still-life scenes. He had a white cap, which he wore straight up like a

turban; and the sleeves of his night-gown he had caused to be cut short, in
the mode of the Orientals. By way of reason for this, he pretended that long,
wide sleeves encumbered him in writing. When, at night, the boy was quite
alone, and no longer dreaded any interruption, he usually wore a silk sash
tied round his body; and often, it is said, he would fix in his girdle a sword,
which he had appropriated from an old armory, and thus repeat and declaim
his tragic parts; nay, in the same trim he would kneel down and say his
evening prayer.
In those times, how happy did he think the players, whom he saw possessed
of so many splendid garments, trappings, and arms; and in the constant
practice of a lofty demeanor, the spirit of which seemed to hold up a mirror
of whatever, in the opinions, relations, and passions of men, was stateliest
and most magnificent. Of a piece with this, thought Wilhelm, is also the
player's domestic life,—a series of dignified transactions and employments,
whereof their appearance on the stage is but the outmost portion; like as a
mass of silver, long simmering about in the purifying furnace, at length
gleams with a bright and beautiful tinge in the eye of the refiner, and shows
him, at the same time, that the metal now is cleansed of all foreign mixture.
Great, accordingly, was his surprise at first, when he found himself beside
his mistress, and looked down, through the cloud that environed him, on
tables, stools, and floor. The wrecks of a transient, light, and false
decoration lay, like the glittering coat of a skinned fish, dispersed in wild
disorder. The implements of personal cleanliness,—combs, soap, towels,—
with the traces of their use, were not concealed. Music, portions of plays
and pairs of shoes, washes and Italian flowers, pin-cushions, hair-skewers,
rouge-pots, and ribbons, books and straw hats,—no article despised the
neighborhood of another: all were united by a common element,— powder
and dust. Yet as Wilhelm scarcely noticed in her presence aught except
herself; nay, as all that had belonged to her, that she had touched, was dear
to him,—he came at last to feel, in this chaotic housekeeping, a charm
which the proud pomp of his own habitation never had communicated.
When, on this hand, he lifted aside her bodice, to get at the harpsichord; on
that, threw her gown upon the bed, that he might find a seat; when she
herself, with careless freedom, did not seek to hide from him many a natural
office, which, out of respect for the presence of a second person, is usually

concealed,—he felt as if by all this he was coming nearer to her every
moment, as if the communion betwixt them was fastening by invisible ties.
It was not so easy to reconcile with his previous ideas the behavior of the
other players, whom, on his first visits, he often met with in her house. Ever
busied in being idle, they seemed to think least of all on their employment
and object: the poetic worth of a piece they were never heard to speak of, or
to judge of, right or wrong; their continual question was simply, How much
will it bring? Is it a stock-piece? How long will it run? How often think you
it may be played? and other inquiries and observations of the same
description. Then commonly they broke out against the manager, that he
was stinted with his salaries, and especially unjust to this one or to that;
then against the public, how seldom it recompensed the right man with its
approval, how the German theatre was daily improving, how the player was
ever growing more honored, and never could be honored enough. Then they
would descant largely about wine-gardens and coffee-houses; how much
debt one of their comrades had contracted, and must suffer a deduction
from his wages on account of; about the disproportion of their weekly
salaries; about the cabals of some rival company: on which occasions, they
would pass again to the great and merited attention which the public now
bestowed upon them; not forgetting the importance of the theatre to the
improvement of the nation and the world.
All this, which had already given Wilhelm many a restless hour, came again
into his memory, as he walked his horse slowly homewards, and
contemplated the various occurrences in which he had so lately been
engaged. The commotion produced by a girl's elopement, not only in a
decent family, but in a whole town, he had seen with his own eyes; the
scenes upon the highway and in the Amthaus, the views entertained by
Melina, and whatever else he had witnessed, again arose before him, and
brought his keen, forecasting mind into a sort of anxious disquietude; which
no longer to endure, he struck the spurs into his horse, and hastened towards
home.
By this expedient, however, he but ran to meet new vexations. Werner, his
friend and future brother-in-law, was waiting for him, to begin a serious,
important, unexpected conversation.

Werner was one of those tried, sedate persons, with fixed principles and
habits, whom we usually denominate cold characters, because on
emergencies they do not burst forth quickly or very visibly. Accordingly, his
intercourse with Wilhelm was a perpetual contest; which, however, only
served to knit their mutual affection the more firmly; for, notwithstanding
their very opposite modes of thinking, each found his account in
communicating with the other. Werner was very well contented with
himself, that he could now and then lay a bridle on the exalted but
commonly extravagant spirit of his friend; and Wilhelm often felt a glorious
triumph, when the staid and thinking Werner could be hurried on with him
in warm ebullience. Thus each exercised himself upon the other; they had
been accustomed to see each other daily; and you would have said, their
eagerness to meet and talk together had even been augmented by the
inability of each to understand the other. At bottom, however, being both
good-hearted men, they were both travelling together towards one goal; and
they could never understand how it was that neither of the two could bring
the other over to his own persuasion.
For some time Werner had observed that Wilhelm's visits had been rarer;
that in his favorite discussions he was brief and absent-minded; that he no
longer abandoned himself to the vivid depicting of singular conceptions,—
tokens by which, in truth, a mind getting rest and contentment in the
presence of a friend is most clearly indicated. The considerate and punctual
Werner first sought for the root of the evil in his own conduct; till some
rumors of the neighborhood set him on the proper trace, and some
unguarded proceedings on the part of Wilhelm brought him nearer to the
certainty. He began his investigation, and erelong discovered, that for some
time Wilhelm had been openly visiting an actress, had often spoken with
her at the theatre, and accompanied her home. On discovering the nightly
visits of his friend, Werner's anxiety increased to a painful extent: for he
heard that Mariana was a most seductive girl, who probably was draining
the youth of his money; while, at the same time, she herself was supported
by another and a very worthless lover.
Having pushed his suspicions as near certainty as possible, he had resolved
to make a sharp attack on Wilhelm: he was now in full readiness with all his
preparations, when his friend returned, discontented and unsettled, from his
journey.

That very evening Werner laid the whole of what he knew before him, first
calmly, then with the emphatic earnestness of a well-meaning friendship.
He left no point of the subject undiscussed, and made Wilhelm taste
abundance of those bitter things which men at ease are accustomed, with
virtuous spite, to dispense so liberally to men in love. Yet, as might have
been expected, he accomplished little. Wilhelm answered with interior
commotion, though with great confidence, "You know not the girl!
Appearances, perhaps, are not to her advantage; but I am certain of her
faithfulness and virtue, as of my love."
Werner maintained his accusations, and offered to bring proofs and
witnesses. Wilhelm waived these offers, and parted with his friend out of
humor and unhinged, like a man in whose jaw some unskilful dentist has
been seizing a diseased, yet fast-rooted, tooth, and tugging at it harshly to
no purpose.
It exceedingly dissatisfied Wilhelm to see the fair image of Mariana
overclouded and almost deformed in his soul, first by the capricious fancies
of his journey, and then by the unfriendliness of Werner. He adopted the
surest means of restoring it to complete brilliancy and beauty, by setting out
at night, and hastening to his wonted destination. She received him with
extreme joy: on entering the town, he had ridden past her window; she had
been expecting his company; and it is easy to conceive that all scruples
were soon driven from his heart. Nay, her tenderness again opened up the
whole stores of his confidence; and he told her how deeply the public, how
deeply his friend, had sinned against her.
Much lively talking led them at length to speak about the earliest period of
their acquaintance, the recollection of which forms always one of the most
delightful topics between two lovers. The first steps that introduce us to the
enchanted garden of love are so full of pleasure, the first prospects so
charming, that every one is willing to recall them to his memory. Each party
seeks a preference above the other; each has loved sooner, more devotedly;
and each, in this contest, would rather be conquered than conquer.
Wilhelm repeated to his mistress, what he had so often told her before, how
she soon abstracted his attention from the play, and fixed it on herself; how
her form, her acting, her voice, inspired him; how at last he went only on

the nights when she was to appear; how, in fine, having ventured behind the
scenes, he had often stood by her unheeded; and he spoke with rapture of
the happy evening when he found an opportunity to do her some civility,
and lead her into conversation.
Mariana, on the other hand, would not allow that she had failed so long to
notice him: she declared that she had seen him in the public walk, and for
proof she described the clothes which he wore on that occasion; she
affirmed that even then he pleased her before all others, and made her long
for his acquaintance.
How gladly did Wilhelm credit all this! How gladly did he catch at the
persuasion, that, when he used to approach her, she had felt herself drawn
towards him by some resistless influence; that she had gone with him
between the side-scenes on purpose to see him more closely, and get
acquainted with him; and that, in fine, when his backwardness and modesty
were not to be conquered, she had herself afforded him an opportunity, and,
as it were, compelled him to hand her a glass of lemonade.
In this affectionate contest, which they pursued through all the little
circumstances of their brief romance, the hours passed rapidly away; and
Wilhelm left his mistress with his heart at peace, and firmly determined on
proceeding forthwith to the execution of his project.

CHAPTER XVI.
The necessary preparations for his journey his father and mother had
attended to: some little matters, that were yet wanting to his equipage,
delayed his departure for a few days. Wilhelm took advantage of this
opportunity to write to Mariana, meaning thus to bring to a decision the
proposal, about which she had hitherto avoided speaking with him. The
letter was as follows:—
"Under the kind veil of night, which has often over-shadowed us together, I
sit and think, and write to thee: all that I meditate and do is solely on thy

account. O Mariana! with me, the happiest of men, it is as with a
bridegroom who stands in the festive chamber, dreaming of the new
universe that is to be unfolded to him, and by means of him, and, while the
holy ceremonies are proceeding, transports himself in longing thought
before the mysterious curtains, from which the loveliness of love whispers
out to him.
"I have constrained myself not to see thee for a few days: the sacrifice was
easy, when united with the hope of such a recompense, of being always
with thee, of remaining ever thine! Need I repeat what I desire? I must! for
it seems as if yet thou hadst never understood me.
"How often, in the low tones of true love, which, though wishing to gain all,
dares speak but little, have I sought in thy heart for the desire of a perpetual
union. Thou hast understood me, doubtless; for in thy own heart the same
wish must have arisen: thou didst comprehend me, in that kiss, in the
intoxicating peace of that happy evening. Thy silence testified to me thy
modest honor; and how did it increase my love! Another woman would
have had recourse to artifice, that she might ripen by superfluous sunshine
the purpose of her lover's heart, might elicit a proposal, and secure a firm
promise. Mariana, on the contrary, drew back: she repelled the half-opened
confidence of him she loved, and sought to conceal her approving feelings
by apparent indifference. But I have understood thee! What a miserable
creature must I be, if I did not by these tokens recognize the pure and
generous love that cares not for itself, but for its object! Confide in me, and
fear nothing. We belong to one another; and neither of us leaves aught or
forsakes aught, if we live for one another.
"Take it, then, this hand! Solemnly I offer this unnecessary pledge! All the
joys of love we have already felt, but there is a new blessedness in the firm
thought of duration. Ask not how,—care not. Fate takes care of love, and
the more certainly as love is easy to provide for.
"My heart has long ago forsaken my paternal home: it is with thee, as my
spirit hovers on the stage. O my darling! to what other man has it been
given to unite all his wishes, as it is to me? No sleep falls upon my eyes:
like the redness of an everlasting dawn, thy love and thy happiness still
glow around me.

"Scarcely can I hold myself from springing up, from rushing forth to thee,
and forcing thy consent, and, with the first light of to-morrow, pressing
forward into the world for the mark I aim at. But, no! I will restrain myself;
I will not act like a thoughtless fool, will do nothing rashly: my plan is laid,
and I will execute it calmly.
"I am acquainted with the manager Serlo: my journey leads me directly to
the place where he is. For above a year he has frequently been wishing that
his people had a touch of my vivacity, and my delight in theatrical affairs: I
shall doubtless be very kindly received. Into your company I cannot enter,
for more than one reason. Serlo's theatre, moreover, is at such a distance
from this, that I may there begin my undertaking without any apprehension
of discovery. With him I shall thus at once find a tolerable maintenance: I
shall look about me in the public, get acquainted with the company, and
then come back for thee.
"Mariana, thou seest what I can force myself to do, that I may certainly
obtain thee. For such a period not to see thee; for such a period to know
thee in the wide world! I dare not view it closely. But yet if I recall to
memory thy love, which assures me of all; if thou shalt not disdain my
prayer, and give me, ere we part, thy hand, before the priest,—I may then
depart in peace. It is but a form between us, yet a form so touching,—the
blessing of Heaven to the blessing of the earth. Close by thy house, in the
Ritterschaftliche Chapel, the ceremony will be soon and secretly performed.
"For the beginning I have gold enough; we will share it between us; it will
suffice for both; and, before that is finished, Heaven will send us more.
"No, my darling, I am not downcast about the issue. What is begun with so
much cheerfulness must reach a happy end. I have never doubted that a man
may force his way through the world, if he really is in earnest about it; and I
feel strength enough within me to provide a liberal support for two, and
many more. The world, we are often told, is unthankful: I have never yet
discovered that it was unthankful, if one knew how, in the proper way, to do
it service. My whole soul burns at the idea, that I shall at length step forth,
and speak to the hearts of men something they have long been yearning to
hear. How many thousand times has a feeling of disgust passed through me,
alive as I am to the nobleness of the stage, when I have seen the poorest

creatures fancying they could speak a word of power to the hearts of the
people! The tone of a man's voice singing treble sounds far pleasanter and
purer to my ear: it is incredible how these blockheads, in their coarse
ineptitude, deform things beautiful and venerable.
"The theatre has often been at variance with the pulpit: they ought not, I
think, to quarrel. How much is it to be wished, that in both the celebration
of nature and of God were intrusted to none but men of noble minds! These
are no dreams, my darling! As I have felt in thy heart that thou couldst love,
I seize the dazzling thought, and say,—no, I will not say, but I will hope and
trust,—that we two shall yet appear to men as a pair of chosen spirits, to
unlock their hearts, to touch the recesses of their nature, and prepare for
them celestial joys, as surely as the joys I have tasted with thee deserved to
be named celestial, since they drew us from ourselves, and exalted us above
ourselves.
"I cannot end. I have already said too much, and know not whether I have
yet said all, all that concerns thy interests; for to express the agitations of
the vortex that whirls round within myself, is beyond the power of words.
"Yet take this sheet, my love! I have again read it over: I observe it ought to
have begun more cautiously; but it contains in it all that thou hast need to
know,—enough to prepare thee for the hour when I shall return with the
lightness of love to thy bosom. I seem to myself like a prisoner that is
secretly filing his irons asunder. I bid good-night to my soundly sleeping
parents. Farewell, my beloved, farewell! For this time I conclude; my
eyelids have more than once dropped together; it is now deep in the night."

CHAPTER XVII.
It seemed as if the day would never end, while Wilhelm, with the letter
beautifully folded in his pocket, longed to meet with Mariana. The darkness
had scarcely come on, when, contrary to custom, he glided forth to her
house. His plan was, to announce himself for the night; then to quit his
mistress for a short time, leaving the letter with her ere he went away; and,

returning at a late hour, to obtain her reply, her consent, or to force it from
her by the power of his caresses. He flew into her arms, and pressed her in
rapture to his bosom. The vehemence of his emotions prevented him at first
from noticing, that, on this occasion, she did not receive him with her
wonted heartiness; yet she could not long conceal her painful situation, but
imputed it to slight indisposition. She complained of a headache, and would
not by any means consent to his proposal of coming back that night.
Suspecting nothing wrong, he ceased to urge her, but felt that this was not
the moment for delivering his letter. He retained it, therefore; and, as
several of her movements and observations courteously compelled him to
take his leave, in the tumult of unsatiable love he snatched up one of her
neckerchiefs, squeezed it into his pocket, and forced himself away from her
lips and her door. He returned home, but could not rest there: he again
dressed himself, and went out into the open air.
After walking up and down several streets, he was accosted by a stranger
inquiring for a certain inn. Wilhelm offered to conduct him to the house. In
the way, his new acquaintance asked about the names of the streets, the
owners of various extensive edifices, then about some police regulations of
the town; so that, by the time they reached the door of the inn, they had
fallen into quite an interesting conversation. The stranger politely
compelled his guide to enter, and drink a glass of punch with him. Ere long
he had told his name and place of abode, as well as the business that had
brought him hither; and he seemed to expect a like confidence from
Wilhelm. Our friend, without any hesitation, mentioned his name, and the
place where he lived.
"Are you not a grandson of the old Meister, who possessed that beautiful
collection of pictures and statues?" inquired the stranger.
"Yes, I am. I was ten years old when my grandfather died, and it grieved me
very much to see these fine things sold."
"Your father got a fine sum of money for them."
"You know of it, then?"
"Yes, indeed: I saw that treasure ere it left your house. Your grandfather was
not merely a collector, he had a thorough knowledge of art. In his younger

happy years he had been in Italy, and had brought back with him such
treasures as could not now be got for any price. He possessed some
exquisite pictures by the best masters. When you looked through his
drawings, you would scarcely have believed your eyes. Among his marbles
were some invaluable fragments; his series of bronzes was instructive and
well chosen; he had also collected medals, in considerable quantity, relating
to history and art; his few gems deserved the greatest praise. In addition to
all which, the whole was tastefully arranged; although the rooms and hall of
the old house had not been symmetrically built."
"You may conceive," said Wilhelm, "what we young ones lost, when all
these articles were taken down and sent away. It was the first mournful
period of my life. I cannot tell you how empty the chambers looked when
we saw those objects vanish one by one, which had amused us from our
earliest years, and which we considered as unalterable as the house, or the
town itself."
"If I mistake not, your father put the capital produced by the sale into some
neighbor's stock, with whom he commenced a sort of partnership in trade."
"Quite right; and their joint speculations have prospered in their hands.
Within the last twelve years, they have greatly increased their fortunes, and
are now the more vehemently bent on gaining. Old Werner also has a son,
who suits that sort of occupation much better than I."
"I am sorry the place should have lost such an ornament as your
grandfather's cabinet was to it. I saw it but a short time prior to the sale; and
I may say, I was myself the cause of its being then disposed of. A rich
nobleman, a great amateur, but one who, in such important transactions,
does not trust to his own solitary judgment, had sent me hither, and
requested my advice. For six days I examined the collection: on the
seventh, I advised my friend to pay down the required sum without delay.
You were then a lively boy, often running about me: you explained to me
the subjects of the pictures, and in general, I recollect, could give a very
good account of the whole cabinet."
"I remember such a person, but I should not have recognized him in you."

"It is a good while ago, and we all change more or less. You had, if I
mistake not, a favorite piece among them, to which you were ever calling
my attention."
"Oh, yes! it represented the history of that king's son dying of a secret love
for his father's bride."
"It was not, certainly, the best picture,—badly grouped, of no superiority in
coloring, and executed altogether with great mannerism."
"This I did not understand, and do not yet: it is the subject that charms me
in a picture, not the art."
"Your grandfather seemed to have thought otherwise. The greater part of his
collection consisted of excellent pieces; in which, represent what they
might, one constantly admired the talent of the master. This picture of yours
had accordingly been hung in the outermost room,—a proof that he valued
it slightly."
"It was in that room where we young ones used to play, and where the piece
you mention made on me a deep impression; which not even your criticism,
greatly as I honor it, could obliterate, if we stood before the picture at this
moment. What a melancholy object is a youth that must shut up within
himself the sweet impulse, the fairest inheritance which nature has given us,
and conceal in his own bosom the fire which should warm and animate
himself and others, so that his vitals are wasted away by unutterable pains! I
feel a pity for the ill-fated man that would consecrate himself to another,
when the heart of that other has already found a worthy object of true and
pure affection."
"Such feelings are, however, very foreign to the principles by which a lover
of art examines the works of great painters; and most probably you, too, had
the cabinet continued in your family, would have by and by acquired a
relish for the works themselves, and have learned to see in the performances
of art something more than yourself and your individual inclinations."
"In truth, the sale of that cabinet grieved me very much at the time; and
often since I have thought of it with regret: but when I consider that it was a
necessary means of awakening a taste in me, of developing a talent, which
will operate far more powerfully on my history than ever those lifeless

pictures could have done, I easily content myself, and honor destiny, which
knows how to bring about what is best for me, and what is best for every
one."
"It gives me pain to hear this word destiny in the mouth of a young person,
just at the age when men are commonly accustomed to ascribe their own
violent inclinations to the will of higher natures."
"You, then, do not believe in destiny? No power that rules over us and
directs all for our ultimate advantage?"
"The question is not now of my belief, nor is this the place to explain how I
may have attempted to form for myself some not impossible conception of
things which are incomprehensible to all of us: the question here is, What
mode of viewing them will profit us the most? The fabric of our life is
formed of necessity and chance: the reason of man takes its station between
them, and may rule them both; it treats the necessary as the groundwork of
its being; the accidental it can direct and guide, and employ for its own
purposes: and only while this principle of reason stands firm and
inexpugnable, does man deserve to be named the god of this lower world.
But woe to him who, from his youth, has used himself to search in necessity
for something of arbitrary will; to ascribe to chance a sort of reason, which
it is a matter of religion to obey. Is conduct like this aught else than to
renounce one's understanding, and give unrestricted scope to one's
inclinations? We think it is a kind of piety to move along without
consideration; to let accidents that please us determine our conduct; and,
finally, to bestow on the result of such a vacillating life the name of
providential guidance."
"Was it never your case that some little circumstance induced you to strike
into a certain path, where some accidental occurrence erelong met you, and
a series of unexpected incidents at length brought you to some point which
you yourself had scarcely once contemplated? Should not lessons of this
kind teach us obedience to destiny, confidence in some such guide?"
"With opinions like these, no woman could maintain her virtue, no man
keep the money in his purse; for occasions enough are occurring to get rid
of both. He alone is worthy of respect, who knows what is of use to himself
and others, and who labors to control his self-will. Each man has his own

fortune in his hands; as the artist has a piece of rude matter, which he is to
fashion to a certain shape. But the art of living rightly is like all arts: the
capacity alone is born with us; it must be learned, and practised with
incessant care."
These discussions our two speculators carried on between them to
considerable length: at last they parted without seeming to have wrought
any special conviction in each other, but engaging to meet at an appointed
place next day.
Wilhelm walked up and down the streets for a time: he heard a sound of
clarinets, hunting-horns, and bassoons; it swelled his bosom with delightful
feelings. It was some travelling showmen that produced this pleasant music.
He spoke with them: for a piece of coin they followed him to Mariana's
house. The space in front of the door was adorned with lofty trees; under
them he placed his artists; and, himself resting on a bench at some distance,
he surrendered his mind without restraint to the hovering tones which
floated round him in the cool mellow night. Stretched out beneath the kind
stars, he felt his existence like a golden dream. "She, too, hears these
flutes," said he within his heart: "she feels whose remembrance, whose love
of her, it is that makes the night full of music. In distance, even, we are
united by these melodies, as in every separation, by the ethereal accordance
of love. Ah! two hearts that love each other are as two magnetic needles:
whatever moves the one must move the other with it; for it is one power
that works in both, one principle that pervades them. Can I in her arms
conceive the possibility of parting from her? And yet I am soon to be far
from her, to seek out a sanctuary for our love, and then to have her ever
with me.
"How often, when absent from her, and lost in thoughts about her,
happening to touch a book, a piece of dress or aught else, have I thought I
felt her hand, so entirely was I invested with her presence! And to recollect
those moments which shunned the light of day and the eye of the cold
spectator; which, to enjoy, the gods might determine to forsake the painless
condition of their pure blessedness! To recollect them! As if by memory we
could renew the tumultuous thrilling of that cup of joy, which encircles our
senses with celestial bonds, and lifts them beyond all earthly hinderances.
And her form"—He lost himself in thoughts of her; his rest passed away

into longing; he leaned against a tree, and cooled his warm cheek on its
bark; and the winds of the night wafted speedily aside the breath, which
proceeded in sighs from his pure and impassioned bosom. He groped for the
neckerchief he had taken from her; but it was forgotten, it lay in his other
clothes. His frame quivered with emotion.
The music ceased, and he felt as if fallen from the element in which his
thoughts had hitherto been soaring. His restlessness increased, as his
feelings were no longer nourished and assuaged by the melody. He sat
down upon her threshold, and felt more peace. He kissed the brass knocker
of her door: he kissed the threshold over which her feet went out and in, and
warmed it by the fire of his breast. He again sat still for a moment, and
figured her behind her curtains in the white night-gown, with the red ribbon
round her head, in sweet repose: he almost fancied that he was himself so
near her, she must needs be dreaming of him. His thoughts were beautiful,
like the spirits of the twilight; rest and desire alternated within him; love ran
with a quivering hand, in a thousand moods, over all the chords of his soul;
it was as if the spheres stood mute above him, suspending their eternal song
to watch the low melodies of his heart.
Had he then had about him the master-key with which he used to open
Mariana's door, he could not have restrained himself from penetrating into
the sanctuary of love. Yet he went away slowly; he slanted, half-dreaming,
in beneath the trees, set himself for home, and constantly turned round
again; at last, with an effort, he constrained himself, and actually departed.
At the corner of the street, looking back yet once, he imagined that he saw
Mariana's door open, and a dark figure issue from it. He was too distant for
seeing clearly; and, before he could exert himself and look sharply, the
appearance was already lost in the night; yet afar off he thought he saw it
again gliding past a white house. He stood, and strained his eyes; but, ere he
could arouse himself and follow the phantom, it had vanished. Whither
should he pursue it? What street had the man taken, if it were a man?
A nightly traveller, when at some turn of his path he has seen the country
for an instant illuminated by a flash of lightning, will, with dazzled eyes,
next moment, seek in vain for the preceding forms and the connection of his
road; so was it in the eyes and the heart of Wilhelm. And as a spirit of
midnight, which awakens unutterable terror, is, in the succeeding moments

of composure, regarded as a child of imagination, and the fearful vision
leaves doubts without end behind it in the soul; so likewise was Wilhelm in
extreme disquietude, as, leaning on the corner-stone of the street, he heeded
not the clear gray of the morning, and the crowing of the cocks; till the
early trades began to stir, and drove him home.
On his way, he had almost effaced the unexpected delusion from his mind
by the most sufficient reasons; yet the fine harmonious feelings of the night,
on which he now looked back as if they too had been a vision, were also
gone. To soothe his heart, and put the last seal on his returning belief, he
took the neckerchief from the pocket of the dress he had been last wearing.
The rustling of a letter which fell out of it took the kerchief away from his
lips: he lifted and read,—
"As I love thee, little fool, what ailed thee last night? This evening I will
come again. I can easily suppose that thou art sick of staying here so long:
but have patience; at the fair I will return for thee. And observe, never more
put me on that abominable black-green-brown jacket: thou lookest in it like
the witch of Endor. Did I not send the white night-gown, that I might have a
snowy little lambkin in my arms? Send thy letters always by the ancient
sibyl: the Devil himself has selected her as Iris."

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.
Whoever strives in our sight with vehement force to reach an object, be it
one that we praise or that we blame, may count on exciting an interest in
our minds; but, when once the matter is decided, we turn our eyes away
from him: whatever once lies finished and done, can no longer at all fix our
attention, especially if we at first prophesied an evil issue to the
undertaking.
Therefore we shall not try to entertain our readers with any circumstantial
account of the grief and desperation into which our ill-fated friend was cast,
when he saw his hopes so unexpectedly and instantaneously ruined. On the
contrary, we shall even pass over several years, and again take up our
friend, where we hope to find him in some sort of activity and comfort.
First, however, we must shortly set forth a few matters necessary for
maintaining the connection of our narrative.
The pestilence, or a malignant fever, rages with more fierceness, and
speedier effect, if the frame which it attacks was before healthy and full of
vigor; and in like manner, when a luckless, unlooked-for fate overtook the
wretched Wilhelm, his whole being in a moment was laid waste. As when
by chance, in the preparation of some artificial firework, any part of the
composition kindles before its time; and the skilfully bored and loaded
barrels, which, arranged, and burning after a settled plan, would have
painted in the air a magnificently varying series of flaming images, now
hissing and roaring, promiscuously explode with a confused and dangerous
crash,—so, in our hero's case, did happiness and hope, pleasure and joys,
realities and dreams, clash together with destructive tumult, all at once in

his bosom. In such desolate moments, the friend that has hastened to
deliverance stands fixed in astonishment; and for him who suffers, it is a
benefit that sense forsakes him.
Days of pain, unmixed, ever-returning, and purposely renewed, succeeded
next: still, even these are to be regarded as a grace from nature. In such
hours Wilhelm had not yet quite lost his mistress: his pains were
indefatigable struggles, still to hold fast the happiness that was gliding from
his soul; again to luxuriate in thought on the possibility of it; to procure a
brief after-life for his joys that had departed forever. Thus one may look
upon a body as not utterly dead while the putrefaction lasts; while the forces
that in vain seek to work by their old appointment, still labor in dissevering
the particles of that frame which they once animated; and not till all is
disunited and inert, till we see the whole mouldered down into indifferent
dust,—not till then does there rise in us the mournful, vacant sentiment of
death,—death, not to be recalled, save by the breath of Him that lives
forever.
In a temper so new, so entire, so full of love, there was much to tear
asunder, to desolate, to kill; and even the healing force of youth gave
nourishment and violence to the power of sorrow. The stroke had extended
to the roots of his whole existence. Werner, by necessity his confidant,
attacked the hated passion itself with fire and sword, resolutely zealous to
search into the monster's inmost life. The opportunity was lucky, the
evidence at hand, and many were the histories and narratives with which he
backed it out. With such unrelenting vehemence did he make his advances,
leaving his friend not even the respite of the smallest momentary self-
deception, but treading down every lurking-place in which he might have
saved himself from desperation, that Nature, not inclined to let her darling
perish utterly, visited him with sickness, to make an outlet for him on the
other side.
A violent fever, with its train of consequences, medicines, overstraining,
and exhaustion, besides the unwearied attentions of his family, the love of
his brothers and sisters, which first becomes truly sensible in times of
distress and want, were so many fresh occupations to his mind, and thus
formed a kind of painful entertainment. It was not till he grew better, in
other words, till his strength was exhausted, that Wilhelm first looked down

with horror into the gloomy abyss of a barren misery, as one looks down
into the hollow crater of an extinguished volcano.
He now bitterly reproached himself, that, after so great a loss, he could yet
enjoy one painless, restful, indifferent moment. He despised his own heart,
and longed for the balm of tears and lamentation.
To awaken these again within him, he would recall to memory the scenes of
his by-gone happiness. He would paint them to his fancy in the liveliest
colors, transport himself again into the days when they were real; and when
standing on the highest elevation he could reach, when the sunshine of past
times again seemed to animate his limbs and heave his bosom, he would
look back into the fearful chasm, would feast his eye on its dismembering
depth, then plunge down into its horrors, and thus force from nature the
bitterest pains. With such repeated cruelty did he tear himself in pieces; for
youth, which is so rich in undeveloped force, knows not what it squanders
when, to the anguish which a loss occasions, it adds so many sorrows of its
own production, as if it meant then first to give the right value to what is
gone forever. He likewise felt so convinced that his present loss was the
sole, the first, the last, he ever could experience in life, that he turned away
from every consolation which aimed at showing that his sorrows might be
less than endless.

CHAPTER II.
Accustomed in this way to torment himself, he now also attacked what still
remained to him; what next to love, and along with it, had given him the
highest joys and hopes,—his talent as a poet and actor, with spiteful
criticisms on every side. In his labors he could see nothing but a shallow
imitation of prescribed forms, without intrinsic worth: he looked on them as
stiff school-exercises, destitute of any spark of nature, truth, or inspiration.
His poems now appeared nothing more than a monotonous arrangement of
syllables, in which the most trite emotions and thoughts were dragged along
and kept together by a miserable rhyme. And thus did he also deprive

himself of every expectation, every pleasure, which on this quarter at least
might have aided the recovery of his peace.
With his theatric talent it fared no better. He blamed himself for not having
sooner detected the vanity on which alone this pretension had been
founded. His figure, his gait, his movements, his mode of declamation,
were severally taxed: he decisively renounced every species of advantage or
merit that might have raised him above the common run of men, and so
doing he increased his mute despair to the highest pitch. For, if it is hard to
give up a woman's love, no less painful is the task to part from the
fellowship of the Muses, to declare ourselves forever undeserving to be of
their community, and to forego the fairest and most immediate kind of
approbation, what is openly bestowed on our person, our voice, and our
demeanor.
Thus, then, our friend had long ago entirely resigned himself, and set about
devoting his powers with the greatest zeal to the business of trade. To the
surprise of friends, and to the great contentment of his father, no one was
now more diligent than Wilhelm, on the exchange or in the counting-house,
in the sale-room or the warehouses: correspondence and calculations, all
that was intrusted to his charge, he attended to and managed with the
greatest diligence and zeal. Not, in truth, with that warm diligence which to
the busy man is its own reward, when he follows with constancy and order
the employment he was born for, but with the silent diligence of duty, which
has the best principle for its foundation; which is nourished by conviction,
and rewarded by conscience; yet which oft, even when the clearest
testimony of our minds is crowning it with approbation, can scarcely
repress a struggling sigh.
In this manner he lived for a time, assiduously busied, and at last persuaded
that his former hard trial had been ordained by fate for the best. He felt glad
at having thus been timefully, though somewhat harshly, warned about the
proper path of life; while many are constrained to expiate more heavily, and
at a later age, the misconceptions into which their youthful inexperience has
betrayed them. For each man commonly defends himself as long as possible
from casting out the idols which he worships in his soul, from
acknowledging a master error, and admitting any truth which brings him to
despair.

Determined as he was to abandon his dearest projects, some time was still
necessary to convince him fully of his misfortune. At last, however, he had
so completely succeeded, by irrefragable reasons, in annihilating every
hope of love, or poetical performance, or stage representation, that he took
courage to obliterate entirely all the traces of his folly,—all that could in
any way remind him of it. For this purpose he had lit a fire in his chamber,
one cool evening, and brought out a little chest of relics, among which were
multitudes of small articles, that, in memorable moments, he had begged or
stolen from Mariana. Each withered flower brought to his mind the time
when it bloomed fresh among her hair; each little note the happy hour to
which it had invited him; each ribbon-knot the lovely resting-place of his
head,—her beautiful bosom. So occupied, was it not to be expected that
each emotion which he thought long since quite dead, should again begin to
move? Was it not to be expected that the passion over which, when
separated from his mistress, he had gained the victory, should, in the
presence of these memorials, again gather strength? We first observe how
dreary and disagreeable an overclouded day is when a single sunbeam
pierces through, and offers to us the exhilarating splendor of a serene hour.
Accordingly, it was not without disturbance that he saw these relics, long
preserved as sacred, fade away from before him in smoke and flame.
Sometimes he shuddered and hesitated in his task: he had still a pearl
necklace and a flowered neckerchief in his hands, when he resolved to
quicken the decaying fire with the poetical attempts of his youth.
Till now he had carefully laid up whatever had proceeded from his pen,
since the earliest unfolding of his mind. His papers yet lay tied up in a
bundle at the bottom of the chest, where he had packed them; purposing to
take them with him in his elopement. How altogether different were his
feelings now in opening them, and his feelings then in tying them together!
If we happen, under certain circumstances, to have written and sealed and
despatched a letter to a friend, which, however, does not find him, but is
brought back to us, and we open it at the distance of some considerable
time, a singular emotion is produced in us, on breaking up our own seal,
and conversing with our altered self as with a third person. A similar and
deep feeling seized our friend, as he now opened this packet, and threw the
scattered leaves into the fire; which was flaming fiercely with its offerings,

when Werner entered, expressed his wonder at the blaze, and asked what
was the matter.
"I am now giving proof," said Wilhelm, "that I am serious in abandoning a
trade for which I was not born." And, with these words, he cast the second
packet likewise into the fire. Werner made a motion to prevent him, but the
business was already done.
"I cannot see how thou shouldst bring thyself to such extremities," said
Werner. "Why must these labors, because they are not excellent, be
annihilated?"
"Because either a poem is excellent, or it should not be allowed to exist.
Because each man who has no gift for producing first-rate works, should
entirely abstain from the pursuit of art, and seriously guard himself against
every deception on that subject. For it must be owned, that in all men there
is a certain vague desire to imitate whatever is presented to them; and such
desires do not prove at all that we possess within us the force necessary for
succeeding in these enterprises. Look at boys, how, whenever any rope-
dancers have been visiting the town, they go scrambling up and down, and
balancing on all the planks and beams within their reach, till some other
charm calls them off to other sports, for which perhaps they are as little
suited. Hast thou never marked it in the circle of our friends? No sooner
does a dilettante introduce himself to notice, than numbers of them set
themselves to learn playing on his instrument. How many wander back and
forward on this bootless way! Happy they who soon detect the chasm that
lies between their wishes and their powers!"
Werner contradicted this opinion: their discussion became lively, and
Wilhelm could not without emotion employ against his friend the
arguments with which he had already so frequently tormented himself.
Werner maintained that it was not reasonable wholly to relinquish a pursuit
for which a man had some propensity and talent, merely because he never
could succeed in it to full perfection. There were many vacant hours, he
said, which might be filled up by it; and then by and by some result might
be produced which would yield a certain satisfaction to himself and others.
Wilhelm, who in this matter was of quite a different opinion, here
interrupted him, and said with great vivacity,—

"How immensely, dear friend, do you err in believing that a work, the first
presentation of which is to fill the whole soul, can be produced in broken
hours scraped together from other extraneous employment. No: the poet
must live wholly for himself, wholly in the objects that delight him. Heaven
has furnished him internally with precious gifts; he carries in his bosom a
treasure that is ever of itself increasing; he must also live with this treasure,
undisturbed from without, in that still blessedness which the rich seek in
vain to purchase with their accumulated stores. Look at men, how they
struggle after happiness and satisfaction! Their wishes, their toil, their gold,
are ever hunting restlessly,—and after what? After that which the poet has
received from nature,—the right enjoyment of the world, the feeling of
himself in others, the harmonious conjunction of many things that will
seldom exist together.
"What is it that keeps men in continual discontent and agitation? It is, that
they cannot make realities correspond with their conceptions, that
enjoyment steals away from among their hands, that the wished-for comes
too late, and nothing reached and acquired produces on the heart the effect
which their longing for it at a distance led them to anticipate. Now, fate has
exalted the poet above all this, as if he were a god. He views the conflicting
tumult of the passions; sees families and kingdoms raging in aimless
commotion; sees those inexplicable enigmas of misunderstanding, which
frequently a single monosyllable would suffice to explain, occasioning
convulsions unutterably baleful. He has a fellow-feeling of the mournful
and the joyful in the fate of all human beings. When the man of the world is
devoting his days to wasting melancholy, for some deep disappointment, or,
in the ebullience of joy, is going out to meet his happy destiny, the lightly
moved and all-conceiving spirit of the poet steps forth, like the sun from
night to day, and with soft transitions tunes his harp to joy or woe. From his
heart, its native soil, springs up the lovely flower of wisdom; and if others,
while waking, dream, and are pained with fantastic delusions from their
every sense, he passes the dream of life like one awake; and the strangest of
incidents is to him a part both of the past and of the future. And thus the
poet is at once a teacher, a prophet, a friend of gods and men. What! thou
wouldst have him descend from his height to some paltry occupation! He
who is fashioned like the bird to hover round the world, to nestle on the
lofty summits, to feed on buds and fruits, exchanging gayly one bough for

another, he ought also to work at the plough like an ox; like a dog to train
himself to the harness and draught; or perhaps, tied up in a chain, to guard a
farmyard by his barking!"
Werner, it may well be supposed, had listened with the greatest surprise.
"All true," he rejoined, "if men were but made like birds, and, though they
neither spun nor weaved, could yet spend peaceful days in perpetual
enjoyment; if, at the approach of winter, they could as easily betake
themselves to distant regions, could retire before scarcity, and fortify
themselves against frost."
"Poets have lived so," exclaimed Wilhelm, "in times when true nobleness
was better reverenced; and so should they ever live! Sufficiently, provided
for within, they had need of little from without: the gift of communicating
lofty emotions and glorious images to men, in melodies and words that
charmed the ear, and fixed themselves inseparably on whatever objects they
referred to, of old enraptured the world, and served the gifted as a rich
inheritance. At the courts of kings, at the tables of the great, beneath the
windows of the fair, the sound of them was heard; while the ear and the soul
were shut for all beside: and men felt as we do when delight comes over us,
and we stop with rapture if, among the dingles we are crossing, the voice of
the nightingale starts out touching and strong. They found a home in every
habitation of the world, and the lowliness of their condition but exalted
them the more. The hero listened to their songs, and the conqueror of the
earth did reverence to a poet; for he felt, that, without poets, his own wild
and vast existence would pass away like a whirlwind, and be forgotten
forever. The lover wished that he could feel his longings and his joys so
variedly and so harmoniously as the poet's inspired lips had skill to show
them forth; and even the rich man could not of himself discern such
costliness in his idol grandeurs, as when they were presented to him shining
in the splendor of the poet's spirit, sensible to all worth, and exalting all.
Nay, if thou wilt have it, who but the poet was it that first formed gods for
us, that exalted us to them, and brought them down to us?"
"My friend," said Werner, after some reflection, "it has often grieved me
that thou shouldst strive by force to banish from thy soul what thou feelest
so vividly. I am greatly mistaken, if it were not better for thee in some
degree to yield to these propensities, than to waste thyself by the

contradictions of so hard a piece of self-denial, and with the enjoyment of
this one guiltless pleasure to renounce the enjoyment of all others."
"Shall I confess it," said the other, "and wilt not thou laugh at me if I
acknowledge, that these ideas pursue me constantly; that, let me flee from
them as I will, when I explore my heart, I find all my early wishes yet
rooted there, firmly,—nay, more firmly than ever? Yet what now remains
for me, wretched as I am? Ah! whoever should have told me that the arms
of my spirit, with which I was grasping at infinity, and hoping with
certainty to clasp something great and glorious, would so soon be crushed
and smote in pieces,—whoever should have told me this, would have
brought me to despair. And yet now, when judgment has been passed
against me; now, when she, that was to be as my divinity to guide me to my
wishes, is gone forever,—what remains but that I yield up my soul to the
bitterest woes? O my brother! I will not deceive you: in my secret purposes,
she was as the hook on which the ladder of my hopes was fixed. See! With
daring aim the mountain adventurer hovers in the air: the iron breaks, and
he lies broken and dismembered on the earth. No, there is no hope, no
comfort for me more! I will not," he cried out, springing to his feet, "leave a
single fragment of these wretched papers from the flames." He then seized
one or two packets of them, tore them up, and threw them into the fire.
Werner endeavored to restrain him, but in vain. "Let me alone!" cried
Wilhelm: "what should these miserable leaves do here? To me they give
neither pleasant recollections nor pleasant hopes. Shall they remain behind
to vex me to the end of my life? Shall they perhaps one day serve the world
for a jest, instead of awakening sympathy and horror? Woe to me! my doom
is woe! Now I comprehend the wailings of the poets, of the wretched whom
necessity has rendered wise. How long did I look upon myself as
invulnerable and invincible; and, alas! I am now made to see that a deep
and early sorrow can never heal, can never pass away: I feel that I shall take
it with me to my grave. No! not a day of my life shall escape this anguish,
which at last must crush me down; and her image too shall stay with me,
shall live and die with me, the image of the worthless,—O my friend! if I
must speak the feeling of my heart,—the perhaps not altogether worthless!
Her situation, the crookedness of her destiny, have a thousand times
excused her in my mind. I have been too cruel; you steeled me in your own
cold unrelenting harshness; you held my wavering senses captive, and

hindered me from doing for myself and her what I owed to both. Who
knows to what a state I may have brought her! my conscience by degrees
presents to me, in all its heaviness, in what helplessness, in what despair, I
may have left her. Was it not possible that she might clear herself? Was it
not possible? How many misconceptions throw the world into perplexity!
how many circumstances may extort forgiveness for the greatest fault!
Often do I figure her as sitting by herself in silence, leaning on her elbows.
'This,' she says, 'is the faith, the love, he swore to me! With this hard stroke
to end the delicious life which made us one!'" He broke out into a stream of
tears; while he threw himself down with his face upon the table, and wetted
the remaining papers with his weeping.
Werner stood beside him in the deepest perplexity. He had not anticipated
this fierce ebullition of feeling. More than once he had tried to interrupt his
friend, more than once to lead the conversation elsewhere, but in vain: the
current was too strong for him. It remained that long-suffering friendship
should again take up her office. Werner allowed the first shock of sorrow to
pass over, while by his silent presence he testified a pure and honest
sympathy. And thus they both remained that evening,—Wilhelm sunk in the
dull feeling of old sorrows; and the other terrified at this new outbreaking of
a passion which he thought his prudent councils and keen persuasion had
long since mastered and destroyed.

CHAPTER III.
After such relapses, Wilhelm usually applied himself to business and
activity with augmented ardor; and he found it the best means to escape the
labyrinth into which he had again been tempted to enter. His attractive way
of treating strangers, the ease with which he carried on a correspondence in
any living language, more and more increased the hopes of his father and
his trading-friends, and comforted them in their sorrow for his sickness,—
the origin of which had not been known,—and for the pause which had thus
interrupted their plan. They determined a second time on Wilhelm's setting
out to travel; and we now find him on horseback, with his saddle-bags

behind him, exhilarated by the motion and the free air, approaching the
mountains, where he had some affairs to settle.
He winded slowly on his path, through dales and over hills, with a feeling
of the greatest satisfaction. Overhanging cliffs, roaring brooks, moss-grown
rocky walls, deep precipices, he here saw for the first time; yet his earliest
dreams of youth had wandered among such regions. In these scenes he felt
his age renewed; all the sorrows he had undergone were obliterated from his
soul; with unbroken cheerfulness he repeated to himself passages of various
poems, particularly of the "Pastor Fido," which, in these solitary places,
flocked in crowds into his mind. He also recollected many pieces of his
own songs, and recited them with a peculiar contentment. He peopled the
world which lay before him with all the forms of the past, and each step
into the future was to him full of augury of important operations and
remarkable events.
Several men, who came behind him in succession, and saluted him as they
passed by to continue their hasty way into the mountains, by steep
footpaths, sometimes interrupted his thoughts without attracting his
attention to themselves. At last a communicative traveller joined him, and
explained the reason of this general pilgrimage.
"At Hochdorf," he said, "there is a play to be acted to-night; and the whole
neighborhood is gathering to see it."
"What!" cried Wilhelm. "In these solitary hills, among these impenetrable
forests, has theatric art sought out a place, and built herself a temple? And I
am journeying to her festivities!"
"You will wonder more," said the other, "when you learn by whom the play
is to be acted. There is in the place a large manufactory, which employs
many people. The proprietor, who lives, so to speak, remote from all human
society, can find no better means of entertaining his workmen during winter,
than allowing them to act plays. He suffers no cards among them, and
wishes also to withdraw them from all coarse rustic practices. Thus they
pass the long evenings; and to-day, being the old gentleman's birthday, they
are giving a particular festival in honor of him."

Wilhelm came to Hochdorf, where he was to pass the night, and alighted at
the manufactory, the proprietor of which stood as a debtor in his list.
When he gave his name, the old man cried in a glad surprise, "Aye, sir, are
you the son of that worthy man to whom I owe so many thanks,—so long
have owed money? Your good father has had so much patience with me, I
should be a knave if I did not pay you speedily and cheerfully. You come at
the proper time to see that I am fully in earnest about it."
He then called out his wife, who seemed no less delighted than himself to
see the youth: she declared that he was very like his father, and lamented,
that, having such a multitude of guests already in the house, she could not
lodge him for the night.
The account was clear, and quickly settled: Wilhelm put the roll of gold into
his pocket, and wished that all his other business might go on so smoothly.
At last the play-hour came: they now waited nothing but the coming of the
head forester, who at length also arrived, entered with a few hunters, and
was received with the greatest reverence.
The company was then led into the playhouse, formed out of a barn that lay
close upon the garden. Without any extraordinary taste, both seats and stage
were yet decked out in a cheerful and pretty way. One of the painters
employed in the manufactory had formerly worked as an understrapper at
the prince's theatre: he had now represented woods and streets and
chambers, somewhat rudely, it is true, yet so as to be recognized for such.
The play itself they had borrowed from a strolling company, and shaped it
aright, according to their own ideas. As it was, it did not fail to yield some
entertainment. The plot of two lovers wishing to carry off a girl from her
guardian, and mutually from one another, produced a great variety of
interesting situations. Being the first play our friend had witnessed for so
long a time, it suggested several reflections to him. It was full of action, but
without any true delineation of character. It pleased and delighted. Such are
always the beginnings of the scenic art. The rude man is contented if he see
but something going on; the man of more refinement must be made to feel;
the man entirely refined, desires to reflect.
The players he would willingly have helped here and there, for a very little
would have made them greatly better.

His silent meditations were somewhat broken in upon by the tobacco-
smoke, which now began to rise in great and greater copiousness. Soon
after the commencement of the play, the head forester had lit his pipe: by
and by others took the same liberty. The large dogs, too, which followed
these gentlemen, introduced themselves in no pleasant style. At first they
had been bolted out; but, soon finding the back-door passage, they entered
on the stage, ran against the actors, and at last, jumping over the orchestra,
joined their masters, who had taken up the front seats in the pit.
For afterpiece an oblation was represented. A portrait of the old gentleman
in his bridegroom dress stood upon an altar, hung with garlands. All the
players paid their reverence to it in the most submissive postures. The
youngest child came forward dressed in white, and made a speech in verse;
by which the whole family, and even the head forester himself, whom it
brought in mind of his own children, were melted into tears. Thus ended the
play; and Wilhelm could not help stepping on the stage, to have a closer
view of the actresses, to praise them for their good performance, and give
them a little counsel for the future.
The remaining business, which our friend in the following days had to
transact in various quarters of the hill-country, was not all so pleasant, or so
easy to conclude with satisfaction. Many of his debtors entreated for delay,
many were uncourteous, many lied. In conformity with his instructions, he
had to sue some of them at law; he was thus obliged to seek out advocates,
and give instructions to them, to appear before judges, and go through many
other sorry duties of the same sort.
His case was hardly bettered when people chanced to incline showing some
attention to him. He found very few that could any way instruct him, few
with whom he could hope to establish a useful commercial correspondence.
Unhappily, moreover, the weather now grew rainy; and travelling on
horseback in this district came to be attended with insufferable difficulties.
He therefore thanked his stars on again getting near the level country; and at
the foot of the mountains, looking out into a fertile and beautiful plain,
intersected by a smooth-flowing river, and seeing a cheerful little town
lying on its banks, all glittering in the sunshine, he resolved, though without
any special business in the place, to pass a day or two there, that he might

refresh both himself and his horse, which the bad roads had considerably
injured.

CHAPTER IV.
On alighting at an inn, upon the market-place, he found matters going on
very joyously,—at least very stirringly. A large company of rope-dancers,
leapers, and jugglers, having a strong man along with them, had just arrived
with their wives and children, and, while preparing for a grand exhibition,
kept up a perpetual racket. They first quarrelled with the landlord, then with
one another; and, if their contention was intolerable, the expressions of their
satisfaction were infinitely more so. Undetermined whether he should go or
stay, he was standing in the door looking at some workmen, who had just
begun to erect a stage in the middle of the square.
A girl with roses and other flowers for sale, coming by, held out her basket
to him, and he purchased a beautiful nosegay; which, like one that had a
taste for these things, he tied up in a different fashion, and was looking at it
with a satisfied air, when the window of another inn on the opposite side of
the square flew open, and a handsome woman looked out from it.
Notwithstanding the distance, he observed that her face was animated by a
pleasant cheerfulness; her fair hair fell carelessly streaming about her neck;
she seemed to be looking at the stranger. In a short time afterwards, a boy
with a white jacket, and a barber's apron on, came out from the door of her
house towards Wilhelm, saluted him, and said, "The lady at the window
bids me ask if you will not favor her with a share of your beautiful
flowers."—"They are all at her service," answered Wilhelm, giving the
nosegay to this nimble messenger, and making a bow to the fair one, who
returned it with a friendly courtesy, and then withdrew from the window.
Amused with this small adventure, he was going up-stairs to his chamber,
when a young creature sprang against him, and attracted his attention. A
short silk waistcoat with slashed Spanish sleeves, tight trousers with puffs,
looked very pretty on the child. Its long black hair was curled, and wound

in locks and plaits about the head. He looked at the figure with
astonishment, and could not determine whether to take it for a boy or a girl.
However, he decided for the latter: and, as the child ran by, he took her up
in his arms, bade her good-day, and asked her to whom she belonged;
though he easily perceived that she must be a member of the vaulting and
dancing company lately arrived. She viewed him with a dark, sharp side-
look, as she pushed herself out of his arms, and ran into the kitchen without
making any answer.
On coming up-stairs, he found in the large parlor two men practising the
small sword, or seeming rather to make trial which was the better fencer.
One of them plainly enough belonged to the vaulting company: the other
had a somewhat less savage aspect. Wilhelm looked at them, and had
reason to admire them both; and as the black-bearded, sturdy contender
soon afterwards forsook the place of action, the other with extreme
complaisance offered Wilhelm the rapier.
"If you want to take a scholar under your inspection," said our friend, "I am
well content to risk a few passes with you."
Accordingly they fought together; and, although the stranger greatly
overmatched his new competitor, he politely kept declaring that it all
depended upon practice; in fact, Wilhelm, inferior as he was, had made it
evident that he had got his first instructions from a good, solid, thorough-
paced German fencing-master.
Their entertainment was disturbed by the uproar with which the party-
colored brotherhood issued from the inn, to make proclamation of the show,
and awaken a desire to see their art, throughout the town. Preceded by a
drum, the manager advanced on horseback: he was followed by a female
dancer mounted on a corresponding hack, and holding a child before her, all
bedizened with ribbons and spangles. Next came the remainder of the troop
on foot, some of them carrying children on their shoulders in dangerous
postures, yet smoothly and lightly: among these the young, dark, black-
haired figure again attracted Wilhelm's notice.
Pickleherring ran gayly up and down the crowded multitude, distributing
his handbills with much practical fun,—here smacking the lips of a girl,

there breeching a boy, and awakening generally among the people an
invincible desire to know more of him.
On the painted flags, the manifold science of the company was visibly
delineated, particularly of the Monsieur Narciss and the Demoiselle
Landrinette: both of whom, being main characters, had prudently kept back
from the procession, thereby to acquire a more dignified consideration, and
excite a greater curiosity.
During the procession, Wilhelm's fair neighbor had again appeared at the
window; and he did not fail to inquire about her of his new companion. This
person, whom for the present we shall call Laertes, offered to take Wilhelm
over and introduce him. "I and the lady," said he laughing, "are two
fragments of an acting company that made shipwreck here a short while
ago. The pleasantness of the place has induced us to stay in it, and consume
our little stock of cash in peace; while one of our friends is out seeking
some situation for himself and us."
Laertes immediately accompanied his new acquaintance to Philina's door;
where he left him for a moment, and ran to a shop hard by for a few
sweetmeats. "I am sure you will thank me," said he, on returning, "for
procuring you so pleasant an acquaintance."
The lady came out from her room, in a pair of tight little slippers with high
heels, to give them welcome. She had thrown a black mantle over her,
above a white negligée, not indeed superstitiously clean; which, however,
for that very reason, gave her a more frank and domestic air. Her short dress
did not hide a pair of the prettiest feet and ankles in the world.
"You are welcome," she cried to Wilhelm, "and I thank you for your
charming flowers." She led him into her chamber with the one hand,
pressing the nosegay to her breast with the other. Being all seated, and got
into a pleasant train of general talk, to which she had the art of giving a
delightful turn, Laertes threw a handful of gingerbread-nuts into her lap;
and she immediately began to eat them.
"Look what a child this young gallant is!" she said: "he wants to persuade
you that I am fond of such confectionery, and it is himself that cannot live
without licking his lips over something of the kind."

"Let us confess," replied Laertes, "that in this point, as in others, you and I
go hand in hand. For example," he continued, "the weather is delightful to-
day: what if we should take a drive into the country, and eat our dinner at
the Mill?"
"With all my heart," said Philina: "we must give our new acquaintance
some diversion."
Laertes sprang out, for he never walked: and Wilhelm motioned to return
for a minute to his lodgings, to have his hair put in order; for at present it
was all dishevelled with riding. "You can do it here," she said, then called
her little servant, and constrained Wilhelm in the politest manner to lay off
his coat, to throw her powder-mantle over him, and to have his head dressed
in her presence. "We must lose no time," said she: "who knows how short a
while we may all be together?"
The boy, out of sulkiness and ill nature more than want of skill, went on but
indifferently with his task: he pulled the hair with his implements, and
seemed as if he would not soon be done. Philina more than once reproved
him for his blunders, and at last sharply packed him off, and chased him to
the door. She then undertook the business herself, and frizzled Wilhelm's
locks with great dexterity and grace; though she, too, appeared to be in no
exceeding haste, but found always this and that to improve and put to
rights; while at the same time she could not help touching his knees with
hers, and holding her nosegay and bosom so near his lips, that he was
strongly tempted more than once to imprint a kiss on it.
When Wilhelm had cleaned his brow with a little powder-knife, she said to
him, "Put it in your pocket, and think of me when you see it." It was a pretty
knife: the haft, of inlaid steel, had these friendly words wrought on it,
"Think of me." Wilhelm put it up, and thanked her, begging permission at
the same time to make her a little present in return.
At last they were in readiness. Laertes had brought round the coach, and
they commenced a very gay excursion. To every beggar, Philina threw out
money from the window; giving along with it a merry and friendly word.
Scarcely had they reached the Mill, and ordered dinner, when a strain of
music struck up before the house. It was some miners singing various pretty

songs, and accompanying their clear and shrill voices with a cithern and
triangle. In a short while the gathering crowd had formed a ring about them,
and our company nodded approbation to them from the windows.
Observing this attention, they expanded their circle, and seemed making
preparation for their grandest piece. After some pause, a miner stepped
forward with a mattock in his hand; and, while the others played a serious
tune, he set himself to represent the action of digging.
Ere long a peasant came from among the crowd, and, by pantomimic
threats, let the former know that he must cease and remove. Our company
were greatly surprised at this: they did not discover that the peasant was a
miner in disguise, till he opened his mouth, and, in a sort of recitative,
rebuked the other for daring to meddle with his field. The latter did not lose
his composure of mind, but began to inform the husbandman about his right
to break ground there; giving him withal some primary conceptions of
mineralogy. The peasant, not being master of his foreign terminology, asked
all manner of silly questions; whereat the spectators, as themselves more
knowing, set up many a hearty laugh. The miner endeavored to instruct
him, and showed him the advantage, which, in the long-run, would reach
even him, if the deep-lying treasures of the land were dug out from their
secret beds. The peasant, who at first had threatened his instructor with
blows, was gradually pacified; and they parted good friends at last, though
it was the miner chiefly that got out of this contention with honor.
"In this little dialogue," said Wilhelm, when seated at the table, "we have a
lively proof how useful the theatre might be to all ranks; what advantage
even the state might procure from it, if the occupations, trades, and
undertakings of men were brought upon the stage, and presented on their
praiseworthy side, in that point of view in which the state itself should
honor and protect them. As matters stand, we exhibit only the ridiculous
side of men: the comic poet is, as it were, but a spiteful tax-gatherer, who
keeps a watchful eye over the errors of his fellow-subjects, and seems
gratified when he can fix any charge upon them. Might it not be a worthy
and pleasing task for a statesman to survey the natural and reciprocal
influence of all classes on each other, and to guide some poet, gifted with
sufficient humor, in such labors as these? In this way, I am persuaded, many
very entertaining, both agreeable and useful, pieces, might be executed."

"So far," said Laertes, "as I, in wandering about the world, have been able
to observe, statesmen are accustomed merely to forbid, to hinder, to refuse,
but very rarely to invite, to further, to reward. They let all things go along,
till some mischief happens: then they get into a rage, and lay about them."
"A truce with state and statesmen!" said Philina: "I cannot form a notion of
statesmen except in periwigs; and a periwig, wear it who will, always gives
my fingers a spasmodic motion: I could like to pluck it off the venerable
gentleman, to skip up and down the room with it, and laugh at the bald
head."
So, with a few lively songs, which she could sing very beautifully, Philina
cut short their conversation, and urged them to a quick return homewards,
that they might arrive in time for seeing the performance of the rope-
dancers in the evening. On the road back she continued her lavish
generosity, in a style of gayety reaching to extravagance; for at last, every
coin belonging to herself or her companions being spent, she threw her
straw hat from the window to a girl, and her neckerchief to an old woman,
who asked her for alms.
Philina invited both of her attendants to her own apartments, because, she
said, the spectacle could be seen more conveniently from her windows than
from theirs.
On arriving, they found the stage set up, and the background decked with
suspended carpets. The swing-boards were already fastened, the slack-rope
fixed to posts, the tight-rope bound over trestles. The square was
moderately filled with people, and the windows with spectators of some
quality.
Pickleherring, with a few insipidities, at which the lookers-on are generally
kind enough to laugh, first prepared the meeting to attention and good-
humor. Some children, whose bodies were made to exhibit the strangest
contortions, awakened astonishment or horror; and Wilhelm could not,
without the deepest sympathy, see the child he had at the first glance felt an
interest in, go through her fantastic positions with considerable difficulty.
But the merry tumblers soon changed the feeling into that of lively
satisfaction, when they first singly, then in rows, and at last all together,

vaulted up into the air, making somersets backwards and forwards. A loud
clapping of hands and a strong huzza echoed from the whole assembly.
The general attention was next directed to quite a different object. The
children in succession had to mount the rope,—the learners first, that by
practising they might prolong the spectacle, and show the difficulties of the
art more clearly. Some men and full-grown women likewise exhibited their
skill to moderate advantage; but still there was no Monsieur Narciss, no
Demoiselle Landrinette.
At last this worthy pair came forth: they issued from a kind of tent with red
spread curtains, and, by their agreeable forms and glittering decorations,
fulfilled the hitherto increasing hopes of the spectators. He, a hearty knave,
of middle stature, with black eyes and a strong head of hair; she, formed
with not inferior symmetry,—exhibited themselves successively upon the
rope, with delicate movements, leaping, and singular postures. Her airy
lightness, his audacity; the exactitude with which they both performed their
feats of art,—raised the universal satisfaction higher at every step and
spring. The stateliness with which they bore themselves, the seeming
attentions of the rest to them, gave them the appearance of king and queen
of the whole troop; and all held them worthy of the rank.
The animation of the people spread to the spectators at the windows: the
ladies looked incessantly at Narciss, the gentlemen at Landrinette. The
populace hurrahed, the more cultivated public could not keep from clapping
of the hands: Pickleherring now could scarcely raise a laugh. A few,
however, slunk away when some members of the troop began to press
through the crowd with their tin plates to collect money.
"They have made their purpose good, I imagine," said Wilhelm to Philina,
who was leaning over the window beside him. "I admire the ingenuity with
which they have turned to advantage even the meanest parts of their
performance: out of the unskilfulness of their children, and exquisiteness of
their chief actors, they have made up a whole which at first excited our
attention, and then gave us very fine entertainment."
The people by degrees dispersed; and the square was again become empty,
while Philina and Laertes were disputing about the forms and the skill of
Narciss and Landrinette, and rallying each other on the subject at great

length. Wilhelm noticed the wonderful child standing on the street near
some other children at play: he showed her to Philina, who, in her lively
way, immediately called and beckoned to the little one, and, this not
succeeding, tripped singing down stairs, and led her up by the hand.
"Here is the enigma," said she, as she brought her to the door. The child
stood upon the threshold, as if she meant again to run off; laid her right
hand on her breast, the left on her brow, and bowed deeply. "Fear nothing,
my little dear," said Wilhelm, rising, and going towards her. She viewed
him with a doubting look, and came a few steps nearer.
"What is thy name?" he asked. "They call me Mignon."—"How old art
thou?"—"No one has counted."—"Who was thy father?"—"The Great
Devil is dead."
"Well! this is singular enough," said Philina. They asked her a few more
questions: she gave her answers in a kind of broken German, and with a
strangely solemn manner; every time laying her hands on her breast and
brow, and bowing deeply.
Wilhelm could not satisfy himself with looking at her. His eyes and his
heart were irresistibly attracted by the mysterious condition of this being.
He reckoned her about twelve or thirteen years of age: her body was well
formed, only her limbs gave promise of a stronger growth, or else
announced a stunted one. Her countenance was not regular, but striking; her
brow full of mystery; her nose extremely beautiful; her mouth, although it
seemed too closely shut for one of her age, and though she often threw it to
a side, had yet an air of frankness, and was very lovely. Her brownish
complexion could scarcely be discerned through the paint. This form
stamped itself deeply in Wilhelm's soul: he kept looking at her earnestly,
and forgot the present scene in the multitude of his reflections. Philina
waked him from his half-dream, by holding out the remainder of her
sweetmeats to the child, and giving her a sign to go away. She made her
little bow as formerly, and darted like lightning through the door.
As the time drew on when our new friends had to part for the evening, they
planned a fresh excursion for the morrow. They purposed now to have their
dinner at a neighboring Jägerhaus. Before taking leave of Laertes, Wilhelm

said many things in Philina's praise, to which the other made only brief and
careless answers.
Next morning, having once more exercised themselves in fencing for an
hour, they went over to Philina's lodging, towards which they had seen their
expected coach passing by. But how surprised was Wilhelm, when the
coach seemed altogether to have vanished; and how much more so, when
Philina was not to be found at home! She had placed herself in the carriage,
they were told, with a couple of strangers who had come that morning, and
was gone with them. Wilhelm had been promising himself some pleasant
entertainment from her company, and could not hide his irritation. Laertes,
on the other hand, but laughed at it, and cried, "I love her for this: it looks
so like herself! Let us, however, go directly to the Jägerhaus: be Philina
where she pleases, we will not lose our promenade on her account."
As Wilhelm, while they walked, continued censuring the inconsistency of
such conduct, Laertes said, "I cannot reckon it inconsistent so long as one
keeps faithful to his character. If this Philina plans you any thing, or
promises you any thing, she does it under the tacit condition that it shall be
quite convenient for her to fulfil her plan, to keep her promise. She gives
willingly, but you must ever hold yourself in readiness to return her gifts."
"That seems a singular character," said Wilhelm.
"Any thing but singular: only she is not a hypocrite. I like her on that
account. Yes: I am her friend, because she represents the sex so truly, which
I have so much cause to hate. To me she is another genuine Eve, the great
mother of womankind: so are they all, only they will not all confess it."
With abundance of such talk, in which Laertes very vehemently exhibited
his spleen against the fair sex, without, however, giving any cause for it,
they arrived at the forest; into which Wilhelm entered in no joyful mood,
the speeches of Laertes having again revived in him the memory of his
relation to Mariana. Not far from a shady well, among some old and noble
trees, they found Philina sitting by herself at a stone table. Seeing them, she
struck up a merry song; and, when Laertes asked for her companions, she
cried out, "I have already cozened them: I have already had my laugh at
them, and sent them a-travelling, as they deserved. By the way hither I had
put to proof their liberality; and, finding that they were a couple of your

close-fisted gentry, I immediately determined to have amends of them. On
arriving at the inn, they asked the waiter what was to be had. He, with his
customary glibness of tongue, reckoned over all that could be found in the
house, and more than could be found. I noticed their perplexity: they looked
at one another, stammered, and inquired about the cost. "What is the use of
all this studying?" said I. "The table is the lady's business: allow me to
manage it." I immediately began ordering a most unconscionable dinner, for
which many necessary articles would require to be sent for from the
neighborhood. The waiter, of whom, by a wry mouth or two, I had made a
confidant, at last helped me out; and so, by the image of a sumptuous feast,
we tortured them to such a degree that they fairly determined on having a
walk in the forest, from which I imagine we shall look with clear eyes if we
see them come again. I have laughed a quarter of an hour for my own
behoof; I shall laugh forever when I think of the looks they had." At table,
Laertes told of similar adventures: they got into the track of recounting
ludicrous stories, mistakes, and dexterous cheats.
A young man of their acquaintance, from the town, came gliding through
the wood with a book in his hand: he sat down by them, and began praising
the beauty of the place. He directed their attention to the murmuring of the
brook, to the waving of the boughs, to the checkered lights and shadows,
and the music of the birds. Philina commenced a little song of the cuckoo,
which did not seem at all to exhilarate the man of taste: he very soon made
his compliments, and went on.
"Oh that I might never hear more of nature, and scenes of nature!" cried
Philina, so soon as he was gone: "there is nothing in the world more
intolerable than to hear people reckon up the pleasures you enjoy. When the
day is bright you go to walk, as to dance when you hear a tune played. But
who would think a moment on the music or the weather? It is the dancer
that interests us, not the violin; and to look upon a pair of bright black eyes
is the life of a pair of blue ones. But what on earth have we to do with wells
and brooks, and old rotten lindens?" She was sitting opposite to Wilhelm;
and, while speaking so, she looked into his eyes with a glance which he
could not hinder from piercing at least to the very door of his heart.
"You are right," replied he, not without embarrassment: "man is ever the
most interesting object to man, and perhaps should be the only one that

interests. Whatever else surrounds us is but the element in which we live, or
else the instrument which we employ. The more we devote ourselves to
such things, the more we attend to and feel concern in them, the weaker will
our sense of our own dignity become, the weaker our feelings for society.
Men who put a great value on gardens, buildings, clothes, ornaments, or
any other sort of property, grow less social and pleasant: they lose sight of
their brethren, whom very few can succeed in collecting about them and
entertaining. Have you not observed it on the stage? A good actor makes us
very soon forget the awkwardness and meanness of paltry decorations, but a
splendid theatre is the very thing which first makes us truly feel the want of
proper actors."

After dinner Philina sat down among the long, overshaded grass, and
commanded both her friends to fetch her flowers in great quantities. She
wreathed a complete garland, and put it round her head: it made her look
extremely charming. The flowers were still sufficient for another: this, too,
she plaited, while both the young men sat beside her. When, at last, amid
infinite mirth and sportfulness, it was completed, she pressed it on
Wilhelm's head with the greatest dignity, and shifted the posture of it more
than once, till it seemed to her properly adjusted. "And I, it appears, must
go empty," said Laertes.
"Not by any means: you shall not have reason to complain," replied Philina,
taking off the garland from her own head, and putting it on his.
"If we were rivals," said Laertes, "we might now dispute very warmly
which of us stood higher in thy favor."
"And the more fools you," said she, while she bent herself towards him, and
offered him her lips to kiss; and then immediately turned round, threw her
arm about Wilhelm, and bestowed a kind salute on him also. "Which of
them tastes best?" said she archly.
"Surprisingly!" exclaimed Laertes: "it seems as if nothing else had ever
such a tang of wormwood in it."
"As little wormwood," she replied, "as any gift that a man may enjoy
without envy and without conceit. But now," cried she, "I should like to
have an hour's dancing; and after that we must look to our vaulters."
Accordingly, they went into the house, and there found music in readiness.
Philina was a beautiful dancer: she animated both her companions. Nor was
Wilhelm without skill; but he wanted careful practice, a defect which his
two friends voluntarily took charge of remedying.
In these amusements the time passed on insensibly. It was already late when
they returned. The rope-dancers had commenced their operations. A
multitude of people had again assembled in the square; and our friends, on
alighting, were struck by the appearance of a tumult in the crowd,
occasioned by a throng of men rushing towards the door of the inn, which
Wilhelm had now turned his face to. He sprang forward to see what it was;

and, pressing through the people, he was struck with horror to observe the
master of the rope-dancing company dragging poor Mignon by the hair out
of the house, and unmercifully beating her little body with the handle of a
whip.
Wilhelm darted on the man like lightning, and seized him by the collar.
"Quit the child!" he cried, in a furious tone, "or one of us shall never leave
this spot!" and, so speaking, he grasped the fellow by the throat with a force
which only rage could have lent him. The showman, on the point of
choking, let go the child, and endeavored to defend himself against his new
assailant. But some people, who had felt compassion for Mignon, yet had
not dared to begin a quarrel for her, now laid hold of the rope-dancer,
wrenched his whip away, and threatened him with great fierceness and
abuse. Being now reduced to the weapons of his mouth, he began bullying,
and cursing horribly. The lazy, worthless urchin, he said, would not do her
duty; refused to perform the egg-dance, which he had promised to the
public; he would beat her to death, and no one should hinder him. He tried
to get loose, and seek the child, who had crept away among the crowd.
Wilhelm held him back, and said sternly, "You shall neither see nor touch
her, till you have explained before a magistrate where you stole her. I will
pursue you to every extremity. You shall not escape me." These words,
which Wilhelm uttered in heat, without thought or purpose, out of some
vague feeling, or, if you will, out of inspiration, soon brought the raging
showman to composure. "What have I to do with the useless brat?" cried he.
"Pay me what her clothes cost, and make of her what you please. We shall
settle it to-night." And, being liberated, he made haste to resume his
interrupted operations, and to calm the irritation of the public by some
striking displays of his craft.
As soon as all was still again, Wilhelm commenced a search for Mignon,
whom, however, he could nowhere find. Some said they had seen her on the
street, others on the roofs of the adjoining houses; but, after seeking
unsuccessfully in all quarters, he was forced to content himself, and wait to
see if she would not again turn up of herself.
In the mean time, Narciss had come into the house; and Wilhelm set to
question him about the birthplace and history of the child. Monsieur Narciss
knew nothing about these things, for he had not long been in the company;

but in return he recited, with much volubility and levity, various particulars
of his own fortune. Upon Wilhelm's wishing him joy of the great
approbation he had gained, Narciss expressed himself as if exceedingly
indifferent on that point. "People laugh at us," he said, "and admire our feats
of skill; but their admiration does nothing for us. The master has to pay us,
and may raise the funds where he pleases." He then took his leave, and was
setting off in great haste.
At the question, whither he was bent so fast, the dog gave a smile, and
admitted that his figure and talents had acquired for him a more solid
species of favor than the huzzaing of the multitude. He had been invited by
some young ladies, who desired much to become acquainted with him; and
he was afraid it would be midnight before he could get all his visits over.
He proceeded with the greatest candor to detail his adventures. He would
have given the names of his patronesses, their streets and houses, had not
Wilhelm waived such indiscretion, and politely dismissed him.
Laertes had meanwhile been entertaining Landrinette: he declared that she
was fully worthy to be and to remain a woman.
Our friend next proceeded to his bargain with the showman for Mignon.
Thirty crowns was the price set upon her; and for this sum the black-
bearded, hot Italian entirely surrendered all his claims: but of her history or
parentage he would discover nothing, only that she had fallen into his hands
at the death of his brother, who, by reason of his admirable skill, had
usually been named the "Great Devil."
Next morning was chiefly spent in searching for the child. It was in vain
that they rummaged every hole and corner of the house and neighborhood:
the child had vanished; and Wilhelm was afraid she might have leaped into
some pool of water, or destroyed herself in some other way.
Philina's charms could not divert his inquietude. He passed a dreary,
thoughtful day. Nor at evening could the utmost efforts of the tumblers and
dancers, exerting all their powers to gratify the public, divert the current of
his thoughts, or clear away the clouds from his mind.
By the concourse of people flocking from all places round, the numbers had
greatly increased on this occasion: the general approbation was like a

snowball rolling itself into a monstrous size. The feat of leaping over
swords, and through the cask with paper ends, made a great sensation.
The strong man, too, produced a universal feeling of mingled astonishment
and horror, when he laid his head and feet on a couple of separate stools,
and then allowed some sturdy smiths to place a stithy on the unsupported
part of his body, and hammer a horseshoe till it was completely made by
means of it.
The Hercules' Strength, as they called it, was a no less wonderful affair. A
row of men stood up; then another row, upon their shoulders; then women
and young lads, supported in like manner on the second row; so that finally
a living pyramid was formed; the peak being ornamented by a child, placed
on its head, and dressed out in the shape of a ball and weather-vane. Such a
sight, never witnessed in those parts before, gave a worthy termination to
the whole performance. Narciss and Landrinette were then borne in litters,
on the shoulders of the rest, along the chief streets of the town, amid the
triumphant shouts of the people. Ribbons, nosegays, silks, were thrown
upon them: all pressed to get a sight of them. Each thought himself happy if
he could behold them, and be honored with a look of theirs.
"What actor, what author, nay, what man of any class, would not regard
himself as on the summit of his wishes, could he, by a noble saying or a
worthy action, produce so universal an impression? What a precious
emotion would it give, if one could disseminate generous, exalted, manly
feelings with electric force and speed, and rouse assembled thousands into
such rapture, as these people, by their bodily alertness, have done! If one
could communicate to thronging multitudes a fellow-feeling in all that
belongs to man, by the portraying of happiness and misery, of wisdom and
folly, nay, of absurdity and silliness; could kindle and thrill their inmost
souls, and set their stagnant nature into movement, free, vehement, and
pure!" So said our friend; and, as neither Laertes nor Philina showed any
disposition to take part in such a strain, he entertained himself with these
darling speculations, walking up and down the streets till late at night, and
again pursuing, with all the force and vivacity of a liberated imagination,
his old desire to have all that was good and noble and great embodied and
shown forth by the theatric art.

CHAPTER V.
Next morning, the rope-dancers, not without much parade and bustle,
having gone away, Mignon immediately appeared, and came into the parlor
as Wilhelm and Laertes were busy fencing. "Where hast thou been hid?"
said Wilhelm, in a friendly tone. "Thou hast given us a great deal of
anxiety." The child looked at him, and answered nothing. "Thou art ours
now," cried Laertes: "we have bought thee."—"For how much?" inquired
the child quite coolly. "For a hundred ducats," said the other: "pay them
again, and thou art free."—"Is that very much?" she asked. "Oh, yes! thou
must now be a good child."—"I will try," she said.
From that moment she observed strictly what services the waiter had to do
for both her friends; and, after next day, she would not any more let him
enter the room. She persisted in doing every thing herself, and accordingly
went through her duties, slowly, indeed, and sometimes awkwardly, yet
completely, and with the greatest care.
She was frequently observed going to a basin of water, and washing her
face with such diligence and violence, that she almost wore the skin from
her cheeks; till Laertes, by dint of questions and reproofs, learned that she
was striving by all means to get the paint from her skin, and that, in her
zealous endeavors towards this object, she had mistaken the redness
produced by rubbing for the most obdurate dye. They set her right on this
point, and she ceased her efforts; after which, having come again to her
natural state, she exhibited a fine brown complexion, beautiful, though
sparingly intermingled with red.
The siren charms of Philina, the mysterious presence of the child, produced
more impression on our friend than he liked to confess: he passed several
days in that strange society, endeavoring to elude self-reproaches by a
diligent practice of fencing and dancing,—accomplishments which he
believed might not again be put within his reach so conveniently.
It was with great surprise, and not without a certain satisfaction, that he one
day observed Herr Melina and his wife alight at the inn. After the first glad

salutation, they inquired about "the lady-manager and the other actors," and
learned, with astonishment and terror, that the lady-manager had long since
gone away, and her actors, to a very few, dispersed themselves about the
country.
This couple, subsequently to their marriage, in which, as we know, our
friend did his best to serve them, had been travelling about in various
quarters, seeking an engagement, without finding any, and had at last been
directed to this little town by some persons who met them on their journey,
and said there was a good theatre in the place.
Melina by no means pleased the lively Laertes, when introduced to him,
any more than his wife did Philina. Both heartily wished to be rid of these
new-comers; and Wilhelm could inspire them with no favorable feelings on
the subject, though he more than once assured them that the Melinas were
very worthy people.
Indeed, the previous merry life of our three adventurers was interfered with
by this extension of their society, in more ways than one. Melina had taken
up his quarters in the inn where Philina staid, and he very soon began a
system of cheapening and higgling. He would have better lodging, more
sumptuous diet, and readier attendance, for a smaller charge. In a short
while, the landlord and waiter showed very rueful looks; for whereas the
others, to get pleasantly along, had expressed no discontent with any thing,
and paid instantly, that they might avoid thinking longer of payment,
Melina now insisted on regulating every meal, and investigating its contents
beforehand,—a species of service for which Philina named him, without
scruple, a ruminating animal.
Yet more did the merry girl hate Melina's wife. Frau Melina was a young
woman not without culture, but wofully defective in soul and spirit. She
could declaim not badly, and kept declaiming constantly; but it was easy to
observe that her performances were little more than recitations of words.
She labored a few detached passages, but never could express the feeling of
the whole. Withal, however, she was seldom disagreeable to any one,
especially to men. On the contrary, people who enjoyed her acquaintance
commonly ascribed to her a fine understanding; for she was what might be
called a kind of spiritual chameleon, or taker-on. Any friend whose favor

she had need of she could flatter with peculiar adroitness, could give in to
his ideas so long as she could understand them, and, when they went
beyond her own horizon, could hail with ecstasy such new and brilliant
visions. She understood well when to speak and when to keep silence; and,
though her disposition was not spiteful, she could spy out with great
expertness where another's weak side lay.

CHAPTER VI.
Melina, in the mean time, had been making strict inquiry about the wrecks
of the late theatrical establishment. The wardrobe, as well as decorations,
had been pawned with some traders; and a notary had been empowered,
under certain conditions, to dispose of them by sale, should purchasers
occur. Melina wished to see this ware, and he took Wilhelm with him. No
sooner was the room opened, than our friend felt towards its contents a kind
of inclination, which he would not confess to himself. Sad as was the state
of the blotched and tarnished decorations; little showy as the Turkish and
pagan garments, the old farce-coats for men and women, the cowls for
enchanters, priests, and Jews, might be,—he was not able to exclude the
feeling, that the happiest moments of his life had been spent in a similar
magazine of frippery. Could Melina have seen into his heart, he would have
urged him more pressingly to lay out a sum of money in liberating these
scattered fragments, in furbishing them up, and again combining them into
a beautiful whole. "What a happy man could I be," cried Melina, "had I but
two hundred crowns, to get into my hands, for a beginning, these
fundamental necessaries of a theatre! How soon should I get up a little
playhouse, that would draw contributions from the town and neighborhood,
and maintain us all!" Wilhelm was silent. They left these treasures of the
stage to be again locked up, and both went away in a reflective mood.
Thenceforth Melina talked of nothing else but projects and plans for setting
up a theatre, and gaining profit by it. He tried to interest Philina and Laertes
in his schemes; and proposals were made to Wilhelm about advancing
money, and taking them as his security. On this occasion, Wilhelm first

clearly perceived that he was lingering too long here: he excused himself,
and set about making preparations for departure.
In the mean time, Mignon's form, and manner of existence, were growing
more attractive to him every day. In her whole system of proceedings there
was something very singular. She never walked up or down the stairs, but
jumped. She would spring along by the railing, and before you were aware
would be sitting quietly above upon the landing. Wilhelm had observed,
also, that she had a different sort of salutation for each individual. For
himself, it had of late been with her arms crossed upon her breast. Often for
the whole day she was mute. At times she answered various questions more
freely, yet always strangely: so that you could not determine whether it was
caused by shrewd sense, or ignorance of the language; for she spoke in
broken German interlaced with French and Italian. In Wilhelm's service she
was indefatigable, and up before the sun. On the other hand, she vanished
early in the evening, went to sleep in a little room upon the bare floor, and
could not by any means be induced to take a bed or even a paillasse. He
often found her washing herself. Her clothes, too, were kept scrupulously
clean; though nearly all about her was quilted two or three plies thick.
Wilhelm was moreover told, that she went every morning early to hear
mass. He followed her on one occasion, and saw her kneeling down with a
rosary in a corner of the church, and praying devoutly. She did not observe
him; and he returned home, forming many a conjecture about this
appearance, yet unable to arrive at any probable conclusion.
A new application from Melina for a sum of money to redeem the often-
mentioned stage apparatus caused Wilhelm to think more seriously than
ever about setting off. He proposed writing to his people, who for a long
time had heard no tidings of him, by the very earliest post. He accordingly
commenced a letter to Werner, and had advanced a considerable way with
the history of his adventures, in recounting which he had more than once
unintentionally swerved a little from the truth, when, to his vexation and
surprise, he observed, upon the back of his sheet, some verses which he had
been copying from his album for Madam Melina. Out of humor at this
mistake, he tore the paper in pieces, and put off repeating his confession till
the next post-day.

CHAPTER VII.
Our party was now again collected; and Philina, who always kept a sharp
lookout on every horse or carriage that passed by, exclaimed with great
eagerness, "Our Pedant! Here comes our dearest Pedant! Who the deuce is
it he has with him?" Speaking thus, she beckoned at the window; and the
vehicle drew up.
A woful-looking genius, whom by his shabby coat of grayish brown, and
his ill-conditioned lower garments, you must have taken for some
unprosperous preceptor, of the sort that moulder in our universities, now
descended from the carriage, and, taking off his hat to salute Philina,
discovered an ill-powdered, but yet very stiff, periwig; while Philina threw
a hundred kisses of the hand towards him.
As Philina's chief enjoyment lay in loving one class of men, and being
loved by them; so there was a second and hardly inferior satisfaction,
wherewith she entertained herself as frequently as possible; and this
consisted in hoodwinking and passing jokes upon the other class, whom at
such moments she happened not to love,—all which she could accomplish
in a very sprightly style.
Amid the flourish which she made in receiving this old friend, no attention
was bestowed upon the rest who followed him. Yet among the party were an
oldish man and two young girls, whom Wilhelm thought he knew.
Accordingly it turned out, that he had often seen them all, some years ago,
in a company then playing in his native town. The daughters had grown
since that period: the old man was a little altered. He commonly enacted
those good-hearted, boisterous old gentlemen, whom the German theatre is
never without, and whom, in common life, one also frequently enough falls
in with. For as it is the character of our countrymen to do good, and cause
it, without pomp or circumstance; so they seldom consider that there is
likewise a mode of doing what is right with grace and dignity: more
frequently, indeed, they yield to the spirit of contradiction, and fall into the
error of deforming their dearest virtue by a surly mode of putting it in
practice.

Such parts our actor could play very well; and he played them so often and
exclusively, that he had himself taken up the same turn of proceeding in his
ordinary life.
On recognizing him, Wilhelm was seized with a strong commotion; for he
recollected how often he had seen this man on the stage with his beloved
Mariana: he still heard him scolding, still heard the small, soothing voice,
with which in many characters she had to meet his rugged temper.
The first anxious question put to the strangers,—Whether they had heard of
any situation in their travels?—was answered, alas, with No! and, to
complete the information, it was further added, that all the companies they
had fallen in with were not only supplied with actors, but many of them
were afraid lest, on account of the approaching war, they should be forced
to separate. Old Boisterous, with his daughters, moved by spleen and love
of change, had given up an advantageous engagement: then, meeting with
the Pedant by the way, they had hired a carriage to come hither; where, as
they found, good counsel was still dear, needful to have, and difficult to get.
The time while the rest were talking very keenly of their circumstances,
Wilhelm spent in thought. He longed to speak in private with the old man:
he wished and feared to hear of Mariana, and felt the greatest disquietude.
The pretty looks of the stranger damsels could not call him from his dream;
but a war of words, which now arose, awakened his attention. It was
Friedrich, the fair-haired boy who used to attend Philina, stubbornly
refusing, on this occasion, to cover the table and bring up dinner. "I engaged
to serve you," he cried, "but not to wait on everybody." They fell into a hot
contest. Philina insisted that he should do his duty; and, as he obstinately
refused, she told him plainly he might go about his business.
"You think, perhaps, I cannot leave you!" cried he sturdily, then went to
pack up his bundle, and soon hastily quitted the house.
"Go, Mignon," said Philina, "and get us what we want; tell the waiter, and
help him to attend us."
Mignon came before Wilhelm, and asked in her laconic way, "Shall I? May
I?" To which Wilhelm answered, "Do all the lady bids thee, child."

She accordingly took charge of every thing, and waited on the guests the
whole evening, with the utmost carefulness. After dinner, Wilhelm proposed
to have a walk with the old man alone. Succeeding in this, after many
questions about his late wanderings, the conversation turned upon the
former company; and Wilhelm hazarded a question touching Mariana.
"Do not speak to me of that despicable creature!" cried the old man: "I have
sworn to think of her no more." Terrified at this speech, Wilhelm felt still
more embarrassed, as the old man proceeded to vituperate her fickleness
and wantonness. Most gladly would our friend have broken off the
conversation, but now it was impossible: he was obliged to undergo the
whole tumultuous effusions of this strange old gentleman.
"I am ashamed," continued he, "that I felt such a friendship for her. Yet, had
you known the girl better, you would excuse me. She was so pretty, so
natural and good, so pleasing, in every sense so tolerable, I could never
have supposed that ingratitude and impudence were to prove the chief
features of her character."
Wilhelm had nerved himself to hear the worst of her; when all at once he
observed, with astonishment, that the old man's tones grew milder, his voice
faltered, and he took out his handkerchief to dry the tears, which at last
began to trickle down his cheeks.
"What is the matter with you?" cried Wilhelm. "What is it that suddenly so
changes the current of your feelings? Conceal it not from me. I take a
deeper interest in the fate of this girl than you suppose. Only tell me all."
"I have not much to say," replied the old man, again taking up his earnest,
angry tone. "I have suffered more from her than I shall ever forgive. She
had always a kind of trust in me. I loved her as my own daughter; indeed,
while my wife lived, I had formed a resolution to take the creature to my
own house, and save her from the hands of that old crone, from whose
guidance I boded no good. But my wife died, and the project went to
nothing.
"About the end of our stay in your native town,—it is not quite three years
ago,—I noticed a visible sadness about her. I questioned her, but she evaded
me. At last we set out on our journey. She travelled in the same coach with

me; and I soon observed, what she herself did not long deny, that she was
with child, and suffering the greatest terror lest our manager might turn her
off. In fact, in a short while he did make the discovery; immediately threw
up her contract, which at any rate was only for six weeks; paid off her
arrears; and, in spite of all entreaties, left her behind, in the miserable inn of
a little village.
"Devil take all wanton jilts!" cried the old man, with a splenetic tone, "and
especially this one, that has spoiled me so many hours of my life! Why
should I keep talking how I myself took charge of her, what I did for her,
what I spent on her, how in absence I provided for her? I would rather
throw my purse into the ditch, and spend my time in nursing mangy whelps,
than ever more bestow the smallest care on such a thing. Pshaw! At first I
got letters of thanks, notice of places she was staying at; and, finally, no
word at all,—not even an acknowledgment for the money I had sent to pay
the expenses of her lying-in. Oh! the treachery and the fickleness of women
are rightly matched, to get a comfortable living for themselves, and to give
an honest fellow many heavy hours."

CHAPTER VIII.
Wilhelm's feelings, on returning home after this conversation, may be easily
conceived. All his old wounds had been torn up afresh, and the sentiment
that Mariana was not wholly unworthy of his love had again been brought
to life. The interest the old man had shown about her fate, the praises he
gave her against his will, displayed her again in all her attractiveness. Nay,
even the bitter accusations brought against her contained nothing that could
lower her in Wilhelm's estimation; for he, as well as she, was guilty in all
her aberrations. Nor did even her final silence seem greatly blamable: it
rather inspired him with mournful thoughts. He saw her as a frail, ill-
succored mother, wandering helplessly about the world,—wandering,
perhaps, with his own child. What he knew, and what he knew not, awoke
in him the painfullest emotions.

Mignon had been waiting for him: she lighted him up stairs. On setting
down the light, she begged he would allow her, that evening, to compliment
him with a piece of her art. He would rather have declined this, particularly
as he knew not what it was; but he had not the heart to refuse any thing this
kind creature wished. After a little while she again came in. She carried
below her arm a little carpet, which she then spread out upon the floor.
Wilhelm said she might proceed. She thereupon brought four candles, and
placed one upon each corner of the carpet. A little basket of eggs, which she
next carried in, made her purpose clearer. Carefully measuring her steps,
she then walked to and fro on the carpet, spreading out the eggs in certain
figures and positions; which done, she called in a man that was waiting in
the house, and could play on the violin. He retired with his instrument into a
corner: she tied a band about her eyes, gave a signal; and, like a piece of
wheel-work set a-going, she began moving the same instant as the music,
accompanying her beats and the notes of the tune with the strokes of a pair
of castanets.
Lightly, nimbly, quickly, and with hair's-breadth accuracy, she carried on
the dance. She skipped so sharply and surely along between the eggs, and
trod so closely down beside them, that you would have thought every
instant she must trample one of them in pieces, or kick the rest away in her
rapid turns. By no means! She touched no one of them, though winding
herself through their mazes with all kinds of steps, wide and narrow, nay,
even with leaps, and at last half kneeling.
Constant as the movement of a clock, she ran her course; and the strange
music, at each repetition of the tune, gave a new impulse to the dance,
recommencing and again rushing off as at first. Wilhelm was quite led away
by this singular spectacle; he forgot his cares; he followed every movement
of the dear little creature, and felt surprised to see how finely her character
unfolded itself as she proceeded in the dance.
Rigid, sharp, cold, vehement, and in soft postures, stately rather than
attractive,—such was the light in which it showed her. At this moment he
experienced at once all the emotions he had ever felt for Mignon. He longed
to incorporate this forsaken being with his own heart, to take her in his
arms, and with a father's love to awaken in her the joy of existence.

The dance being ended, she rolled the eggs together softly with her foot into
a little heap, left none behind, harmed none; then placed herself beside it,
taking the bandage from her eyes, and concluding her performance with a
little bow.
Wilhelm thanked her for having executed, so prettily and unexpectedly, a
dance he had long wished to see. He patted her; was sorry she had tired
herself so much. He promised her a new suit of clothes; to which she
vehemently replied, "Thy color!" This, too, he promised her, though not
well knowing what she meant by it. She then lifted up the eggs, took the
carpet under her arm, asked if he wanted any thing further, and skipped out
of the room.
The musician, being questioned, said, that for some time she had taken
much trouble in often singing over the tune of this dance, the well-known
fandango, to him, and training him till he could play it accurately. For his
labor she had likewise offered him some money; which, however, he would
not accept.

CHAPTER IX.
After a restless night, which our friend spent, sometimes waking,
sometimes oppressed with unpleasant dreams, seeing Mariana now in all
her beauty, now in woful case, at one time with a child on her arm, then
soon bereaved of it, the morning had scarcely dawned, when Mignon
entered with a tailor. She brought some gray cloth and blue taffeta;
signifying in her own way that she wished to have a new jacket and sailor's
trousers, such as she had seen the boys of the town wear, with blue cuffs
and tiers.
Since the loss of Mariana, Wilhelm had laid aside all gay colors. He had
used himself to gray,—the garment of the shades; and only perhaps a sky-
blue lining, or little collar of that dye, in some degree enlivened his sober
garb. Mignon, eager to wear his colors, hurried on the tailor, who engaged
to have his work soon ready.

The exercise in dancing and fencing, which our friend took this day with
Laertes, did not prosper in their hands. Indeed, it was soon interrupted by
Melina, who came to show them circumstantially how a little company was
now of itself collected, sufficient to exhibit plays in abundance. He renewed
the proposal that Wilhelm should advance a little money for setting them in
motion; which, however, Wilhelm still declined.
Ere long Philina and the girls came in, racketing and laughing as usual.
They had now devised a fresh excursion, for change of place and objects
was a pleasure after which they always longed. To eat daily in a different
spot was their highest wish. On this occasion they proposed a sail.
The boat in which they were to fall down the pleasant windings of the river
had already been engaged by the Pedant. Philina urged them on: the party
did not linger, and were soon on board.
"What shall we take to now?" said Philina, when all had placed themselves
upon the benches.
"The readiest thing," replied Laertes, "were for us to extemporize a play.
Let each take a part that suits his character, and we shall see how we get
along."
"Excellent!" said Wilhelm. "In a society where there is no dissimulation, but
where each without disguise pursues the bent of his own humor, elegance
and satisfaction cannot long continue; and, where dissimulation always
reigns, they do not enter at all. It will not be amiss, then, that we take up
dissimulation to begin with, and then, behind our masks, be as candid as we
please."
"Yes," said Laertes: "it is on this account that one goes on so pleasantly with
women; they never show themselves in their natural form."
"That is to say," replied Madam Melina, "they are not so vain as men, who
conceive themselves to be always amiable enough, just as nature has
produced them."
In the mean time the river led them between pleasant groves and hills,
between gardens and vineyards; and the young women, especially Madam
Melina, expressed their rapture at the landscape. The latter even began to

recite, in solemn style, a pretty poem of the descriptive sort, upon a similar
scene of nature; but Philina interrupted her with the proposal of a law, that
no one should presume to speak of any inanimate object. On the other hand,
she zealously urged on their project of an extempore play. Old Boisterous
was to be a half-pay officer; Laertes a fencing-master, taking his vacation;
the Pedant, a Jew; she herself would act a Tyrolese; leaving to the rest to
choose characters according to their several pleasures. They would suppose
themselves to be a party of total strangers to each other, who had just met
on board a merchant-ship.
She immediately began to play her part with the Jew, and a universal
cheerfulness diffused itself among them.
They had not sailed far, when the skipper stopped in his course, asking
permission of the company to take in a person standing on the shore, who
had made a sign to him.
"That is just what we needed," cried Philina: "a chance passenger was
wanting to complete the travelling-party."
A handsome man came on board; whom, by his dress and his dignified
mien, you might have taken for a clergyman. He saluted the party, who
thanked him in their own way, and soon made known to him the nature of
their game. The stranger immediately engaged to act the part of a country
parson; which, in fact, he accomplished in the adroitest manner, to the
admiration of all,—now admonishing, now telling stories, showing some
weak points, yet never losing their respect.
In the mean time, every one who had made a false step in his part, or
swerved from his character, had been obliged to forfeit a pledge: Philina
had gathered them with the greatest care, and especially threatened the
reverend gentleman with many kisses; though he himself had never been at
fault. Melina, on the other hand, was completely fleeced: shirt-buttons,
buckles, every movable about his person, was in Philina's hands. He was
trying to enact an English traveller, and could not by any means get into the
spirit of his part.
Meanwhile the time had passed away very pleasantly. Each had strained his
fancy and his wit to the utmost, and each had garnished his part with

agreeable and entertaining jests. Thus comfortably occupied, they reached
the place where they meant to pass the day; and Wilhelm, going out to walk
with the clergyman, as both from his appearance and late character he
persisted in naming him, soon fell into an interesting conversation.
"I think this practice," said the stranger, "very useful among actors, and
even in the company of friends and acquaintances. It is the best mode of
drawing men out of themselves, and leading them, by a circuitous path,
back into themselves again. It should be a custom with every troop of
players to practice in this manner: and the public would assuredly be no
loser if every month an unwritten piece were brought forward; in which, of
course, the players had prepared themselves by several rehearsals."
"One should not, then," replied our friend, "consider an extempore piece as,
strictly speaking, composed on the spur of the moment, but as a piece, of
which the plan, action, and division of the scenes were given; the filling up
of all this being left to the player."
"Quite right," said the stranger; "and, in regard to this very filling up, such a
piece, were the players once trained to these performances, would profit
greatly. Not in regard to the mere words, it is true; for, by a careful selection
of these, the studious writer may certainly adorn his work; but in regard to
the gestures, looks, exclamations, and every thing of that nature; in short, to
the mute and half-mute play of the dialogue, which seems by degrees fading
away among us altogether. There are indeed some players in Germany
whose bodies figure what they think and feel; who by their silence, their
delays, their looks, their slight, graceful movements, can prepare the
audience for a speech, and, by a pleasant sort of pantomime, combine the
pauses of the dialogue with the general whole; but such a practice as this,
co-operating with a happy natural turn, and training it to compete with the
author, is far from being so habitual as, for the comfort of play-going
people, were to be desired."
"But will not a happy natural turn," said Wilhelm, "as the first and last
requisite, of itself conduct the player, like every other artist,—nay, perhaps
every other man,—to the lofty mark he aims at?"
"The first and the last, the beginning and the end, it may well be; but, in the
middle, many things will still be wanting to an artist, if instruction, and

early instruction too, have not previously made that of him which he was
meant to be: and perhaps for the man of genius it is worse in this respect
than for the man possessed of only common capabilities; the one may much
more easily be misinstructed, and be driven far more violently into false
courses, than the other."
"But," said Wilhelm, "will not genius save itself, not heal the wounds which
itself has inflicted?"
"Only to a very small extent, and with great difficulty," said the other, "or
perhaps not at all. Let no one think that he can conquer the first impressions
of his youth. If he has grown up in enviable freedom, surrounded with
beautiful and noble objects, in constant intercourse with worthy men; if his
masters have taught him what he needed first to know, for comprehending
more easily what followed; if he has never learned any thing which he
requires to unlearn; if his first operations have been so guided, that, without
altering any of his habits, he can more easily produce what is excellent in
future,—then such a one will lead a purer, more perfect and happier, life,
than another man who has wasted the force of his youth in opposition and
error. A great deal is said and written about education; yet I meet with very
few who can comprehend, and transfer to practice, this simple yet vast idea,
which includes within itself all others connected with the subject."
"That may well be true," said Wilhelm; "for the generality of men are
limited enough in their conceptions to suppose that every other should be
fashioned by education, according to the pattern of themselves. Happy,
then, are those whom Fate takes charge of, and educates according to their
several natures!"
"Fate," said the other, smiling, "is an excellent but most expensive
schoolmaster. In all cases, I would rather trust to the reason of a human
tutor. Fate, for whose wisdom I entertain all imaginable reverence, often
finds in Chance, by which it works, an instrument not over manageable. At
least the latter very seldom seems to execute precisely and accurately what
the former had determined."
"You seem to express a very singular opinion," said Wilhelm.

"Not at all," replied the other. "Most of what happens in the world confirms
my opinion. Do not many incidents at their commencement show some
mighty purport, and generally terminate in something paltry?"
"You mean to jest."
"And as to what concerns the individual man," pursued the other, "is it not
so with this likewise? Suppose Fate had appointed one to be a good player;
and why should it not provide us with good players as well as other good
things? Chance would perhaps conduct the youth into some puppet-show,
where, at such an early age, he could not help taking interest in what was
tasteless and despicable, reckoning insipidities endurable or even pleasing,
and thus corrupting and misdirecting his primary impressions,—
impressions which can never be effaced, and whose influence, in spite of all
our efforts, cling to us in some degree to the very last."
"What makes you think of puppet-shows?" said Wilhelm, not without some
consternation.
"It was an accidental instance: if it does not please you, we shall take
another. Suppose Fate had appointed any one to be a great painter, and it
pleased Chance that he should pass his youth in sooty huts, in barns and
stables: do you think that such a man would ever be enabled to exalt
himself to purity, to nobleness, to freedom of soul? The more keenly he
may in his youth have seized on the impure, and tried in his own manner to
ennoble it, the more powerfully in the remainder of his life will it be
revenged on him; because, while he was endeavoring to conquer it, his
whole being has become inseparably combined with it. Whoever spends his
early years in mean and pitiful society, though at an after period he may
have the choice of better, will yet constantly look back with longing
towards that which he enjoyed of old, and which has left its impression
blended with the memory of all his young and unreturning pleasures."
From conversation of this sort, it is easy to imagine, the rest of the company
had gradually withdrawn. Philina, in particular, had stepped aside at the
very outset. Wilhelm and his comrade now rejoined them by a cross-path.
Philina brought out her forfeits, and they had to be redeemed in many
different ways. During which business, the stranger, by the most ingenious
devices, and by his frank participation in their sports, recommended himself

much to all the party, and particularly to the ladies; and thus, amid joking,
singing, kissing, and railleries of all sorts, the hours passed away in the
most pleasant manner.

CHAPTER X.
When our friends began to think of going home, they looked about them for
their clergyman; but he had vanished, and was nowhere to be found.
"It is not polite in the man, who otherwise displayed good breeding," said
Madam Melina, "to desert a company that welcomed him so kindly, without
taking leave."
"I have all the time been thinking," said Laertes, "where I can have seen this
singular man before. I fully intended to ask him about it at parting."
"I, too, had the same feeling," said Wilhelm; "and certainly I should not
have let him go, till he had told us something more about his circumstances.
I am much mistaken if I have not ere now spoken with him somewhere."
"And you may in truth," said Philina, "be mistaken there. This person seems
to have the air of an acquaintance, because he looks like a man, and not like
Jack or Kit."
"What is this?" said Laertes. "Do not we, too, look like men?"
"I know what I am saying," cried Philina; "and, if you cannot understand
me, never mind. In the end my words will be found to require no
commentary."
Two coaches now drove up. All praised the attention of Laertes, who had
ordered them. Philina, with Madam Melina, took her place opposite to
Wilhelm: the rest bestowed themselves as they best could. Laertes rode
back on Wilhelm's horse, which had likewise been brought out.

Philina was scarcely seated in the coach, when she began to sing some
pretty songs, and gradually led the conversation to some stories, which she
said might be successfully treated in the form of dramas. By this cunning
turn, she very soon put her young friend into his finest humor: from the
wealth of his living imaginative store, he forthwith constructed a complete
play, with all its acts, scenes, characters, and plots. It was thought proper to
insert a few catches and songs; they composed them; and Philina, who
entered into every part of it, immediately fitted them with well-known
tunes, and sang them on the spot.
It was one of her beautiful, most beautiful, days: she had skill to enliven our
friend with all manner of diverting wiles; he felt in spirits such as he had
not for many a month enjoyed.
Since that shocking discovery had torn him from the side of Mariana, he
had continued true to his vow to be on his guard against the encircling arms
of woman; to avoid the faithless sex; to lock up his inclinations, his sweet
wishes, in his own bosom. The conscientiousness with which he had
observed this vow gave his whole nature a secret nourishment; and, as his
heart could not remain without affection, some loving sympathy had now
become a want with him. He went along once more, as if environed by the
first cloudy glories of youth; his eye fixed joyfully on every charming
object, and never had his judgment of a lovely form been more favorable.
How dangerous, in such a situation, this wild girl must have been to him, is
but too easy to conceive.
Arrived at home, they found Wilhelm's chamber all ready to receive them;
the chairs set right for a public reading; in midst of them the table, on which
the punch-bowl was in due time to take its place.
The German chivalry-plays were new at this period, and had just excited the
attention and the inclination of the public. Old Boisterous had brought one
of this sort with him: the reading of it had already been determined on.
They all sat down; Wilhelm took possession of the pamphlet, and began to
read.
The harnessed knights, the ancient keeps, the true-heartedness, honesty, and
downrightness, but especially the independence of the acting characters,
were received with the greatest approbation. The reader did his utmost, and

the audience gradually mounted into rapture. Between the third and fourth
acts, the punch arrived in an ample bowl; and, there being much fighting
and drinking in the piece itself, nothing was more natural than that, on
every such occurrence, the company should transport themselves into the
situation of the heroes, should flourish and strike along with them, and
drink long life to their favorites among the dramatis personæ.
Each individual of the party was inflamed with the noblest fire of national
spirit. How it gratified this German company to be poetically entertained,
according to their own character, on stuff of their own manufacture! In
particular, the vaults and caverns, the ruined castles, the moss and hollow
trees, but above all the nocturnal gypsy scenes, and the Secret Tribunal,
produced a quite incredible effect. Every actor now figured to himself how,
erelong, in helm and harness, he; every actress how, with a monstrous
spreading ruff, she,—would present their Germanship before the public.
Each would appropriate to himself without delay some name taken from the
piece or from German history; and Madam Melina declared that the son or
daughter she was then expecting should not be christened otherwise than by
the name of Adelbert or of Mathilde.
Towards the fifth act, the approbation became more impetuous and louder;
and at last, when the hero actually trampled down his oppressor, and the
tyrant met his doom, the ecstasy increased to such a height, that all averred
they had never passed such happy moments. Melina, whom the liquor had
inspired, was the noisiest: and when the second bowl was emptied, and
midnight near, Laertes swore through thick and thin, that no living mortal
was worthy ever more to put these glasses to his lips; and, so swearing, he
pitched his own right over his head, through a window-pane, out into the
street. The rest followed his example; and notwithstanding the protestations
of the landlord, who came running in at the noise, the punch-bowl itself,
never after this festivity to be polluted by unholy drink, was dashed into a
thousand shreds. Philina, whose exhilaration was the least noticed,—the
other two girls by that time having laid themselves upon the sofa in no very
elegant positions,—maliciously encouraged her companions in their tumult.
Madam Melina recited some spirit-stirring poems; and her husband, not too
amiable in the uproar, began to cavil at the insufficient preparation of the
punch, declaring that he could arrange an entertainment altogether in a
different style, and at last becoming sulkier and louder as Laertes

commanded silence, till the latter, without much consideration, threw the
fragments of the punch-bowl about his head, and thereby not a little
deepened the confusion.
Meanwhile the town-guard had arrived, and were demanding admission to
the house. Wilhelm, much heated by his reading, though he had drunk but
little, had enough to do, with the landlord's help, to content these people by
money and good words, and afterwards to get the various members of his
party sent home in that unseemly case. On coming back, overpowered with
sleep and full of chagrin, he threw himself upon his bed without undressing;
and nothing could exceed his disgust, when, opening his eyes next morning,
he looked out with dull sight upon the devastations of the by-gone day, and
saw the uncleanness, and the many bad effects, of which that ingenious,
lively, and well-intentioned poetical performance had been the cause.

CHAPTER XI.
After a short consideration, he called the landlord, and bade him mark to his
account both the damage and the regular charge. At the same time he
learned, not without vexation, that his horse had been so hard ridden by
Laertes last night, that, in all probability, it was foundered, as they term it;
the farrier having little hope of its recovering.
A salute from Philina, which she threw him from her window, restored him
in some degree to a more cheerful humor: he went forthwith into the nearest
shop to buy her a little present, which, in return for the powder-knife, he
still owed her; and it must be owned, that, in selecting his gift, he did not
keep himself within the limits of proportional value. He not only purchased
her a pair of earrings, but added likewise a hat and neckerchief, and some
other little articles, which he had seen her lavishly throw from her on the
first day of their acquaintance.
Madam Melina, happening to observe him as he was delivering his
presents, took an opportunity before breakfast to rate him very earnestly
about his inclination for this girl; at which he felt the more astonished, the

less he thought it merited. He swore solemnly, that he had never once
entertained the slightest notion of attaching himself to such a person, whose
whole manner of proceeding was well known to him. He excused himself as
well as possible for his friendly and polite conduct towards her, yet did not
by any means content Madam Melina, whose spite grew ever more
determined, as she could not but observe that the flatteries, by which she
had acquired for herself a sort of partial regard from our friend, were not
sufficient to defend this conquest from the attacks of a livery, younger, and
more gifted rival.
As they sat down to table, her husband joined them, likewise in a very
fretful humor; which he was beginning to display on many little things,
when the landlord entered to announce a player on the harp. "You will
certainly," he said, "find pleasure in the music and the songs of this man: no
one who hears him can forbear to admire him, and bestow something on
him."
"Let him go about his business," said Melina: "I am any thing but in a trim
for hearing fiddlers, and we have singers constantly among ourselves
disposed to gain a little by their talent." He accompanied these words with a
sarcastic side-look at Philina: she understood his meaning, and immediately
prepared to punish him, by taking up the cause of the harper. Turning
towards Wilhelm, "Shall we not hear the man?" said she: "shall we do
nothing to save ourselves from this miserable ennui?"
Melina was going to reply, and the strife would have grown keener, had not
the person it related to at that moment entered. Wilhelm saluted him, and
beckoned him to come near.
The figure of this singular guest set the whole party in astonishment: he had
found a chair before any one took heart to ask him a question, or make any
observation. His bald crown was encircled by a few gray hairs, and a pair of
large blue eyes looked out softly from beneath his long white eyebrows. To
a nose of beautiful proportions was subjoined a flowing, hoary beard, which
did not hide the fine shape and position of his lips; and a long dark-brown
garment wrapped his thin body from the neck to the feet. He began to
prelude on the harp, which he had placed before him.

The sweet tones which he drew from his instrument very soon inspirited the
company.
"You can sing, too, my good old man," said Philina.
"Give us something that shall entertain the spirit and the heart as well as the
senses," said Wilhelm. "The instrument should but accompany the voice;
for tunes and melodies without words and meaning seem to me like
butterflies or finely variegated birds, which hover round us in the air, which
we could wish to catch and make our own: whereas song is like a blessed
genius that exalts us towards heaven, and allures the better self in us to
attend him."
The old man looked at Wilhelm, then aloft, then gave some trills upon his
harp, and began his song. It contained a eulogy on minstrelsy,—described
the happiness of minstrels, and reminded men to honor them. He produced
his song with so much life and truth, that it seemed as if he had composed it
at the moment, for this special occasion. Wilhelm could scarcely refrain
from clasping him in his arms: but the fear of awakening a peal of laughter
detained him in his chair; for the rest were already in half-whispers making
sundry very shallow observations, and debating if the harper was a Papist or
a Jew.
When asked about the author of the song, the man gave no distinct reply;
declaring only that he was rich in songs, and anxious that they should
please. Most of the party were now merry and joyful; even Melina was
grown frank in his way; and, whilst they talked and joked together, the old
man began to sing the praise of social life in the most sprightly style. He
described the loveliness of unity and courtesy, in soft, soothing tones.
Suddenly his music became cold, harsh, and jarring, as he turned to deplore
repulsive selfishness, short-sighted enmity, and baleful division; and every
heart willingly threw off those galling fetters, while, borne on the wings of
a piercing melody, he launched forth in praise of peacemakers, and sang the
happiness of souls, that, having parted, meet again in love.
Scarcely had he ended, when Wilhelm cried to him, "Whoever thou art, that
as a helping spirit comest to us with a voice which blesses and revives,
accept my reverence and my thanks! Feel that we all admire thee, and
confide in us if thou wantest any thing."

The old man spoke not: he threw his fingers softly across the strings, then
struck more sharply, and sang,—

"'What notes are those without the wall,
Across the portal sounding?
Let's have the music in our hall,
Back from its roof rebounding.'
So spoke the king, the henchman flies:
His answer heard, the monarch cries,
'Bring in that ancient minstrel.'

'Hail, gracious king! each noble knight,
Each lovely dame, I greet you!
What glittering stars salute my sight!
What heart unmoved may meet you!
Such lordly pomp is not for me,
Far other scenes my eyes must see:
Yet deign to list my harping.'

The singer turns him to his art,
A thrilling strain he raises:
Each warrior hears with glowing heart,
And on his loved one gazes.
The king, who liked his playing well,
Commands, for such a kindly spell,
A golden chain be given him.

'The golden chain give not to me;
Thy boldest knight may wear it,
Who, 'cross the battle's purple sea,
On lion breast may bear it:
Or let it be thy chancellor's prize,
Amid his heaps to feast his eyes;
Its yellow glance will please him.'

"I sing but as the linnet sings,
That on the green bough dwelleth;
A rich reward his music brings,

As from his throat it swelleth:
Yet might I ask, I'd ask of thine
One sparkling draught of purest wine,
To drink it here before you.'

He viewed the wine: he quaffed it up.
'O draught of sweetest savor!
O happy house, where such a cup
Is thought a little favor!
If well you fare, remember me,
And thank kind Heaven, from envy free,
As now for this I thank you.'"
When the harper, on finishing his song, took up a glass of wine that stood
poured out for him, and, turning with a friendly mien to his entertainers,
drank it off, a buzz of joyful approbation rose from all the party. They
clapped hands, and wished him health from that glass, and strength to his
aged limbs. He sang a few other ballads, exciting more and more hilarity
among the company.
"Old man," said Philina, "dost thou know the tune, 'The shepherd decked
him for the dance'?"[2]
"Oh, yes!" said he: "if you will sing the words, I shall not fail for my part of
it."
Philina then stood up, and held herself in readiness. The old man
commenced the tune; and she sang a song, which we cannot impart to our
readers, lest they might think it insipid, or perhaps undignified.
Meanwhile the company were growing merrier and merrier: they had
already emptied several flasks of wine, and were now beginning to get very
loud. But our friend, having fresh in his remembrance the bad consequences
of their late exhilaration, determined to break up the sitting; he slipped into
the old man's hand a liberal remuneration for his trouble, the rest did
something likewise; they gave him leave to go and take repose, promising
themselves another entertainment from his skill in the evening.

When he had retired, our friend said to Philina, "In this favorite song of
yours I certainly find no merit, either moral or poetical; yet if you were to
bring forward any proper composition on the stage, with the same arch
simplicity, the same propriety and gracefulness, I should engage that strong
and universal approbation would be the result."
"Yes," said Philina: "it would be a charming thing indeed to warm one's self
at ice."
"After all," said Wilhelm, "this old man might put many a player to the
blush. Did you notice how correctly the dramatic part of his ballads was
expressed? I maintain there was more living true representation in his
singing than in many of our starched characters upon the stage. You would
take the acting of many plays for a narrative, and you might ascribe to these
musical narratives a sensible presence."
"You are hardly just," replied Laertes. "I pretend to no great skill, either as a
player or as a singer; yet I know well enough, that when music guides the
movements of the body, at once affording to them animation and a scale to
measure it; when declamation and expression are furnished me by the
composer,—I feel quite a different man from what I do when, in prose
dramas, I have all this to create for myself,—have both gesture and
declamation to invent, and am, perhaps, disturbed in it, too, by the
awkwardness of some partner in the dialogue."
"Thus much I know," said Melina: "the man certainly puts us to the blush in
one point, and that a main point. The strength of his talent is shown by the
profit he derives from it. Even us, who perhaps erelong shall be
embarrassed where to get a meal, he persuades to share our pittance with
him. He has skill enough to wile the money from our pockets with an old
song,—the money that we should have used to find ourselves employment.
So pleasant an affair is it to squander the means which might procure
subsistence to one's self and others."
This remark gave the conversation not the most delightful turn. Wilhelm,
for whom the reproach was peculiarly intended, replied with some heat; and
Melina, at no time over studious of delicacy and politeness, explained his
grievances at last in words more plain than courteous. "It is now a
fortnight," said he, "since we looked at the theatrical machinery and

wardrobe which is lying pawned here: the whole might be redeemed for a
very tolerable sum. You then gave me hopes that you would lend me so
much; and hitherto I do not see that you have thought more of the matter, or
come any nearer a determination. Had you then consented, we should ere
now have been under way. Nor has your intention to leave the place been
executed, nor has your money in the mean time been spared: at least there
are people who have always skill to create opportunities for scattering it
faster and faster away."
Such upbraidings, not altogether undeserved, touched Wilhelm to the quick.
He replied with keenness, nay, with anger; and, as the company rose to part,
he took hold of the door, and gave them not obscurely to understand that he
would no longer continue with such unfriendly and ungrateful people. He
hastened down, in no kindly humor, and seated himself upon the stone
bench without the door of his inn; not observing, that, first out of mirth,
then out of spleen, he had drunk more wine than usual.

CHAPTER XII.
After a short time, which he passed sitting looking out before him,
disquieted by many thoughts, Philina came singing and skipping along
through the front door. She sat down by him, nay, we might almost say, on
him, so close did she press herself towards him: she leaned upon his
shoulders, began playing with his hair, patted him, and gave him the best
words in the world. She begged of him to stay with them, and not leave her
alone in that company, or she must die of tedium: she could not live any
longer in the same house with Melina, and had come over to lodge in the
other inn for that reason.
He tried in vain to satisfy her with denials,—to make her understand that he
neither could nor would remain any longer. She did not cease with her
entreaties; nay, suddenly she threw her arm round his neck, and kissed him
with the liveliest expression of fondness.

"Are you mad, Philina?" cried Wilhelm, endeavoring to disengage himself;
"to make the open street the scene of such caresses, which I nowise merit!
Let me go! I can not and I will not stay."
"And I will hold thee fast," said she, "and kiss thee here on the open street,
and kiss thee till thou promise what I want. I shall die of laughing," she
continued: "by this familiarity the good people here must take me for thy
wife of four weeks' standing; and husbands, who witness this touching
scene, will commend me to their wives as a pattern of childlike, simple
tenderness."
Some persons were just then going by: she caressed him in the most
graceful way; and he, to avoid giving scandal, was constrained to play the
part of the patient husband. Then she made faces at the people, when their
backs were turned, and, in the wildest humor, continued to commit all sorts
of improprieties, till at last he was obliged to promise that he would not go
that day, or the morrow, or the next day.
"You are a true clod!" said she, quitting him; "and I am but a fool to spend
so much kindness on you." She arose with some vexation, and walked a few
steps, then turned round laughing, and cried, "I believe it is just that, after
all, that makes me so crazy about thee. I will but go and seek my knitting-
needles and my stocking, that I may have something to do. Stay there, and
let me find the stone man still upon the stone bench when I come back."
She cast a sparkling glance on him, and went into the house. He had no call
to follow her; on the contrary, her conduct had excited fresh aversion in
him; yet he rose from the bench to go after her, not well knowing why.
He was just entering the door, when Melina passed by, and spoke to him in
a respectful tone, asking his pardon for the somewhat too harsh expressions
he had used in their late discussion. "You will not take it ill of me,"
continued he, "if I appear perhaps too fretful in my present circumstances.
The charge of providing for a wife, perhaps soon for a child, forbids me
from day to day to live at peace, or spend my time as you may do, in the
enjoyment of pleasant feelings. Consider, I pray you, and, if possible, do
put me in possession of that stage machinery that is lying here. I shall not
be your debtor long, and I shall be obliged to you while I live."

Our friend, unwilling to be kept upon the threshold, over which an
irresistible impulse was drawing him at that moment to Philina, answered,
with an absent mind, eager to be gone, and surprised into a transient feeling
of good will, "If I can make you happy and contented by doing this, I will
hesitate no longer. Go you and put every thing to rights. I shall be prepared
this evening, or to-morrow morning, to pay the money." He then gave his
hand to Melina in confirmation of his promise, and was very glad to see
him hastily proceed along the street; but, alas! his entrance, which he now
thought sure, was a second time prohibited, and more disagreeably than at
first.
A young man, with a bundle on his back, came walking fast along the street,
and advanced to Wilhelm, who at once recognized him for Friedrich.
"Here am I again!" cried he, looking with his large blue eyes joyfully up
and down, over all the windows of the house. "Where is Mamsell? Devil
take me, if I can stroll about the world any longer without seeing her!"
The landlord, joining them at this instant, replied that she was above;
Friedrich, with a few bounds, was up stairs; and Wilhelm continued
standing, as if rooted to the threshold. At the first instant he was tempted to
pluck the younker back, and drag him down by the hair; then all at once the
spasm of a sharp jealousy stopped the current of his spirits and ideas; and,
as he gradually recovered from this stupefaction, there came over him a
splenetic fit of restlessness, a general discomfort, such as he had never felt
in his life before.
He went up to his room, and found Mignon busy writing. For some time the
creature had been laboring with great diligence in writing every thing she
knew by heart, giving always to her master and friend the papers to correct.
She was indefatigable, and of good comprehension; but still, her letters
were irregular, and her lines crooked. Here, too, the body seemed to
contradict the mind. In his usual moods, Wilhelm took no small pleasure in
the child's attention; but, at the present moment, he regarded little what she
showed him,—a piece of neglect which she felt the more acutely, as on this
occasion she conceived her work had been accomplished with peculiar
success.

Wilhelm's unrest drove him up and down the passages of the house, and
finally again to the street-door. A rider was just prancing towards it,—a man
of good appearance, of middle age, and a brisk, contented look. The
landlord ran to meet him, holding out his hand as to an old acquaintance.
"Ay, Herr Stallmeister," cried he, "have we the pleasure to see you again?"
"I am only just going to bait with you," replied the stranger, "and then along
to the estate, to get matters put in order as soon as possible. The count is
coming over to-morrow with his lady; they mean to stay a while to entertain
the Prince von —— in their best style: he intends to fix his headquarters in
this neighborhood for some time."
"It is pity," said the landlord, "that you cannot stop with us: we have good
company in the house." The hostler came running out, and took the horse
from the Stallmeister, who continued talking in the door with the landlord,
and now and then giving a look at Wilhelm.
Our friend, observing that he formed the topic of their conversation, went
away, and walked up and down the streets.

CHAPTER XIII.
In the restless vexation of his present humor, it came into his head to go and
see the old harper; hoping by his music to scare away the evil spirits that
tormented him. On asking for the man, he was directed to a mean public
house, in a remote corner of the little town; and, having mounted up-stairs
there to the very garret, his ear caught the fine twanging of the harp coming
from a little room before him. They were heart-moving, mournful tones,
accompanied by a sad and dreary singing. Wilhelm glided to the door: and
as the good old man was performing a sort of voluntary, the few stanzas of
which, sometimes chanted, sometimes in recitative, were repeated more
than once, our friend succeeded, after listening for a while, in gathering
nearly this:—

"Who never ate his bread with tears,

Through nights of grief who, weeping, never
Sat on his bed, midst pangs and fears,
Can, heavenly powers, not know you ever.

Ye lead us forth into this life,
Where comfort soon by guilt is banished,
Abandon us to tortures, strife;
For on this earth all guilt is punished."
—Editor's Version.
The heart-sick, plaintive sound of this lament pierced deep into the soul of
the hearer. It seemed to him as if the old man were often stopped from
proceeding by his tears: his harp would alone be heard for a time, till his
voice again joined it in low, broken tones. Wilhelm stood by the door; he
was much moved; the mourning of this stranger had again opened the
avenues of his heart; he could not resist the claim of sympathy, or restrain
the tears which this woe-begone complaint at last called forth. All the pains
that pressed upon his soul seemed now at once to loosen from their hold: he
abandoned himself without reserve to the feelings of the moment. Pushing
up the door, he stood before the harper. The old man was sitting on a mean
bed, the only seat, or article of furniture, which his miserable room
afforded.
"What feelings thou hast awakened in me, good old man!" exclaimed he.
"All that was lying frozen at my heart thou hast melted, and put in motion.
Let me not disturb thee, but continue, in solacing thy own sorrows, to
confer happiness upon a friend." The harper was about to rise, and say
something; but Wilhelm hindered him, for he had noticed in the morning
that the old man did not like to speak. He sat down by him on the straw bed.
The old man wiped his eyes, and asked, with a friendly smile, "How came
you hither? I meant to wait upon you in the evening again."
"We are more quiet here," said Wilhelm. "Sing to me what thou pleasest,
what accords with thy own mood of mind, only proceed as if I were not by.
It seems to me, that to-day thou canst not fail to suit me. I think thee very
happy, that, in solitude, thou canst employ and entertain thyself so
pleasantly; that, being everywhere a stranger, thou findest in thy own heart
the most agreeable society."

The old man looked upon his strings; and after touching them softly, by
way of prelude, he commenced and sang,—

"Who longs in solitude to live,
Ah! soon his wish will gain:
Men hope and love, men get and give,
And leave him to his pain.
Yes, leave me to my moan!
When from my bed
You all are fled,
I still am not alone.

The lover glides with footstep light:
His love, is she not waiting there?
So glides to meet me, day and night,
In solitude my care,
In solitude my woe:
True solitude I then shall know
When lying in my grave,
When lying in my grave,
And grief has let me go."

We might describe with great prolixity, and yet fail to express the charms
of, the singular conversation which Wilhelm carried on with this wayfaring
stranger. To every observation our friend addressed to him, the old man,
with the nicest accordance, answered in some melody, which awakened all
the cognate emotions, and opened a wide field to the imagination.
Whoever has happened to be present at a meeting of certain devout people,
who conceive, that, in a state of separation from the Church, they can edify
each other in a purer, more affecting, and more spiritual manner, may form
to himself some conception of the present scene. He will recollect how the
leader of the meeting would append to his words some verse of a song, that
raised the soul till, as he wished, she took wing; how another of the flock
would erelong subjoin, in a different tune, some verse of a different song;
and to this again a third would link some verse of a third song,—by which
means the kindred ideas of the songs to which the verses belonged were
indeed suggested, yet each passage by its new combination became new

and individualized, as if it had been first composed that moment; and thus
from a well-known circle of ideas, from well-known songs and sayings,
there was formed for that particular society, in that particular time, an
original whole, by means of which their minds were animated,
strengthened, and refreshed. So, likewise, did the old man edify his guest:
by known and unknown songs and passages, he brought feelings near and
distant, emotions sleeping and awake, pleasant and painful, into a
circulation, from which, in Wilhelm's actual state, the best effects might be
anticipated.

CHAPTER XIV.
Accordingly, in walking back, he began to think with greater earnestness
than ever on his present situation: he had reached home with the firm
purpose of altering it, when the landlord disclosed to him, by way of secret,
that Mademoiselle Philina had made a conquest of the count's Stallmeister,
who, after executing his commission at his master's estate, had returned in
the greatest haste, and was even now partaking of a good supper with her up
in her chamber.
At this very moment Melina came in with a notary: they went into
Wilhelm's chamber together, where the latter, though with some hesitation,
made his promise good; gave a draft of three hundred crowns to Melina,
who, handing it to the lawyer, received in return a note acknowledging the
sale of the whole theatrical apparatus, and engaging to deliver it next
morning.
Scarcely had they parted, when Wilhelm heard a cry of horror rising from
some quarter of the house. He caught the sound of a young voice, uttering
menacing and furious tones, which were ever and anon choked by
immoderate weeping and howling. He observed this frantic noise move
hastily from above, go past his door, and down to the lower part of the
house.

Curiosity enticing our friend to follow it, he found Friedrich in a species of
delirium. The boy was weeping, grinding his teeth, stamping with his feet,
threatening with clenched fists: he appeared beside himself from fury and
vexation. Mignon was standing opposite him, looking on with
astonishment. The landlord, in some degree, explained this phenomenon.
The boy, he said, being well received at his return by Philina, seemed quite
merry and contented: he had kept singing and jumping about, till the time
when Philina grew acquainted with the Stallmeister. Then, however, this
half-grown younker had begun to show his indignation, to slam the doors,
and run up and down in the highest dudgeon. Philina had ordered him to
wait at table that evening, upon which he had grown still sulkier and more
indignant; till at last, carrying up a plate with a ragout, instead of setting it
upon the table, he had thrown the whole between Mademoiselle and her
guest, who were sitting moderately close together at the time: and the
Stallmeister, after two or three hearty cuffs, had then kicked him out of the
room. He, the landlord, had himself helped to clean both of them; and
certainly their clothes had suffered much.
On hearing of the good effect of his revenge, the boy began to laugh aloud,
whilst the tears were still running down his cheeks. He heartily rejoiced for
a time, till the disgrace which he had suffered from the stronger party once
more came into his head, and he began afresh to howl and threaten.
Wilhelm stood meditating, and ashamed at this spectacle. It reflected back
to him his own feelings, in coarser and exaggerated features: he, too, was
inflamed with a fierce jealousy; and, had not decency restrained him, he
would willingly have satisfied his wild humor; with malicious spleen would
have abused the object of his passion, and called out his rival; he could have
crushed in pieces all the people round him; they seemed as if standing there
but to vex him.
Laertes also had come in, and heard the story: he roguishly spurred on the
irritated boy, who was now asserting with oaths that he would make the
Stallmeister give him satisfaction; that he had never yet let any injury abide
with him; that, should the man refuse, there were other ways of taking
vengeance.

This was the very business for Laertes. He went up stairs, with a solemn
countenance, to call out the Stallmeister in the boy's name.
"This is a pleasant thing," said the Stallmeister: "such a joke as this I had
scarcely promised myself to-night." They went down, and Philina followed
them. "My son," said the Stallmeister to Friedrich, "thou art a brave lad, and
I do not hesitate to fight thee. Only, as our years and strength are unequal,
and the attempt a little dangerous on that account, I propose a pair of foils
in preference to other weapons. We can rub the buttons of them with a piece
of chalk; and whoever marks upon the other's coat the first or the most
thrusts, shall be held the victor, and be treated by the other with the best
wine that can be had in town."
Laertes decided that the proposition might be listened to: Friedrich obeyed
him, as his tutor. The foils were produced: Philina took a seat, went on with
her knitting, and looked at the contending parties with the greatest peace of
mind.
The Stallmeister, who could fence very prettily, was complaisant enough to
spare his adversary, and to let a few chalk scores be marked upon his coat;
after which the two embraced, and wine was ordered. The Stallmeister took
the liberty of asking Friedrich's parentage and history; and Friedrich told
him a long story, which had often been repeated already, and which, at some
other opportunity, we purpose communicating to our readers.
To Wilhelm, in the mean time, this contest completed the representation of
his own state of mind. He could not but perceive that he would willingly
have taken up a foil against the Stallmeister,—a sword still more willingly,
though evidently much his inferior in the science of defence. Yet he deigned
not to cast one look on Philina; he was on his guard against any word or
movement that could possibly betray his feelings: and, after having once or
twice done justice to the health of the duellists, he hastened to his own
room, where a thousand painful thoughts came pressing round him.
He called to memory the time when his spirit, rich in hope, and full of
boundless aims, was raised aloft, and encircled with the liveliest
enjoyments of every kind as with its proper element. He now clearly saw,
that of late he had fallen into a broken, wandering path, where, if he tasted,
it was but in drops what he once quaffed in unrestricted measure. But he

could not clearly see what insatiable want it was that nature had made the
law of his being, and how this want had been only set on edge, half
satisfied, and misdirected by the circumstances of his life.
It will not surprise us, therefore, that, in considering his situation, and
laboring to extricate himself, he fell into the greatest perplexity. It was not
enough, that by his friendship for Laertes, his attachment to Philina, his
concern for Mignon, he had been detained longer than was proper in a place
and a society where he could cherish his darling inclination, content his
wishes as it were by stealth, and, without proposing any object, again
pursue his early dreams. These ties he believed himself possessed of force
enough to break asunder: had there been nothing more to hold him, he
could have gone at once. But, only a few moments ago, he had entered into
money transactions with Melina: he had seen that mysterious old man, the
enigma of whose history he longed with unspeakable desire to clear. Yet of
this too, after much balancing of reasons, he at length determined, or
thought he had determined, that it should not keep him back. "I must go."
He threw himself into a chair: he felt greatly moved. Mignon came in, and
asked whether she might help to undress him. Her manner was still and shy:
it had grieved her to the quick to be so abruptly dismissed by him before.
Nothing is more touching than the first disclosure of a love which has been
nursed in silence, of a faith grown strong in secret, and which at last comes
forth in the hour of need, and reveals itself to him who formerly has
reckoned it of small account. The bud, which had been closed so long and
firmly, was now ripe to burst its swathings; and Wilhelm's heart could never
have been readier to welcome the impressions of affection.
She stood before him, and noticed his disquietude. "Master!" she cried, "if
thou art unhappy, what will become of Mignon?"—"Dear little creature,"
said he, taking her hands, "thou, too, art part of my anxieties. I must go
hence." She looked at his eyes, glistening with restrained tears, and knelt
down with vehemence before him. He kept her hands: she laid her head
upon his knees, and remained quite still. He played with her hair, patted her,
and spoke kindly to her. She continued motionless for a considerable time.
At last he felt a sort of palpitating movement in her, which began very
softly, and then by degrees, with increasing violence, diffused itself over all
her frame. "What ails thee, Mignon?" cried he: "What ails thee?" She raised

her little head, looked at him, and all at once laid her hand upon her heart,
with the countenance of one repressing the utterance of pain. He raised her
up, and she fell upon his breast: he pressed her towards him, and kissed her.
She replied not by any pressure of the hand, by any motion whatever. She
held firmly against her heart, and all at once gave a cry, which was
accompanied by spasmodic movements of the body. She started up, and
immediately fell down before him, as if broken in every joint. It was an
excruciating moment. "My child!" cried he, raising her up, and clasping her
fast, "my child, what ails thee?" The palpitations continued, spreading from
the heart over all the lax and powerless limbs: she was merely hanging in
his arms. All at once she again became quite stiff, like one enduring the
sharpest corporeal agony; and soon with a new vehemence all her frame
once more became alive; and she threw herself about his neck, like a bent
spring that is closing; while in her soul, as it were, a strong rent took place,
and at the same moment a stream of tears flowed from her shut eyes into his
bosom. He held her fast. She wept, and no tongue can express the force of
these tears. Her long hair had loosened, and was hanging down before her:
it seemed as if her whole being was melting incessantly into a brook of
tears. Her rigid limbs were again become relaxed; her inmost soul was
pouring itself forth; in the wild confusion of the moment Wilhelm was
afraid she would dissolve in his arms, and leave nothing there for him to
grasp. He held her faster and faster. "My child!" cried he, "my child! thou
art indeed mine, if that word can comfort thee. Thou art mine! I will keep
thee, I will never forsake thee!" Her tears continued flowing. At last she
raised herself: a faint gladness shone upon her face. "My father!" cried she,
"thou wilt not forsake me? Wilt be my father? I am thy child!"
Softly, at this moment, the harp began to sound before the door: the old man
brought his most affecting songs as an evening offering to our friend, who,
holding his child ever faster in his arms, enjoyed the most pure and
undescribable felicity.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.
"Dost know the land where citrons, lemons, grow,
Gold oranges 'neath dusky foliage glow,
From azure sky are blowing breezes soft,
The myrtles still, the laurel stands aloft?
'Tis there! 'tis there!
I would with thee, O my beloved one, go!

Dost know the house, its roofs do columns bear,
The hall with splendor bright, the chambers glare?
Therein stand marble forms, and look at me:
What is't, poor child, that they have done to thee?
Dost know that house?
'Tis there! 'tis there!
I would with thee, O my protector, go!

Dost know the mount, whose path with clouds is fraught,
Where by the mule through mist the way is sought,
Where dwell in caves the dragon's ancient brood,
Where falls the rock, and over it the flood,—
Dost know that mount?
'Tis there! 'tis there!
Does lead our road: O father, let us go!"
—Editor's Version.

Next morning, on looking for Mignon about the house, Wilhelm did not
find her, but was informed that she had gone out early with Melina, who

had risen betimes to receive the wardrobe and other apparatus of his theatre.
After the space of some hours, Wilhelm heard the sound of music before his
door. At first he thought it was the harper come again to visit him; but he
soon distinguished the tones of a cithern, and the voice which began to sing
was Mignon's. Wilhelm opened the door: the child came in, and sang him
the song we have just given above.
The music and general expression of it pleased our friend extremely, though
he could not understand all the words. He made her once more repeat the
stanzas, and explain them: he wrote them down, and translated them into
his native language. But the originality of its turns he could imitate only
from afar: its childlike innocence of expression vanished from it in the
process of reducing its broken phraseology to uniformity, and combining its
disjointed parts. The charm of the tune, moreover, was entirely
incomparable.
She began every verse in a stately and solemn manner, as if she wished to
draw attention towards something wonderful, as if she had something
weighty to communicate. In the third line, her tones became deeper and
gloomier; the words, "Dost know?" were uttered with a show of mystery
and eager circumspectness; in "'Tis there! 'tis there!" lay an irresistible
longing; and her "Let us go!" she modified at each repetition, so that now it
appeared to entreat and implore, now to impel and persuade.
On finishing her song for the second time, she stood silent for a moment,
looked keenly at Wilhelm, and asked him, "Know'st thou the land?"—"It
must mean Italy," said Wilhelm: "where didst thou get the little
song?"—"Italy!" said Mignon, with an earnest air. "If thou go to Italy, take
me along with thee; for I am too cold here."—"Hast thou been there
already, little dear?" said Wilhelm. But the child was silent, and nothing
more could be got out of her.
Melina entered now: he looked at the cithern,—was glad that she had rigged
it up again so prettily. The instrument had been among Melina's stage-gear:
Mignon had begged it of him in the morning, and then gone to the old
harper. On this occasion she had shown a talent she was not before
suspected of possessing.

Melina had already got possession of his wardrobe, with all that pertained
to it: some members of the town magistracy had promised him permission
to act, for a time, in the place. He was now returning with a merry heart and
a cheerful look. His nature seemed altogether changed: he was soft,
courteous to every one,—nay, fond of obliging, and almost attractive. He
was happy, he said, at now being able to afford employment to his friends,
who had hitherto lain idle and embarrassed; sorry, however, that at first he
could not have it in his power to remunerate the excellent actors whom
fortune had offered him, in a style corresponding to their talents and
capacities; being under the necessity, before all other things, of discharging
his debt to so generous a friend as Wilhelm had proved himself to be.
"I cannot describe," said he to Wilhelm, "the friendliness which you have
shown, in helping me forward to the management of a theatre. When I
found you here, I was in a very curious predicament. You recollect how
strongly I displayed to you, on our first acquaintance, my aversion to the
stage; and yet, on being married, I was forced to look about for a place in
some theatre, out of love to my wife, who promised to herself much joy and
great applause if so engaged. I could find none, at least no constant one; but
in return I luckily fell in with some commercial men, who, in extraordinary
cases, were enabled to employ a person that could handle his pen, that
understood French, and was not without a little skill in ciphering. I
managed pretty well in this way for a time; I was tolerably paid; got about
me many things which I had need of, and did not feel ashamed of my work.
But these commissions of my patrons came to an end; they could afford me
no permanent establishment: and, ever since, my wife has continued urging
me still more to go upon the stage again; though, at present, alas! her own
situation is none of the favorablest for exhibiting herself with honor in the
eyes of the public. But now, I hope, the establishment which by your kind
help I have the means of setting up, will prove a good beginning for me and
mine: you I shall thank for all my future happiness, let matters turn out as
they will."
Wilhelm listened to him with contentment: the whole fraternity of players
were likewise moderately satisfied with the declarations of the new
manager; they secretly rejoiced that an offer of employment had occurred
so soon, and were disposed to put up at first with a smaller salary, the
rather, that most of them regarded the present one, so unexpectedly placed

within their reach, as a kind of supplement, on which a short while ago they
could not count. Melina made haste to profit by this favorable temper: he
endeavored in a sly way to get a little talk with each in private, and erelong
had, by various methods, so cockered them all, that they did not hesitate to
strike a bargain with him without loss of time; scarcely thinking of this new
engagement, or reckoning themselves secure at worst of getting free again
after six-weeks' warning.
The terms were now to be reduced to proper form; and Melina was
considering with what pieces he would first entice the public, when a
courier riding up informed the Stallmeister that his lord and lady were at
hand; on which the latter ordered out his horses.
In a short time after this, the coach with its masses of luggage rolled in; two
servants sprang down from the coach-box before the inn; and Philina,
according to her custom, foremost in the way of novelties, placed herself
within the door.
"Who are you?" said the countess, entering the house.
"An actress, at your Excellency's service," was the answer; while the cheat,
with a most innocent air, and looks of great humility, courtesied, and kissed
the lady's gown.
The count, on seeing some other persons standing round, who also signified
that they were players, inquired about the strength of their company, their
last place of residence, their manager. "Had they but been Frenchmen," said
he to his lady, "we might have treated the prince with an unexpected
enjoyment, and entertained him with his favorite pastime at our house."
"And could we not," said the countess, "get these people, though unluckily
they are but Germans, to exhibit with us at the castle while the prince stays
there? Without doubt they have some degree of skill. A large party can
never be so well amused with any thing as with a theatre: besides, the baron
would assist them."
So speaking, they went up-stairs; and Melina presented himself above, as
manager. "Call your folk together," said the count, "and place them before
me, that I may see what is in them. I must also have the list of pieces you
profess to act."

Melina, with a low bow, hastened from the room, and soon returned with
his actors. They advanced in promiscuous succession: some, out of too
great anxiety to please, introduced themselves in a rather sorry style; the
others, not much better, by assuming an air of unconcern. Philina showed
the deepest reverence to the countess, who behaved with extreme
graciousness and condescension: the count, in the mean time, was
mustering the rest. He questioned each about his special province of acting,
and signified to Melina that he must rigorously keep them to their several
provinces,—a precept which the manager received with the greatest
devotion.
The count then stated to each in particular what he ought especially to
study, what about his figure or his postures ought to be amended; showed
them luminously in what points the Germans always fail; and displayed
such extraordinary knowledge, that all stood in the deepest humility,
scarcely daring to draw their breath before so enlightened a critic and so
right honorable a patron.
"What fellow is that in the corner?" said the count, looking at a subject who
had not yet been presented to him, and who now approached,—a lean,
shambling figure, with a rusty coat, patched at the elbows, and a woful
periwig covering his submissive head.
This person, whom, from the last Book, we know already as Philina's
darling, had been want to enact pedants, tutors, and poets,—generally
undertaking parts in which any cudgelling or ducking was to be endured.
He had trained himself to certain crouching, ludicrous, timid bows; and his
faltering, stammering speech befitted the characters he played, and created
laughter in the audience; so that he was always looked on as a useful
member of the company, being moreover very serviceable and obliging. He
approached the count in his own peculiar way, bent himself before him, and
answered every question with the grimaces and gestures he was used to on
the stage. The count looked at him for some time with an air of attentive
satisfaction and studious observation; then, turning to the countess, "Child,"
said he, "consider this man well: I will engage for it he is a great actor, or
may become so." The creature here, in the fulness of his heart, made an
idiotic bow: the count burst into laughing, and exclaimed, "He does it

excellently well! I bet this fellow can act any thing he likes: it is pity that he
has not been already used to something better."
So singular a prepossession was extremely galling to the rest: Melina alone
felt no vexation, but completely coincided with the count, and answered,
with a prostrate look, "Alas! it is too true: both he and others of us have
long stood in need of such encouragement, and such a judge, as we now
find in your Excellency."
"Is this the whole company?" inquired the count.
"Some of them are absent," said the crafty Melina; "and at any rate, if we
should meet with support, we could soon collect abundant numbers from
the neighborhood."
Philina in the mean while was saying to the countess, "There is a very
pretty young man above, who without doubt would shortly become a first-
rate amateur."
"Why does he not appear?" said the countess.
"I will bring him," cried Philina, hastening to the door.
She found our friend still occupied with Mignon: she persuaded him to
come down. He followed her with some reluctance: yet curiosity impelled
him; for, hearing that the family were people of rank, he longed much to
know more of them. On entering the room, his eyes met those of the
countess, which were directed towards him. Philina led him to the lady,
while the count was busied with the rest. Wilhelm made his bow, and
replied to several questions from the fair dame, not without confusion of
mind. Her beauty and youth, her graceful dignity and refined manner, made
the most delightful impression on him; and the more so, as her words and
looks were accompanied with a certain bashfulness, one might almost say
embarrassment. He was likewise introduced to the count, who, however,
took no special notice of him, but went to the window with his lady, and
seemed to ask her about something. It was easy to observe that her opinion
accorded strongly with his own; that she even tried to persuade him, and
strengthen him in his intentions.

In a short while he turned round to the company, and said, "I must not stay
at present, but I will send a friend to you; and if you make reasonable
proposals, and will take very great pains, I am not disinclined to let you
play at the castle."
All testified their joy at this: Philina in particular kissed the hands of the
countess with the greatest vivacity.
"Look you, little thing," said the lady, patting the cheeks of the light-minded
girl, "look you, child, you shall come to me again: I will keep my promise;
only you must dress better." Philina stated in excuse that she had little to lay
out upon her wardrobe; and the countess immediately ordered her waiting-
maids to bring from the carriage a silk neckerchief and an English hat, the
articles easiest to come at, and give them to her new favorite. The countess
herself then decked Philina, who continued very neatly to support, by her
looks and conduct, that saintlike, guiltless character she had assumed at
first.
The count took his lady's hand, and led her down. She bowed to the whole
company with a friendly air, in passing by them: she turned round again
towards Wilhelm, and said to him, with the most gracious mien, "We shall
soon meet again."
These happy prospects enlivened the whole party: every one of them gave
free course to his hopes, his wishes, his imaginations; spoke of the parts he
would play, and the applause he would acquire. Melina was considering
how he might still, by a few speedy exhibitions, gain a little money from
the people of the town before he left it; while others went into the kitchen,
to order a better dinner than of late they had been used to.

CHAPTER II.
After a few days the baron came, and it was not without fear that Melina
received him. The count had spoken of him as a critic: and it might be
dreaded, he would speedily detect the weakness of the little party, and see

that it formed no efficient troop; there being scarcely a play which they
could act in a suitable manner. But the manager, as well as all the members,
were soon delivered from their cares, on finding that the baron was a man
who viewed the German stage with a most patriotic enthusiasm, to whom
every player, and every company of players, was welcome and agreeable.
He saluted them all with great solemnity; was happy to come upon a
German theatre so unexpectedly, to get connected with it, and to introduce
their native Muses to the mansion of his relative. He then pulled out from
his pocket a bundle of stitched papers, in which Melina hoped to find the
terms of their contract specified; but it proved something very different. It
was a drama, which the baron himself had composed, and wished to have
played by them: he requested their attention while he read it. Willingly they
formed a circle round him, charmed at being able with so little trouble to
secure the favor of a man so important; though, judging by the thickness of
the manuscript, it was clear that a very long rehearsal might be dreaded.
Their apprehensions were not groundless: the piece was written in five acts,
and that sort of acts which never have an end.
The hero was an excellent, virtuous, magnanimous, and at the same time
misunderstood and persecuted, man: this worthy person, after many trials,
gained the victory at last over all his enemies; on whom, in consequence,
the most rigorous poetic justice would have been exercised, had he not
pardoned them on the spot.
While this piece was rehearsing, each of the auditors had leisure enough to
think of himself, and to mount up quite softly from the humble prostration
of mind, to which, a little while ago, he had felt disposed, into a
comfortable state of contentment with his own gifts and advantages, and,
from this elevation, to discover the most pleasing prospects in the future.
Such of them as found in the play no parts adapted for their own acting,
internally pronounced it bad, and viewed the baron as a miserable author;
while the others, every time they noticed any passage which they hoped
might procure them a little clapping of the hands, exalted it with the
greatest praise, to the immeasurable satisfaction of the author.
The commercial part of their affair was soon completed. Melina made an
advantageous bargain with the baron, and contrived to keep it secret from
the rest.

Of our friend, Melina took occasion to declare in passing, that he seemed to
be successfully qualifying himself for becoming a dramatic poet, and even
to have some capacities for being an actor. The baron introduced himself to
Wilhelm as a colleague; and the latter by and by produced some short
pieces, which, with a few other relics, had escaped by chance, on the day
when he threw the greater part of his works into the flames. The baron
lauded both his pieces and delivery: he spoke of it as a settled thing, that
Wilhelm should come over to the castle with the rest. For all, at his
departure, he engaged to find the best reception, comfortable quarters, a
good table, applauses, and presents; and Melina further gave the promise of
a certain modicum of pocket-money to each.
It is easy to conceive how this visit raised the spirits of the party: instead of
a low and harassing situation, they now at once saw honors and enjoyment
before them. On the score of these great hopes they already made merry,
and each thought it needless and stingy to retain a single groschen of money
in his purse.
Meanwhile our friend was taking counsel with himself about accompanying
the troop to the castle; and he found it, in more than one sense, advisable to
do so. Melina was in hopes of paying off his debt, at least in part, by this
engagement; and Wilhelm, who had come from home to study men, was
unwilling to let slip this opportunity of examining the great world, where he
expected to obtain much insight into life, into himself, and the dramatic art.
With all this, he durst not confess how greatly he wished again to be near
the beautiful countess. He rather sought to persuade himself in general of
the mighty advantages which a more intimate acquaintance with the world
of rank and wealth would procure for him. He pursued his reflections on the
count, the countess, the baron; on the security, the grace, and propriety of
their demeanor: he exclaimed with rapture when alone,—
"Thrice happy are they to be esteemed, whom their birth of itself exalts
above the lower stages of mankind; who do not need to traverse those
perplexities, not even to skirt them, in which many worthy men so painfully
consume the whole period of life. Far-extending and unerring must their
vision be, on that higher station; easy each step of their progress in the
world. From their very birth, they are placed, as it were, in a ship, which, in
this voyage we have all to make, enables them to profit by the favorable

winds, and to ride out the cross ones; while others, bare of help, must wear
their strength away in swimming, can derive little profit from the favorable
breeze, and in the storm must soon become exhausted, and sink to the
bottom. What convenience, what ease of movement, does a fortune we are
born to confer upon us! How securely does a traffic flourish, which is
founded on a solid capital, where the failure of one or of many enterprises
does not of necessity reduce us to inaction! Who can better know the worth
and worthlessness of earthly things, than he that has had within his choice
the enjoyment of them from youth upwards? and who can earlier guide his
mind to the useful, the necessary, the true, than he that may convince
himself of so many errors in an age when his strength is yet fresh to begin a
new career?"
Thus did our friend cry joy to all inhabitants of the upper regions, and, not
to them only, but to all that were permitted to approach their circle, and
draw water from their wells. So he thanked his own happy stars, that
seemed preparing to grant this mighty blessing to himself.
Melina, in the mean time, was torturing his brains to get the company
arranged according to their several provinces, and each of them appointed
to produce his own peculiar effect. In compliance with the count's
injunctions and his own persuasions, he made many efforts; but at last,
when it came to the point of execution, he was forced to be content, if, in so
small a troop, he found his people willing to adjust themselves to this or
that part as they best were able. When matters would admit of it, Laertes
played the lover; Philina the lady's maid; the two young girls took up
between them the characters of the artless and tender loved ones; the
boisterous old gentleman of the piece was sure to be the best acted. Melina
himself thought he might come forth as chevalier; Madam Melina, to her no
small sorrow, was obliged to satisfy herself with personating young wives,
or even affectionate mothers; and as in the newer plays, a poet or pedant is
rarely introduced, and still more rarely for the purpose of being laughed at,
the well-known favorite of the count was now usually transformed into
president or minister,—these being commonly set forth as knaves, and
severely handled in the fifth act. Melina, too, in the part of chamberlain or
the like, introduced, with great satisfaction, the ineptitudes put into his
hands by various honest Germans, according to use and wont, in many
well-accepted plays: he delighted in these characters, because he had an

opportunity of decking himself out in a fashionable style, and was called
upon to assume the airs of a courtier, which he conceived himself to possess
in great perfection.
It was not long till they were joined by several actors from different
quarters; who, being received without very strict examination, were also
retained without very burdensome conditions.
Wilhelm had been more than once assailed with persuasions from Melina to
undertake an amateur part. This he declined; yet he interested and occupied
himself about the general cause with great alacrity, without our new
manager's acknowledging his labors in the smallest. On the contrary, it
seemed to be Melina's opinion, that with his office he had at the same time
picked up all the necessary skill for carrying it on. In particular, the task of
curtailment formed one of his most pleasing occupations: he would succeed
in reducing any given piece down to the regular measure of time, without
the slightest respect to proprieties or proportions, or any thing whatever, but
his watch. He met with great encouragement; the public was very much
delighted; the most knowing inhabitants of the burgh maintained, that the
prince's theatre itself was not so well conducted as theirs.

CHAPTER III.
At last the time arrived when the company had to prepare for travelling, and
to expect the coaches and other vehicles that were to carry them to the
count's mansion. Much altercation now took place about the mode of
travelling, and who should sit with whom. The ordering and distribution of
the whole was at length settled and concluded, with great labor, and, alas!
without effect. At the appointed hour, fewer coaches came than were
expected: they had to accommodate themselves as the case would admit.
The baron, who followed shortly afterwards on horseback, assigned, as the
reason, that all was in motion at the castle, not only because the prince was
to arrive a few days earlier than had been looked for, but also because an
unexpected party of visitors were already come: the place, he said, was in

great confusion; on this account perhaps they would not lodge so
comfortably as had been intended,—a change which grieved him very
much.
Our travellers packed themselves into the carriages the best way they could;
and the weather being tolerable, and the castle but a few leagues distant, the
heartiest of the troop preferred setting out on foot to waiting the return of
the coaches. The caravan got under way with great jubilee, for the first time
without caring how the landlord's bill was to be paid. The count's mansion
rose on their souls like a palace of the fairies: they were the happiest and
merriest mortals in the world. Each throughout the journey, in his own
peculiar mode, kept fastening a continued chain of fortune, honor, and
prosperity to that auspicious day.
A heavy rain, which fell unexpectedly, did not banish these delightful
contemplations; though, as it incessantly continued with more and more
violence, many of the party began to show traces of uneasiness. The night
came on; and no sight could be more welcome than the palace of the count,
which shone upon them from a hill at some distance, glancing with light in
all its stories, so that they could reckon every window.
On approaching nearer, they found all the windows in the wings illuminated
also. Each of the party thought within himself what chamber would be his;
and most of them prudently determined to be satisfied with a room in the
attic, or some of the side buildings.
They were now proceeding through the village, past the inn. Wilhelm
stopped the coach, in the mind to alight there; but the landlord protested
that it was not in his power to afford the least accommodation: his lordship
the count, he said, being visited by some unexpected guests, had
immediately engaged the whole inn; every chamber in the house had been
marked with chalk last night, specifying who was to lodge there. Our friend
was accordingly obliged, against his will, to travel forward to the castle
with the rest of the company.
In one of the side buildings, round the kitchen fire, they noticed several
cooks running busily about,—a sight which refreshed them not a little.
Servants came jumping hastily with lights to the staircase of the main door,
and the hearts of the worthy pilgrims overflowed at the aspect of such

honors. But how great was their surprise, when this cordial reception
changed into a storm of curses. The servants scouted the coachman for
driving in hither; they must wheel out again, it was bawled, and take their
loading round to the old castle; there was no room here for such guests! To
this unfriendly and unexpected dismissal, they joined all manner of jeering,
and laughed aloud at each other for leaping out in the rain on so false an
errand. It was still pouring; no star was visible in the sky; while our
company were dragged along a rough, jolting road, between two walls, into
the old mansion, which stood behind, inhabited by none since the present
count's father had built the new residence in front of it. The carriages drew
up, partly in the court-yard, partly in a long, arched gateway; and the
postilions, people hired from the village, unyoked their horses, and rode off.
As nobody came forward to receive the travellers, they alighted from their
places, they shouted, and searched. In vain! All continued dark and still.
The wind swept through the lofty gate: the court and the old towers were
lying gray and dreary, and so dim that their forms could scarcely be
distinguished in the gloom. The people were all shuddering and freezing;
the women were becoming frightened; the children began to cry; the
general impatience was increasing every minute; so quick a revolution of
fortune, for which no one of them had been at all prepared, entirely
destroyed their equanimity.
Expecting every minute that some person would appear and unbolt the
doors, mistaking at one time the pattering of rain, at another the rocking of
the wind, for the much-desired footstep of the castle bailiff, they continued
downcast and inactive: it occurred to none of them to go into the new
mansion, and there solicit help from charitable souls. They could not
understand where their friend the baron was lingering: they were in the
most disconsolate condition.
At last some people actually arrived: by their voices, they were recognized
as the pedestrians who had fallen behind the others on the journey. They
intimated that the baron had tumbled with his horse, and hurt his leg
severely: and that, on calling at the castle, they, too, had been roughly
directed hither.

The whole company were in extreme perplexity: they guessed and
speculated as to what should now be done, but they could fix on nothing. At
length they noticed from afar a lantern advancing, and took fresh breath at
sight of it; but their hopes of quick deliverance again evaporated, when the
object approached, and came to be distinctly seen. A groom was lighting the
well-known Stallmeister of the castle towards them: this gentleman, on
coming nearer, very anxiously inquired for Mademoiselle Philina. No
sooner had she stepped forth from the crowd, than he very pressingly
offered to conduct her to the new mansion, where a little place had been
provided for her with the countess's maids. She did not hesitate long about
accepting his proposal; she caught his arm, and, recommending her trunk to
the care of the rest, was going to hasten off with him directly: but the others
intercepted them, asking, entreating, conjuring the Stallmeister; till at last,
to get away with his fair one, he promised every thing, assuring them, that,
in a little while, the castle should be opened, and they lodged in the most
comfortable manner. In a few moments they saw the glimmer of his lantern
vanish: they long looked in vain for another gleam of light. At last, after
much watching, scolding, and reviling, it actually appeared, and revived
them with a touch of hope and consolation.
An ancient footman opened the door of the old edifice, into which they
rushed with violence. Each of them now strove to have his trunk
unfastened, and brought in beside him. Most of this luggage, like the
persons of its owners, was thoroughly wetted. Having but a single light, the
process of unpacking went on very slowly. In the dark passages they pushed
against each other, they stumbled, they fell. They begged to have more
lights, they begged to have some fuel. The monosyllabic footman, with
much ado, consented to put down his own lantern; then went his way, and
came not again.
They now began to investigate the edifice. The doors of all the rooms were
open: large stoves, tapestry hangings, inlaid floors, yet bore witness to its
former pomp; but of other house-gear there was none to be seen,—no table,
chair, or mirror, nothing but a few monstrous, empty bedsteads, stripped of
every ornament and every necessary. The wet trunks and knapsacks were
adopted as seats: a part of the tired wanderers placed themselves upon the
floor. Wilhelm had sat down upon some steps: Mignon lay upon his knees.
The child was restless; and, when he asked what ailed her, she answered, "I

am hungry." He himself had nothing that could still the craving of the child:
the rest of the party had consumed their whole provision, so he was obliged
to leave the little traveller without refreshment. Through the whole
adventure he had been inactive, silently immersed in thought. He was very
sullen, and full of indignant regret that he had not kept by his first
determination, and remained at the inn, though he should have slept in the
garret.
The rest demeaned themselves in various ways. Some of them had got a
heap of old wood collected within a vast, gaping chimney in the hall: they
set fire to the pile with great huzzaing. Unhappily, however, their hopes of
warming and drying themselves by means of it were mocked in the most
frightful manner. The chimney, it appeared, was there for ornament alone,
and was walled up above; so the smoke rushed quickly back, and at once
filled the whole chamber. The dry wood rose crackling into flames; the
flame was also driven back; the draught sweeping through the broken
windows gave it a wavering direction. Terrified lest the castle should catch
fire, the unhappy guests had to tear the burning sticks asunder, to smother
and trample them under their feet; the smoke increased; their case was
rendered more intolerable than before; they were driven to the brink of
desperation.
Wilhelm had retreated from the smoke into a distant chamber, to which
Mignon soon followed him, leading in a well-dressed servant, with a high,
clear, double-lighted lantern in his hand. He turned to Wilhelm, and,
holding out to him some fruits and confectionery on a beautiful porcelain
plate, "The young lady up-stairs," said he, "sends you this, with the request
that you would join her party: she bids me tell you," added the lackey, with
a sort of grin, "that she is very well off yonder, and wishes to divide her
enjoyments with her friends."
Wilhelm had not at all expected such a message; for, ever since the
adventure on the stone bench, he had treated Philina with the most decided
contempt. He was still so resolute to have no more concern with her that he
thought of sending back her dainty gifts untasted, when a supplicating look
of Mignon's induced him to accept them. He returned his thanks in the
name of the child. The invitation he entirely rejected. He desired the servant
to exert himself a little for the stranger company, and made inquiry for the

baron. The latter, he was told, had gone to bed, but had already, as the
lackey understood, given orders to some other person to take charge of
these unfortunate and ill-lodged gentlemen.
The servant went away, leaving one of his lights, which Wilhelm, in the
absence of a candlestick, contrived to fix upon the window-casement; and
now, at least in his meditations, he could see the four walls of his chamber.
Nor was it long till preparations were commenced for conducting our
travellers to rest. Candles arrived by degrees, though without snuffers; then
a few chairs; an hour afterwards came bed-clothes; then pillows, all well
steeped in rain. It was far past midnight when straw beds and mattresses
were produced, which, if sent at first, would have been extremely welcome.
In the interim, also, somewhat to eat and drink had been brought in: it was
enjoyed without much criticism; though it looked like a most disorderly
collection of remains, and offered no very singular proof of the esteem in
which our guests were held.

CHAPTER IV.
The disorders and mischievous tricks of some frolicsome companions still
further augmented the disquietudes and distresses of the night: these gay
people woke each other; each played a thousand giddy pranks to plague his
fellow. The next morning dawned amid loud complaints against their friend
the baron, for having so deceived them, for having given so very false a
notion of the order and comfort that awaited their arrival. However, to their
great surprise and consolation, at an early hour the count himself, attended
by a few servants, made his entrance, and inquired about their
circumstances. He appeared much vexed on discovering how badly they
had fared; and the baron, who came limping along, supported on the arm of
a servant, bitterly accused the steward for neglecting his commands on this
occasion,—showing great anxiety to have that person punished for his
disobedience.

The count gave immediate orders that every thing should be arranged, in his
presence, to the utmost possible convenience of the guests. While this was
going on, some officers arrived, who forthwith scraped acquaintance with
the actresses. The count assembled all the company before him, spoke to
each by name, introduced a few jokes among his observations; so that every
one was charmed at the gracious condescension of his lordship. At last it
came to Wilhelm's turn. He appeared with Mignon holding by his hand. Our
friend excused himself, in the best terms he could, for the freedom he had
taken. The count, on the other hand, spoke as if the visit had been looked
for.
A gentleman, who stood beside the count, and who, although he wore no
uniform, appeared to be an officer, conversed with Wilhelm: he was
evidently not a common man. His large, keen blue eyes, looking out from
beneath a high brow; his light-colored hair, thrown carelessly back; his
middle stature; every thing about him,—showed an active, firm, and
decisive mode of being. His questions were lively. He seemed to be at home
in all that he inquired about.
Wilhelm asked the baron what this person was, but found that he had little
good to say of him. "He held the rank of major, was the special favorite of
the prince; managed his most secret affairs; was, in short, regarded as his
right arm,—nay, there was reason to believe him the prince's natural son.
He had been on embassies in France, England, Italy. In all those places he
had greatly distinguished himself, by which means he was grown conceited;
imagining, among other pretensions, that he thoroughly understood the
literature of Germany, and allowing himself to vent all kinds of sorry jests
upon it. He, the baron, was in the habit of avoiding all intercourse with him;
and Wilhelm would do well to imitate that conduct, for it somehow
happened that no one could be near him without being punished for it. He
was called Jarno, though nobody knew rightly what to make of such a
name."
Wilhelm had nothing to urge against all this: he had felt a sort of inclination
for the stranger, though he noticed in him something cold and repulsive.
The company being arranged and distributed throughout the castle, Melina
issued the strictest orders that they should behave themselves with decency,

the women live in a separate quarter, and each direct his whole attention to
the study of dramatic art, and of the characters he had to play. He posted up
written ordinances, consisting of many articles, upon all the doors. He
settled the amount of fine which should be levied upon each transgressor,
and put into a common box.
This edict was but little heeded. Young officers went out and in; they jested,
not in the most modest fashion, with the actresses; made game of the actors,
and annihilated the whole system of police before it had the smallest time to
take root in the community. The people ran chasing one another through the
rooms; they changed clothes; they disguised themselves. Melina, attempting
to be rigorous with a few at first, was exasperated by every sort of
insolence; and, when the count soon after sent for him to come and view the
place where his theatre was to be erected, matters grew worse and worse.
The young gentry devised a thousand broad jokes: by the help of some
actors, they became yet coarser. It seemed as if the old castle had been
altogether given up to an infuriate host, and the racket did not end till
dinner.
Meanwhile, the count had led Melina over to a large hall, which, though
belonging to the old castle, communicated by a gallery with the new one: it
seemed very well adapted for being changed into a little theatre. Here the
sagacious lord of the mansion pointed out in person how he wanted every
thing to be.
The labor now commenced in the greatest haste; the stage apparatus was
erected and furbished up; what decorations they had brought along with
them and could employ were set in order, and what was wanting was
prepared by some skilful workmen of the count's. Wilhelm likewise put his
hand to the business; he assisted in settling the perspective, in laying off the
outlines of the scenery: he was very anxious that nothing should be
executed clumsily. The count, who frequently came in to inspect their
progress, was highly satisfied: he showed particularly how they should
proceed in every case, displaying an uncommon knowledge of all the arts
they were concerned with.
Next began the business of rehearsing, in good earnest; and there would
have been enough of space and leisure for this undertaking, had the actors

not continually been interrupted by the presence of visitors. Some new
guests were daily arriving, and each insisted on viewing the operations of
the company.

CHAPTER V.
The baron had, for several days, been cheering Wilhelm with the hope of
being formally presented to the countess. "I have told this excellent lady,"
said he, "so much about the talent and fine sentiment displayed in your
compositions, that she feels quite impatient to see you, and hear one or two
of them read. Be prepared, therefore, to come over at a moment's notice;
for, the first morning she is at leisure, you will certainly be called on." He
then pointed out to him the afterpiece it would be proper to produce on that
occasion; adding, that doubtless it would recommend him to no usual
degree of favor. The lady, he declared, was extremely sorry that a guest like
him had happened to arrive at a time of such confusion, when they could
not entertain him in a style more suitable to his merits and their own wishes.
In consequence of this information, Wilhelm, with the most sedulous
attention, set about preparing the piece, which was to usher him into the
great world. "Hitherto," said he, "thou hast labored in silence for thyself,
applauded only by a small circle of friends. Thou hast for a time despaired
of thy abilities, and are yet full of anxious doubts whether even thy present
path is the right one, and whether thy talent for the stage at all corresponds
with thy inclination for it. In the hearing of such practised judges, in the
closet where no illusion can take place, the attempt is far more hazardous
than elsewhere; and yet I would not willingly recoil from the experiment: I
could wish to add this pleasure to my former enjoyments, and, if it might
be, to give extension and stability to my hopes from the future."
He accordingly went through some pieces; read them with the keenest
critical eye; made corrections here and there; recited them aloud, that he
might be perfect in his tones and expression: and finally selected the work
which he was best acquainted with, and hoped to gain most honor by. He

put it in his pocket, one morning, on being summoned to attend the
countess.
The baron had assured him that there would be no one present but the lady
herself and a worthy female friend of hers. On entering the chamber, the
Baroness von C—— advanced with great friendliness to meet him,
expressed her happiness at gaining his acquaintance, and introduced him to
the countess, who was then under the hands of her hair-dresser. The
countess received him with kind words and looks. But it vexed him to see
Philina kneeling at her chair, and playing a thousand fooleries. "The poor
child," said the baroness, "has just been singing to us. Finish the song you
were in the midst of: we should not like to lose it."
Wilhelm listened to her quavering with great patience, being anxious for the
friseur's departure before he should begin to read. They offered him a cup
of chocolate, the baroness herself handing him the biscuit. Yet, in spite of
these civilities, he relished not his breakfast: he was longing too eagerly to
lay before the lovely countess some performance that might interest and
gratify her. Philina, too, stood somewhat in his way: on former occasions,
while listening to him, she had more than once been troublesome. He
looked at the friseur with a painful feeling, hoping every moment that the
tower of curls would be complete.
Meanwhile the count came in, and began to talk of the fresh visitors he was
expecting, of the day's occupations or amusements, and of various domestic
matters that were started. On his retiring, some officers sent to ask
permission of the countess to pay their respects to her, as they had to leave
the castle before dinner. The footman having come to his post at the door,
she permitted him to usher in the gentlemen.
The baroness, amid these interruptions, took pains to entertain our friend,
and showed him much consideration; all which he accepted with becoming
reverence, though not without a little absence of mind. He often felt for the
manuscript in his pocket, and hoped for his deliverance every instant. He
was almost losing patience, when a man-milliner was introduced, and
immediately began without mercy to open his papers, bags, and bandboxes;
pressing all his various wares upon the ladies, with an importunity peculiar
to that species of creature.

The company increased. The baroness cast a look at Wilhelm, and then
whispered with the countess: he noticed this, but did not understand the
purpose of it. The whole, however, became clear enough, when, after an
hour of painful and fruitless endurance, he went away. He then found a
beautiful pocket-book, of English manufacture, in his pocket. The baroness
had dexterously put it there without his notice; and soon afterwards the
countess's little black came out, and handed him an elegantly flowered
waistcoat, without very clearly saying whence it came.

CHAPTER VI.
This mingled feeling of vexation and gratitude spoiled the remainder of his
day; till, towards evening, he once more found employment. Melina
informed him that the count had been speaking of a little prelude, which he
wished to have produced in honor of the prince, on the day of his
Highness's arrival. He meant to have the great qualities of this noble hero
and philanthropist personified in the piece. These Virtues were to advance
together, to recite his praises, and finally to encircle his bust with garlands
of flowers and laurels; behind which a transparency might be inserted,
representing the princely Hat, and his name illuminated on it. The count,
Melina said, had ordered him to take charge of getting ready the verses and
other arrangements; and Wilhelm, he hoped, to whom it must be an easy
matter, would stand by him on this occasion.
"What!" exclaimed our friend, in a splenetic tone, "have we nothing but
portraits, illuminated names, and allegorical figures, to show in honor of a
prince, who, in my opinion, merits quite a different eulogy? How can it
flatter any reasonable man to see himself set up in effigy, and his name
glimmering on oiled paper? I am very much afraid that your allegories,
particularly in the present state of the wardrobe, will furnish occasion for
many ambiguities and jestings. If you mean, however, to compose the play,
or have it composed, I can have nothing to object; only I desire to have no
part or lot in the matter."

Melina excused himself; alleging this to be only a casual hint of his lordship
the count, who for the rest had left the arrangement of the piece entirely in
their own hands. "With all my heart," replied our friend, "will I contribute
something to the pleasure of this noble family: my Muse has never had so
pleasant an employment as to sing, though in broken numbers, the praises
of a prince who merits so much veneration. I will think of the matter:
perhaps I may be able to contrive some way of bringing out our little troop,
so as at least to produce some effect."
From this moment Wilhelm eagerly reflected on his undertaking. Before
going to sleep he had got it all reduced to some degree of order; early next
morning his plan was ready, the scenes laid out; a few of the most striking
passages and songs were even versified and written down.
As soon as he was dressed, our friend made haste to wait upon the baron, to
submit the plan to his inspection, and take his advice upon certain points
connected with it. The baron testified his approbation of it, but not without
considerable surprise. For, on the previous evening, he had heard his
lordship talk of having ordered some quite different piece to be prepared
and versified.
"To me it seems improbable," replied our friend, "that it could be his
lordship's wish to have the piece got ready, exactly as he gave it to Melina.
If I am not mistaken, he intended merely to point out to us from a distance
the path we were to follow. The amateur and critic shows the artist what is
wanted, and then leaves to him the care of producing it by his own means."
"Not at all," replied the baron: "his lordship understands that the piece shall
be composed according to that and no other plan which he has himself
prescribed. Yours has, indeed, a remote similarity with his idea; but if we
mean to accomplish our purpose, and get the count diverted from his first
thought, we shall need to employ the ladies in the matter. The baroness
especially contrives to execute such operations in the most masterly
manner: the question is now, whether your plan shall so please her, that she
will undertake the business; in that case it will certainly succeed."
"We need the assistance of the ladies," said our friend, "at any rate; for
neither our company nor our wardrobe would suffice without them. I have

counted on some pretty children, that are running up and down the house,
and belong to certain of the servants."
He then desired the baron to communicate his plan to the ladies. The baron
soon returned with intelligence that they wished to speak with Wilhelm
personally. That same evening, when the gentlemen sat down to play,
which, owing to the arrival of a certain general, was expected to be deeper
and keener than usual, the countess and her friend, under pretext of some
indisposition, would retire to their chamber, where Wilhelm, being
introduced by a secret staircase, might submit his project without
interruption. This sort of mystery, the baron said, would give the adventure
a peculiar charm; in particular the baroness was rejoicing like a child in the
prospect of their rendezvous, and the more so, because it was to be
accomplished secretly, and against the inclination of the count.
Towards evening, at the appointed time, Wilhelm was sent for, and led in
with caution. As the baroness advanced to meet him in a small cabinet, the
manner of their interview brought former happy scenes for a moment to his
mind. She conducted him along to the countess's chamber, and they now
proceeded earnestly to question and investigate. He exhibited his plan with
the utmost warmth and vivacity, so that his fair audience were quite decided
in its favor. Our readers also will permit us to present a brief sketch of it
here.
The play was to open with a dance of children in some rural scene,—their
dance representing that particular game wherein each has to wheel round,
and gain the other's place. This was to be followed by several variations of
their play; till at last, in performing a dance of the repeating kind, they were
all to sing a merry song.
Here the old harper with Mignon was to enter, and, by the curiosity which
they excited, gather several country-people round them; the harper would
sing various songs in praise of peace, repose, and joy; and Mignon would
then dance the egg-dance.
In these innocent delights, they are disturbed by the sound of martial music;
and the party are surprised by a troop of soldiers. The men stand on the
defensive, and are overcome: the girls flee, and are overtaken. In the tumult
all seems going to destruction, when a person (about whose form and

qualities the poet was not yet determined) enters, and, by signifying that the
general is near, restores composure. Whereupon the hero's character is
painted in the finest colors; security is promised in the midst of arms;
violence and lawless disorder are now to be restrained. A universal festival
is held in honor of the noble-minded captain.
The countess and her friend expressed great satisfaction with the plan; only
they maintained that there must of necessity be something of allegory
introduced, to make it palatable to his lordship. The baron proposed that the
leader of the soldiers should be represented as the Genius of Dissension and
Violence; that Minerva should then advance to bind fetters on him, to give
notice of the hero's approach, and celebrate his praise. The baroness
undertook the task of persuading the count that this plan was the one
proposed by himself, with a few alterations; at the same time expressly
stipulating, that without fail, at the conclusion of the piece, the bust, the
illuminated name, and the princely Hat should be exhibited in due order;
since otherwise, her attempt was vain.
Wilhelm had already figured in his mind how delicately and how nobly he
would have the praises of his hero celebrated in the mouth of Minerva, and
it was not without a long struggle that he yielded in this point. Yet he felt
himself delightfully constrained to yield. The beautiful eyes of the countess,
and her lovely demeanor, would easily have moved him to sin against his
conscience as a poet; to abandon the finest and most interesting invention,
the keenly wished-for unity of his composition, and all its most suitable
details. His conscience as a burgher had a trial no less hard to undergo,
when the ladies, in distributing the characters, pointedly insisted that he
must undertake one himself.
Laertes had received for his allotment the part of that violent war-god;
Wilhelm was to represent the leader of the peasants, who had some very
pretty and tender verses to recite. After long resistance he was forced to
comply: he could find no excuse, when the baroness protested that their
stage was in all respects to be regarded as a private one, and that she herself
would very gladly play on it, if they could find her a fit occasion. On
receiving his consent, they parted with our friend on the kindest terms. The
baroness assured him that he was an incomparable man: she accompanied

him to the little stairs, and wished him good-night with a squeeze of the
hand.

CHAPTER VII.
The interest in his undertakings, which the countess and her friend
expressed and felt so warmly, quickened Wilhelm's faculties and zeal: the
plan of his piece, which the process of describing it had rendered more
distinct, was now present in the most brilliant vividness before his mind. He
spent the greater part of that night, and the whole of next morning, in the
sedulous versification of the dialogue and songs.
He had proceeded a considerable way, when a message came, requiring his
attendance in the castle: the noble company, who were then at breakfast,
wished to speak with him. As he entered the parlor, the baroness advanced
to meet him, and, under pretext of wishing him good-morning, whispered
cunningly, "Say nothing of your piece but what you shall be asked."
"I hear," cried the count to him, "that you are very busy working at my
prelude, which I mean to present in honor of the prince. I consent that you
introduce a Minerva into it; and we are just thinking beforehand how the
goddess shall be dressed, that we may not blunder in costume. For this
purpose I am causing them to fetch from the library all the books that
contain any figures of her."
At the same instant, one or two servants entered the parlor, with a huge
basket full of books of every shape and appearance.
Montfaucon, the collections of antique statues, gems, and coins, all sorts of
mythological writings, were turned up, and their plates compared. But this
was not enough. The count's faithful memory recalled to him all the
Minervas to be found in frontispieces, vignettes, or anywhere else; and
book after book was, in consequence, carried from the library, till finally the
count was sitting in a chaos of volumes. Unable at last to recollect any other
figure of Minerva, he observed with a smile, "I durst bet, that now there is

not a single Minerva in all the library; and perhaps it is the first time that a
collection of books has been so totally deprived of the presence of its patron
goddess."
The whole company were merry at this thought: Jarno particularly, who had
all along been spurring on the count to call for more and more books,
laughed quite immoderately.
"Now," said the count, turning to Wilhelm, "one chief point is,—which
goddess do you mean? Minerva, or Pallas? The goddess of war, or of the
arts?"
"Would it not be best, your Excellency," said Wilhelm, "if we were not
clearly to express ourselves on this head; if, since the goddess plays a
double part in the ancient mythology, we also exhibited her here in a double
quality? She announces a warrior, but only to calm the tumults of the
people; she celebrates a hero by exalting his humanity; she conquers
violence, and restores peace and security."
The baroness, afraid lest Wilhelm might betray himself, hastily pushed
forward the countess's tailor, to give his opinion how such an antique robe
could best be got ready. This man, being frequently employed in making
masquerade dresses, very easily contrived the business: and as Madam
Melina, notwithstanding her advanced state of pregnancy, had undertaken to
enact the celestial virgin, the tailor was directed to take her measure; and
the countess, though with some reluctance, selected from the wardrobe the
clothes he was to cut up for that purpose.
The baroness, in her dexterous way, again contrived to lead Wilhelm aside,
and let him know that she had been providing all the other necessaries.
Shortly afterwards she sent him the musician, who had charge of the count's
private band; and this professor set about composing what airs were
wanted, or choosing from his actual stock such tunes as appeared suitable.
From this time all went on according to the wishes of our friend: the count
made no more inquiries about the piece; being altogether occupied with the
transparent decoration, destined to surprise the spectators at the conclusion
of the play. His inventive genius, aided by the skill of his confectioner,
produced, in fact, a very pretty article. In the course of his travels, the count
had witnessed the most splendid exhibitions of this sort: he had also

brought home with him a number of copper-plates and drawings, and could
sketch such things with considerable taste.
Meanwhile Wilhelm finished the play, gave every one his part, and began
the study of his own. The musician also, having great skill in dancing,
prepared the ballet; so that every thing proceeded as it ought.
Yet one unexpected obstacle occurred, which threatened to occasion an
unpleasant gap in the performance. He had promised to himself a striking
effect from Mignon's egg-dance, and was much surprised when the child,
with her customary dryness of manner, refused to dance; saying she was
now his, and would no more go upon the stage. He sought to move her by
every sort of persuasion, and did not discontinue his attempt till she began
weeping bitterly, fell at his feet, and cried out, "Dearest father! stay thou
from the boards thyself!" Little heeding this caution, he studied how to give
the scene some other turn that might be equally interesting.
Philina, whose appointment was to act one of the peasant girls, and in the
concluding dance to give the single-voice part of the song, and lead the
chorus, felt exceedingly delighted that it had been so ordered. In other
respects, too, her present life was altogether to her mind: she had her
separate chamber; was constantly beside the countess, entertaining her with
fooleries, and daily received some present for her pains. Among other
things, a dress had been expressly made for her wearing in this prelude. And
being of a light, imitative nature, she quickly marked in the procedure of the
ladies whatever would befit herself: she had of late grown all politeness and
decorum. The attentions of the Stallmeister augmented rather than
diminished; and as the officers also paid zealous court to her, living in so
genial an element, it came into her head for once in her life to play the
prude, and, in a quiet, gradual way, to take upon herself a certain dignity of
manner to which she had not before aspired. Cool and sharp-sighted as she
was, eight days had not elapsed till she knew the weak side of every person
in the house; so that, had she possessed the power of acting from any
constant motive, she might very easily have made her fortune. But on this
occasion, as on all others, she employed her advantages merely to divert
herself,—to procure a bright to-day, and be impertinent, wherever she
observed that impertinence was not attended with danger.

The parts were now committed to memory: a rehearsal of the piece was
ordered; the count purposed to be present at it, and his lady began to feel
anxious how he might receive it. The baroness called Wilhelm to her
privately. The nearer the hour approached, they all displayed the more
perplexity; for the truth was, that, of the count's original idea, nothing
whatever had been introduced. Jarno, who joined them while consulting
together, was admitted to the secret. He felt amused at the contrivance, and
was heartily disposed to offer the ladies his good services in carrying it
through. "It will go hard," said he, "if you cannot extricate yourselves
without help from this affair; but, at all events, I will wait, as a body of
reserve." The baroness then told them how she had on various occasions
recited the whole piece to the count, but only in fragments and without
order; that consequently he was prepared for each individual passage, yet
certainly possessed with the idea that the whole would coincide with his
original conception. "I will sit by him," said she, "to-night at the rehearsal,
and study to divert his attention. The confectioner I have engaged already to
make the decoration as beautiful as possible, but as yet he has not quite
completed it."
"I know of a court," said Jarno, "where I wish we had a few such active and
prudent friends as you. If your skill to-night will not suffice, give me a
signal: I will take out the count, and not let him in again till Minerva enter;
and you have speedy aid to expect from the illumination. For a day or two I
have had something to report to him about his cousin, which for various
reasons I have hitherto postponed. It will give his thoughts another turn, and
that none of the pleasantest."
Business hindered the count from being present when the play began; the
baroness amused him after his arrival: Jarno's help was not required. For as
the count had abundance of employment in pointing out improvements,
rectifying and arranging the detached parts, he entirely forgot the purport of
the whole; and, as at last Madam Melina advanced, and spoke according to
his heart, and the transparency did well, he seemed completely satisfied. It
was not till the whole was finished, and his guests were sitting down to
cards, that the difference appeared to strike him; and he began to think
whether after all this piece was actually of his invention. At a signal from
the baroness, Jarno then came forward into action; the evening passed
away; the intelligence of the prince's approach was confirmed; the people

rode out more than once to see his vanguard encamping in the
neighborhood; the house was full of noise and tumult; and our actors, not
always served in the handsomest manner by unwilling servants, had to pass
their time in practisings and expectations at their quarters in the old
mansion, without any one particularly taking thought about them.

CHAPTER VIII.
At length the prince arrived, with all his generals, staff-officers, and suite
accompanying him. These, and the multitude of people coming to visit or
do business with him, made the castle like a beehive on the point of
swarming. All pressed forward to behold a man no less distinguished by his
rank than by his great qualities, and all admired his urbanity and
condescension: all were astonished at finding the hero and the leader of
armies also the most accomplished and attractive courtier.
By the count's orders, the inmates of the castle were required to be all at
their posts when the prince arrived: not a player was allowed to show
himself, that his Highness might have no anticipation of the spectacle
prepared to welcome him. Accordingly, when at evening he was led into the
lofty hall, glowing with light, and adorned with tapestries of the previous
century, he seemed not at all prepared to expect a play, and still less a
prelude in honor of himself. Every thing went off as it should have done: at
the conclusion of the show, the whole troop were called and presented
individually to the prince, who contrived, with the most pleasing and
friendly air, to put some question, or make some remark, to every one of
them. Wilhelm, as author of the piece, was particularly noticed, and had his
tribute of applause liberally paid him.
The prelude being fairly over, no one asked another word about it: in a few
days, it was as if it never had existed; except that occasionally Jarno spoke
of it to Wilhelm, judiciously praised it, adding, however, "It is pity you
should play with hollow nuts, for a stake of hollow nuts." This expression

stuck in Wilhelm's mind for several days: he knew not how to explain it, or
what to infer from it.
Meanwhile the company kept acting every night, as well as their capacities
permitted; each doing his utmost to attract the attention of spectators.
Undeserved applauses cheered them on: in their old castle they fully
believed, that the great assemblage was crowding thither solely on their
account; that the multitude of strangers was allured by their exhibitions; that
they were the centre round which, and by means of which, the whole was
moving and revolving.
Wilhelm alone discovered, to his sorrow, that directly the reverse was true.
For although the prince had waited out the first exhibitions, sitting on his
chair, with the greatest conscientiousness, yet by degrees he grew remiss in
his attendance, and seized every plausible occasion of withdrawing. And
those very people whom Wilhelm, in conversation, had found to be the best
informed and most sensible, with Jarno at their head, were wont to spend
but a few transitory moments in the hall of the theatre; sitting for the rest of
their time in the ante-chamber, gaming, or seeming to employ themselves in
business.
Amid all his persevering efforts, to want the wished and hoped for
approbation grieved Wilhelm very deeply. In the choice of plays, in
transcribing the parts, in numerous rehearsals, and whatever further could
be done, he zealously co-operated with Melina, who, being in secret
conscious of his own insufficiency, at length acknowledged and pursued
these counsels. His own parts, Wilhelm diligently studied, and executed
with vivacity and feeling, and with all the propriety the little training he had
yet received would allow.
At the same time, the unwearied interest the baron took in their
performances obliterated every doubt from the minds of the rest of the
company: he assured them that their exhibitions were producing the deepest
effect, especially while one of his own pieces had been representing; only
he was grieved to say, the prince showed an exclusive inclination for the
French theatre; while a part of his people, among whom Jarno was
especially distinguished, gave a passionate preference to the monstrous
productions of the English stage.

If in this way the art of our players was not adequately noticed and admired,
their persons on the other hand grew not entirely indifferent to all the
gentlemen and all the ladies of the audience. We observed above, that, from
the very first, our actresses had drawn upon them the attention of the young
officers: in the sequel they were luckier, and made more important
conquests. But, omitting these, we shall merely observe, that Wilhelm every
day appeared more interesting to the countess; while in him, too, a silent
inclination towards her was beginning to take root. Whenever he was on the
stage, she could not turn her eyes from him; and, erelong, he seemed to play
and to recite with his face towards her alone. To look upon each other, was
to them the sweetest satisfaction; to which their harmless souls yielded
without reserve, without cherishing a bolder wish, or thinking about any
consequence.
As two hostile outposts will sometimes peacefully and pleasantly converse
together across the river which divides them, not thinking of the war in
which both their countries are engaged: so did the countess exchange looks
full of meaning with our friend, across the vast chasm of birth and rank;
both believing for themselves that they might safely cherish their several
emotions.
The baroness, in the mean time, had selected Laertes, who, being a spirited
and lively young man, pleased her very much; and who, woman-hater as he
was, felt unwilling to refuse a passing adventure. He would actually on this
occasion have been fettered, against his will, by the courteous and attractive
nature of the baroness, had not the baron done him accidentally a piece of
good, or, if you will, of bad, service, by instructing him a little in the habits
and temper of this lady.
Laertes, happening once to celebrate her praises, and give her the
preference to every other of her sex, the baron, with a grin, replied, "I see
how matters stand: our fair friend has got a fresh inmate for her stalls." This
luckless comparison, which pointed too clearly to the dangerous caresses of
the Circe, grieved poor Laertes to the heart: he could not listen to the baron
without spite and anger, as the latter continued without mercy,—
"Every stranger thinks he is the first whom this delightful manner of
proceeding has concerned, but he is grievously mistaken; for we have all, at

one time or another, been trotted round this course. Man, youth, or boy, be
who he like, each must devote himself to her service for a season, must
hang about her, and toil and long to gain her favor."
To the happy man just entering the garden of an enchantress, and welcomed
by all the pleasures of an artificial spring, nothing can form a more
unpleasant surprise, than if, while his ear is watching and drinking in the
music of the nightingales, some transformed predecessor on a sudden grunts
at his feet.
After this discovery, Laertes felt heartily ashamed that vanity should have
again misled him to think well, even in the smallest degree, of any woman
whatsoever. He now entirely forsook the baroness; kept by the Stallmeister,
with whom he diligently fenced and hunted; conducting himself at
rehearsals and representations as if these were but secondary matters.
The count and his lady would often in the mornings send for some of the
company to attend them, and all had continual cause to envy the undeserved
good fortune of Philina. The count kept his favorite, the Pedant, frequently
for hours together, at his toilet. This genius had been dressed out by
degrees: he was now equipped and furnished, even to watch and snuff-box.
Many times, too, particularly after dinner, the whole company were called
out before the noble guests,—an honor which the artists regarded as the
most flattering in the world; not observing, that on these very occasions the
servants and huntsmen were ordered to bring in a multitude of hounds, and
to lead strings of horses about the court of the castle.
Wilhelm had been counselled to praise Racine, the prince's favorite, and
thereby to attract some portion of his Highness's favor to himself. On one of
these afternoons, being summoned with the rest, he found an opportunity to
introduce this topic. The prince asked him if he diligently read the great
French dramatic writers, to which Wilhelm answered with a very eager
"Yes." He did not observe that his Highness, without waiting for the answer,
was already on the point of turning round to some one else: he fixed upon
him, on the contrary, almost stepping in his way, and proceeded to declare
that he valued the French theatre very highly, and read the works of their
great masters with delight; particularly he had learned with true joy that his
Highness did complete justice to the great talents of Racine. "I can easily

conceive," continued he, "how people of high breeding and exalted rank
must value a poet who has painted so excellently and so truly the
circumstances of their lofty station. Corneille, if I may say so, has
delineated great men; Racine, men of eminent rank. In reading his plays, I
can always figure to myself the poet as living at a splendid court, with a
great king before his eyes, in constant intercourse with the most
distinguished persons, and penetrating into the secrets of human nature, as it
works concealed behind the gorgeous tapestry of palaces. When I study his
"Britannicus," his "Bérénice," it seems as if I were transported in person to
the court, were initiated into the great and the little, in the habitations of
these earthly gods: through the fine and delicate organs of my author, I see
kings whom a nation adores, courtiers whom thousands envy, in their
natural forms, with their failings and their pains. The anecdote of Racine's
dying of a broken heart, because Louis Fourteenth would no longer attend
to him, and had shown him his dissatisfaction, is to me the key to all his
works. It was impossible that a poet of his talents, whose life and death
depended on the looks of a king, should not write such works as a king and
a prince might applaud."
Jarno had stepped near, and was listening with astonishment. The prince,
who had made no answer, and had only shown his approbation by an
assenting look, now turned aside; though Wilhelm, who did not know that it
was contrary to etiquette to continue a discussion under such circumstances,
and exhaust a subject, would gladly have spoken more, and convinced the
prince that he had not read his favorite poet without sensibility and profit.
"Have you never," said Jarno, taking him aside, "read one of Shakspeare's
plays?"
"No," replied Wilhelm: "since the time when they became more known in
Germany, I have myself grown unacquainted with the theatre; and I know
not whether I should now rejoice that an old taste, and occupation of my
youth, has been by chance renewed. In the mean time, all I have heard of
these plays has excited no wish to become acquainted with such
extraordinary monsters, which appear to set probability and dignity alike at
defiance."

"I would advise you," said the other, "to make a trial, notwithstanding: it
can do one no harm to look at what is extraordinary with one's own eyes. I
will lend you a volume or two; and you cannot better spend your time, than
by casting every thing aside, and retiring to the solitude of your old
habitation, to look into the magic-lantern of that unknown world. It is sinful
of you to waste your hours in dressing out these apes to look more human,
and teaching dogs to dance. One thing only I require,—you must not cavil
at the form: the rest I can leave to your own good sense and feeling."
The horses were standing at the door; and Jarno mounted with some other
cavaliers, to go and hunt. Wilhelm looked after him with sadness. He would
fain have spoken much with this man, who, though in a harsh, unfriendly
way, gave him new ideas,—ideas he had need of.
Oftentimes a man, when approaching some development of his powers,
capacities, and conceptions, gets into a perplexity, from which a prudent
friend might easily deliver him. He resembles a traveller who, at but a short
distance from the inn he is to rest at, falls into the water: were any one to
catch him then, and pull him to the bank, with one good wetting it were
over; whereas, though he struggles out himself, it is often at the side where
he tumbled in; and he has to make a wide and dreary circuit before reaching
his appointed object.
Wilhelm now began to have an inkling that things went forward in the
world differently from what he had supposed. He now viewed close at hand
the solemn and imposing life of the great and distinguished, and wondered
at the easy dignity which they contrived to give it. An army on its march, a
princely hero at the head of it, such a multitude of co-operating warriors,
such a multitude of crowding worshippers, exalted his imagination. In this
mood he received the promised books; and erelong, as may be easily
supposed, the stream of that mighty genius laid hold of him, and led him
down to a shoreless ocean, where he soon completely forgot and lost
himself.

CHAPTER IX.

The connection between the baron and the actors had suffered various
changes since the arrival of the latter. At the commencement it had been
productive of great satisfaction to both parties. As the baron for the first
time in his life now saw one of those plays, with which he had already
graced a private theatre, put into the hands of real actors, and in the fair way
for a decent exhibition, he showed the benignest humor in the world. He
was liberal in gifts: he bought little presents for the actresses from every
millinery hawker, and contrived to send over many an odd bottle of
champagne to the actors. In return for all this, our company took every sort
of trouble with his play; and Wilhelm spared no diligence in learning, with
extreme correctness, the sublime speeches of that very eminent hero, whose
part had fallen to his share.
But, in spite of all these kind reciprocities, some clouds by degrees arose
between the players and their patron. The baron's preference for certain
actors became daily more observable: this of necessity chagrined the rest.
He exalted his favorites quite exclusively, and thus, of course, introduced
disunion and jealousy among the company. Melina, without skill to help
himself in dubious junctures, felt his situation very vexing. The persons
eulogized accepted of their praise, without being singularly thankful for it;
while the neglected gentlemen showed traces of their spleen by a thousand
methods, and constantly found means to make it very disagreeable for their
once much-honored patron to appear among them. Their spite received no
little nourishment from a certain poem, by an unknown author, which made
a great sensation in the castle. Previously to this the baron's intercourse with
the company had given rise to many little strokes of merriment; several
stories had been raised about him; certain little incidents, adorned with
suitable additions, and presented in the proper light, had been talked of, and
made the subject of much bantering and laughter. At last it began to be said
that a certain rivalry of trade was arising between him and some of the
actors, who also looked upon themselves as writers. The poem we spoke of
was founded upon this report: it ran as follows:—

"Lord Baron, I, poor devil, own
With envy, you your rank and state;
Your station, too, so near the throne;
Of heirs your possessions great;
Your father's seat, with walls and mounds,
His game-preserves, and hunting-grounds.

While me, poor devil, it appears,
Lord Baron, you with envy view,
Since Nature, from my early years,
Has held me like a mother true,
With heart and head both light, I poor,
But no poor wight grew, to be sure.

My dear Lord Baron, now to me
It seems, we well alone should let,
That you your father's son still be,
And I remain my mother's pet:
Let's free from envy live, and hate;
Nor let's desire each other's title:
No place you on Parnassus great,
No noble rank I in requital."
—Editor's Version.

Upon this poem, which various persons were possessed of, in copies
scarcely legible, opinions were exceedingly divided. But who the author
was, no one could guess; and, as some began to draw a spiteful mirth from
it, our friend expressed himself against it very keenly.
"We Germans," he exclaimed, "deserve to have our Muses still continue in
the low contempt wherein they have languished so long; since we cannot
value men of rank who take a share in our literature, no matter how! Birth,
rank, and fortune are no wise incompatible with genius and taste; as foreign
nations, reckoning among their best minds a great number of noblemen, can
fully testify. Hitherto, indeed, it has been rare in Germany for men of high
station to devote themselves to science; hitherto few famous names have
become more famous by their love of art and learning; while many, on the

other hand, have mounted out of darkness to distinction, and risen like
unknown stars on the horizon. Yet such will not always be the case; and I
greatly err, if the first classes of the nation are not even now in the way of
also employing their advantages to earn the fairest laurels of the Muses, at
no distant date. Nothing, therefore, grieves me more than to see the burgher
jeering at the noble who can value literature; nay, even men of rank
themselves, with inconsiderate caprice, maliciously scaring off their equal
from a path where honor and contentment wait on all."
Apparently this latter observation pointed at the count, of whom Wilhelm
had heard that he liked the poem very much. In truth, this nobleman,
accustomed to rally the baron in his own peculiar way, was extremely glad
of such an opportunity to plague his kinsman more effectually. As to who
the writer of the squib might be, each formed his own hypothesis; and the
count, never willing that another should surpass him in acuteness, fell upon
a thought, which, in a short time, he would have sworn to the truth of. The
verses could be written, he believed, by no one but his Pedant, who was a
very shrewd knave, and in whom, for a long while, he had noticed some
touches of poetic genius. By way of proper treat, he therefore caused the
Pedant one morning to be sent for, and made him read the poem, in his own
manner, in presence of the countess, the baroness, and Jarno,—a service he
was paid for by applauses, praises, and a present; and, on the count's
inquiring if he had not still some other poems of an earlier time, he
cunningly contrived to evade the question. Thus did the Pedant get invested
with the reputation of a poet and a wit, and, in the eyes of the baron's
friends, of a pasquinader and a bad-hearted man. From that period, play as
he might, the count applauded him with greater zeal than ever; so that the
poor wight grew at last inflated till he nearly lost his senses, and began to
meditate having a chamber in the castle, like Philina.
Had this project been fulfilled at once, a great mishap might have been
spared him. As he was returning late one evening from the castle, groping
about in the dark, narrow way, he was suddenly laid hold of, and kept on
the spot by some persons, while some others rained a shower of blows upon
him, and battered him so stoutly, that in a few seconds he was lying almost
dead upon the place, and could not without difficulty crawl in to his
companions. These, indignant as they seemed to be at such an outrage, felt
their secret joy in the adventure: they could hardly keep from laughing, at

seeing him so thoroughly curried, and his new brown coat bedusted through
and through, and bedaubed with white, as if he had had to do with millers.
The count, who soon got notice of the business, broke into a boundless
rage. He treated this act as the most heinous crime, called it an infringement
of the Burgfried, or peace of the castle, and caused his judge to make the
strictest inquisition touching it. The whited coat, it was imagined, would
afford a leading proof. Every creature that possibly could have the smallest
trade with flour or powder in the castle was submitted to investigation, but
in vain.
The baron solemnly protested on his honor, that although this sort of jesting
had considerably displeased him, and the conduct of his lordship the count
had not been the friendliest, yet he had got over the affair; and with respect
to the misfortune which had come upon the poet, or pasquinader, or
whatsoever his title might be, he knew absolutely nothing, and had not the
most remote concern in it.
The operations of the strangers, and the general commotion of the house,
soon effaced all recollection of the matter; and so, without redress, the
unlucky favorite had to pay dear for the satisfaction of pluming himself, a
short while, in feathers not his own.
Our troop, regularly acting every night, and on the whole very decently
treated, now began to make more clamorous demands, the better they were
dealt with. Erelong their victuals, drink, attendance, lodging, grew
inadequate; and they called upon the baron, their protector, to provide more
liberally for them, and at last make good those promises of comfortable
entertainment, which he had been giving them so long. Their complaints
grew louder, and the efforts of our friend to still them more and more
abortive.
Meanwhile, excepting in rehearsals and hours of acting, Wilhelm scarcely
ever came abroad. Shut up in one of the remotest chambers, to which
Mignon and the harper alone had free access, he lived and moved in the
Shakspearian world, feeling or knowing nothing but the movements of his
own mind.

We have heard of some enchanter summoning, by magic formulas, a vast
multitude of spiritual shapes into his cell. The conjurations are so powerful
that the whole space of the apartment is quickly full; and the spirits,
crowding on to the verge of the little circle which they must not pass,
around this, and above the master's head, keep increasing in number, and
ever whirling in perpetual transformation. Every corner is crammed, every
crevice is possessed. Embryos expand themselves, and giant-forms contract
into the size of nuts. Unhappily the black-artist has forgot the counterword,
with which he might command this flood of sprites again to ebb.
So sat Wilhelm in his privacy: with unknown movements, a thousand
feelings and capacities awoke in him, of which he formerly had neither
notion nor anticipation. Nothing could allure him from this state: he was
vexed and restless if any one presumed to come to him, and talk of news or
what was passing in the world.
Accordingly, he scarce took notice of the circumstance, when told that a
judicial sentence was about being executed in the castle-yard,—the flogging
of a boy, who had incurred suspicions of nocturnal housebreaking, and who,
as he wore a peruke-maker's coat, had most probably been one of the
assaulters of the Pedant. The boy indeed, it seemed, denied most
obstinately; so that they could not inflict a formal punishment, but meant to
give him a slight memorial as a vagabond, and send him about his business;
he having prowled about the neighborhood for several days, lain at night in
the mills, and at last clapped a ladder to the garden-wall, and mounted over
by it.
Our friend saw nothing very strange in the transaction, and was dismissing
it altogether, when Mignon came running in, and assured him that the
criminal was Friedrich, who, since the rencounter with the Stallmeister, had
vanished from the company, and not again been heard of.
Feeling an interest in the boy, Wilhelm hastily arose: he found, in the court-
yard of the castle, the preparations almost finished. The count loved
solemnity on these occasions. The boy being now led out, our friend
stepped forward, and entreated for delay, as he knew the boy, and had
various things to say which might, perhaps, throw light on the affair. He had
difficulty in succeeding, notwithstanding all his statements: at length,

however, he did get permission to speak with the culprit in private.
Friedrich averred, that, concerning the assault in which the Pedant had been
used so harshly, he knew nothing whatever. He had merely been lurking
about, and had come in at night to see Philina, whose room he had
discovered, and would certainly have reached, had he not been taken by the
way.
For the credit of the company, Wilhelm felt desirous not to have the truth of
his adventure published. He hastened to the Stallmeister: he begged him to
show favor, and, with his intimate knowledge of men and things about the
castle, to find some means of quashing the affair, and dismissing the boy.
This whimsical gentleman, by Wilhelm's help, invented a little story,—how
the boy had belonged to the troop, had run away from it, but soon wished to
get back, and be received again into his place; how he had accordingly been
trying in the night to come at certain of his well-wishers, and solicit their
assistance. It was testified by others that his former behavior had been
good: the ladies put their hands to the work, and Friedrich was let go.
Wilhelm took him in,—a third person in that strange family, which for some
time he had looked on as his own. The old man and little Mignon received
the returning wanderer kindly; and all the three combined to serve their
friend and guardian with attention, and procure him all the pleasure in their
power.

CHAPTER X.
Philina now succeeded in insinuating farther every day into the favor of the
ladies. Whenever they were by themselves, she was wont to lead the
conversation on the men whom they saw about the castle; and our friend
was not the last or least important that engaged them. The cunning girl was
well aware that he had made a deep impression on the countess: she
therefore talked about him often, telling much that she knew or did not
know, only taking care to speak of nothing that might be interpreted against
him; eulogizing, on the contrary, his nobleness of mind, his generosity, and,

more than all, his modest and respectful conduct to the fair sex. To all
inquiries made about him she replied with equal prudence; and the
baroness, when she observed the growing inclination of her amiable friend,
was likewise very glad at the discovery. Her own intrigues with several
men, especially of late with Jarno, had not remained hidden from the
countess, whose pure soul could not look upon such levities without
disapprobation, and meek, though earnest, censures.
In this way both Philina and the baroness were personally interested in
establishing a closer intercourse between the countess and our friend.
Philina hoped, moreover, that there would occur some opportunity when
she might once more labor for herself, and, if possible, get back the favor of
the young man she had lost.
One day his lordship, with his guests, had ridden out to hunt; and their
return was not expected till the morrow. On this the baroness devised a
frolic, which was altogether in her way, for she loved disguises, and, in
order to surprise her friends, would suddenly appear among them as a
peasant-girl at one time, at another as a page, at another as a hunter's boy.
By which means she almost gave herself the air of a little fairy, that is
present everywhere, and exactly in the place where it is least expected.
Nothing could exceed this lady's joy, if, without being recognized, she
could contrive to wait upon the company for some time as a servant, or mix
among them anyhow, and then at last in some sportful way disclose herself.
Towards night she sent for Wilhelm to her chamber, and, happening to have
something else to do just then, left Philina to receive and prepare him.
He arrived, and found to his surprise, not the honorable lady, but the giddy
girl, in the room. She received him with a certain dignified openness of
manner, which she had of late been practising, and so constrained him
likewise to be courteous.
At first she rallied him in general on the good fortune which pursued him
everywhere, and which, as she could not but see, had led him hither in the
present case. Then she delicately set before him the treatment with which of
late he had afflicted her; she blamed and upbraided herself; confessed that
she had but too well deserved such punishment; described with the greatest
candor what she called her former situation; adding, that she would despise

herself, if she were not capable of altering, and making herself worthy of
his friendship.
Wilhelm was struck with this oration. He had too little knowledge of the
world to understand that persons quite unstable, and incapable of all
improvement, frequently accuse themselves in the bitterest manner,
confessing and deploring their faults with extreme ingenuousness, though
they possess not the smallest power within them to retire from that course,
along which the irresistible tendency of their nature is dragging them
forward. Accordingly, he could not find in his heart to behave inexorably to
the graceful sinner: he entered into conversation, and learned from her the
project of a singular disguisement, wherewith it was intended to surprise the
countess.
He found some room for hesitation here, nor did he hide his scruples from
Philina: but the baroness, entering at this moment, left him not an instant for
reflection; she hurried him away with her, declaring it was just the proper
hour.
It was now grown dark. She took him to the count's wardrobe, made him
change his own coat with his lordship's silk night-gown, and put the cap
with red trimmings on his head. She then led him forward to the cabinet;
and bidding him sit down upon the large chair, and take a book, she lit the
Argand lamp which stood before him, and showed him what he was to do,
and what kind of part he had to play.
They would inform the countess, she said, of her husband's unexpected
arrival, and that he was in very bad humor. The countess would come in,
walk up and down the room once or twice, then place herself beside the
back of his chair, lay her arm upon his shoulder, and speak a few words. He
was to play the cross husband as long and as well as possible; and, when
obliged to disclose himself, he must behave politely, handsomely, and
gallantly.
Wilhelm was left sitting, restlessly enough, in this singular mask. The
proposal had come upon him by surprise: the execution of it got the start of
the deliberation. The baroness had vanished from the room, before he saw
how dangerous the post was which he had engaged to fill. He could not
deny that the beauty, the youth, the gracefulness, of the countess had made

some impression on him: but his nature was entirely averse to all empty
gallantry, and his principles forbade any thought of more serious
enterprises; so that his perplexity at this moment was in truth extreme. The
fear of displeasing the countess, and that of pleasing her too well, were
equally busy in his mind.
Every female charm that had ever acted on him, now showed itself again to
his imagination. Mariana rose before him in her white morning-gown, and
entreated his remembrance. Philina's loveliness, her beautiful hair, her
insinuating blandishments, had again become attractive by her late
presence. Yet all this retired as if behind the veil of distance, when he
figured to himself the noble, blooming countess, whose arm in a few
minutes he would feel upon his neck, whose innocent caresses he was there
to answer.
The strange mode in which he was to be delivered out of this perplexity he
certainly did not anticipate. We may judge of his astonishment, nay, his
terror, when the door opened behind him; and, at the first stolen look in the
mirror, he quite clearly discerned the count coming in with a light in his
hand. His doubt what he should do, whether he should sit still or rise,
should flee, confess, deny, or beg forgiveness, lasted but a few instants. The
count, who had remained motionless standing in the door, retired, and shut
it softly. At the same moment, the baroness sprang forward by the side-door,
extinguished the lamp, tore Wilhelm from his chair, and hurried him with
her into the closet. Instantly he threw off the night-gown, and put it in its
former place. The baroness took his coat under her arm, and hastened with
him through several rooms, passages, and partitions into her chamber,
where Wilhelm, so soon as she recovered breath, was informed, that on her
going to the countess, and delivering the fictitious intelligence about her
husband's arrival, the countess had answered, "I know it already: what can
have happened? I saw him riding in, at the postern, even now." On which
the baroness, in an excessive panic, had run to the count's chamber to give
warning.
"Unhappily you came too late!" said Wilhelm. "The count was in the room
before you, and saw me sitting."
"And recognized you?"

"That I know not. He was looking at me in the glass, as I at him; and, before
I could well determine whether it was he or a spirit, he drew back, and
closed the door behind him."
The anxiety of the baroness increased, when a servant came to call her,
signifying that the count was with his lady. She went with no light heart,
and found the count silent and thoughtful, indeed, but milder and kinder in
his words than usual. She knew not what to think of it. They spoke about
the incidents of the chase, and the causes of his quick return. The
conversation soon ran out. The count became taciturn; and it struck the
baroness particularly, when he asked for Wilhelm, and expressed a wish that
he were sent for, to come and read something.
Wilhelm, who had now dressed himself in the baroness's chamber, and in
some degree recovered his composure, obeyed the order, not without
anxiety. The count gave him a book, out of which he read an adventurous
tale, very little at his ease. His voice had a certain inconstancy and
quivering in it, which fortunately corresponded with the import of the story.
The count more than once gave kindly tokens of approval, and at last
dismissed our friend, with praises of his exquisite manner of reading.

CHAPTER XI.
Wilhelm had scarcely read one or two of Shakspeare's plays, till their effect
on him became so strong that he could go no farther. His whole soul was in
commotion. He sought an opportunity to speak with Jarno; to whom, on
meeting with him, he expressed his boundless gratitude for such delicious
entertainment.
"I clearly enough foresaw," said Jarno, "that you would not remain
insensible to the charms of the most extraordinary and most admirable of all
writers."
"Yes!" exclaimed our friend: "I cannot recollect that any book, any man,
any incident of my life, has produced such important effects on me, as the

precious works to which by your kindness I have been directed. They seem
as if they were performances of some celestial genius, descending among
men, to make them, by the mildest instructions, acquainted with
themselves. They are no fictions! You would think, while reading them, you
stood before the unclosed awful Books of Fate, while the whirlwind of most
impassioned life was howling through the leaves, and tossing them fiercely
to and fro. The strength and tenderness, the power and peacefulness, of this
man, have so astonished and transported me, that I long vehemently for the
time when I shall have it in my power to read farther."
"Bravo!" said Jarno, holding out his hand, and squeezing our friend's. "This
is as it should be! And the consequences, which I hope for, will likewise
surely follow."
"I wish," said Wilhelm, "I could but disclose to you all that is going on
within me even now. All the anticipations I have ever had regarding man
and his destiny, which have accompanied me from youth upwards, often
unobserved by myself, I find developed and fulfilled in Shakspeare's
writings. It seems as if he cleared up every one of our enigmas to us, though
we cannot say, Here or there is the word of solution. His men appear like
natural men, and yet they are not. These, the most mysterious and complex
productions of creation, here act before us as if they were watches, whose
dial-plates and cases were of crystal, which pointed out, according to their
use, the course of the hours and minutes; while, at the same time, you could
discern the combination of wheels and springs that turned them. The few
glances I have cast over Shakspeare's world incite me, more than any thing
beside, to quicken my footsteps forward into the actual world, to mingle in
the flood of destinies that is suspended over it, and at length, if I shall
prosper, to draw a few cups from the great ocean of true nature, and to
distribute them from off the stage among the thirsting people of my native
land."
"I feel delighted with the temper of mind in which I now behold you,"
answered Jarno, laying his hand upon the shoulder of the excited youth:
"renounce not the purpose of embarking in active life. Make haste to
employ with alacrity the years that are granted you. If I can serve you, I will
with all my heart. As yet I have not asked you how you came into this
troop, for which you certainly were neither born nor bred. So much I hope

and see,—you long to be out of it. I know nothing of your parentage, of
your domestic circumstances: consider what you shall confide to me. Thus
much only I can say: the times of war we live in may produce quick turns of
fortune; did you incline devoting your strength and talents to our service,
not fearing labor, and, if need were, danger, I might even now have an
opportunity to put you in a situation, which you would not afterwards be
sorry to have filled for a time." Wilhelm could not sufficiently express his
gratitude: he was ready to impart to his friend and patron the whole history
of his life.
In the course of this conversation, they had wandered far into the park, and
at last came upon the highway that crossed it. Jarno stood silent for a
moment, and then said, "Deliberate on my proposal, determine, give me
your answer in a few days, and then let me have the narrative you mean to
trust me with. I assure you, it has all along to me seemed quite
incomprehensible how you ever could have any thing to do with such a
class of people. I have often thought with spleen and disgust, how, in order
to gain a paltry living, you must fix your heart on a wandering ballad-
monger, and a silly mongrel, neither male nor female."
He had not yet concluded, when an officer on horseback came hastily
along; a groom following him with a led horse. Jarno shouted a warm
salutation to him. The officer sprang from his horse; Jarno and he embraced
and talked together; while Wilhelm, confounded at the last expressions of
his warlike friend, stood thoughtfully at a side. Jarno turned over some
papers which the stranger had delivered to him; while the latter came to
Wilhelm, held out his hand, and said with emphasis, "I find you in worthy
company: follow the counsel of your friend, and, by doing so, accomplish
likewise the desire of an unknown man, who takes a genuine interest in
you." So saying, he embraced Wilhelm, and pressed him cordially to his
breast. At the same instant Jarno advanced, and said to the stranger, "It is
best that I ride on with you: by this means you may get the necessary
orders, and set out again before night." Both then leaped into their saddles,
and left our astonished friend to his own reflections.
Jarno's last words were still ringing in his ears. It galled him to see the two
human beings that had most innocently won his affections so grievously
disparaged by a man whom he honored so much. The strange embracing of

the officer, whom he knew not, made but a slight impression on him; it
occupied his curiosity and his imagination for a moment: but Jarno's speech
had cut him to the heart; he was deeply hurt by it: and now, in his way
homewards, he broke out into reproaches against himself, that he should for
a single instant have mistaken or forgotten the unfeeling coldness of Jarno,
which looked out from his very eyes, and spoke in all his gestures. "No!"
exclaimed he, "thou conceivest, dead-hearted worldling, that thou canst be a
friend! All that thou hast power to offer me is not worth the sentiment
which binds me to these forlorn beings. How fortunate that I have
discovered in time what I had to expect from thee!"
Mignon came to meet him as he entered: he clasped her in his arms,
exclaiming, "Nothing, nothing, shall part us, thou good little creature! The
seeming prudence of the world shall never cause me to forsake thee, or
forget what I owe thee!"
The child, whose warm caresses he had been accustomed to avoid, rejoiced
with all her heart at this unlooked-for show of tenderness, and clung so fast
to him that he had some difficulty to get loose from her.
From this period he kept a stricter eye on Jarno's conduct: many parts of it
he did not think quite praiseworthy; nay, several things came out which
totally displeased him. He had strong suspicions, for example, that the
verses on the baron, which the poor Pedant had so dearly paid for, were
composed by Jarno. And as the latter, in Wilhelm's presence, had made
sport of the adventure, our friend thought here was certainly a symptom of a
most corrupted heart; for what could be more depraved than to treat a
guiltless person, whose griefs one's self had occasioned, with jeering and
mockery, instead of trying to satisfy or to indemnify him? In this matter
Wilhelm would himself willingly have brought about reparation; and
erelong a very curious accident led him to obtain some traces of the persons
concerned in that nocturnal outrage.
Hitherto his friends had contrived to keep him unacquainted with the fact,
that some of the young officers were in the habit of passing whole nights in
merriment and jollity, with certain actors and actresses, in the lower hall of
the old castle. One morning, having risen early, according to his custom, he
happened to visit this chamber, and found the gallant gentlemen just in the

act of performing rather a singular operation. They had mixed a bowl of
water with a quantity of chalk, and were plastering this gruel with a brush
upon their waistcoats and pantaloons, without stripping; thus very
expeditiously restoring the spotlessness of their apparel. On witnessing this
piece of ingenuity, our friend was at once struck with the recollection of the
poor Pedant's whited and bedusted coat: his suspicions gathered strength
when he learned that some relations of the baron were among the party.
To throw some light on his doubts, he engaged the youths to breakfast with
him. They were very lively, and told a multitude of pleasant stories. One of
them especially, who for a time had been on the recruiting-service, was loud
in praising the craft and activity of his captain; who, it appeared, understood
the art of alluring men of all kinds towards him, and overreaching every one
by the deception proper for him. He circumstantially described how several
young people of good families and careful education had been cozened, by
playing off to them a thousand promises of honor and preferment; and he
heartily laughed at the simpletons, who felt so gratified, when first enlisted,
at the thought of being esteemed and introduced to notice by so reputable,
prudent, bold, and munificent an officer.
Wilhelm blessed his better genius for having drawn him back in time from
the abyss to whose brink he had approached so near. Jarno he now looked
upon as nothing better than a crimp: the embrace of the stranger officer was
easily explained. He viewed the feelings and opinions of these men with
contempt and disgust; from that moment he carefully avoided coming into
contact with any one that wore a uniform; and, when he heard that the army
was about to move its quarters, the news would have been extremely
welcome to him, if he had not feared, that, immediately on its departure, he
himself must be banished from the neighborhood of his lovely friend,
perhaps forever.

CHAPTER XII.

Meanwhile the baroness had spent several days disquieted by anxious fears
and unsatisfied curiosity. Since the late adventure, the count's demeanor had
been altogether an enigma to her. His manner was changed: none of his
customary jokes were to be heard. His demands on the company and the
servants had very much abated. Little pedantry or imperiousness was now
to be discerned in him; he was silent and thoughtful, yet withal he seemed
composed and placid; in short, he was quite another man. In choosing the
books, which now and then he caused to be read to him, those of a serious,
often a religious, cast, were pitched upon; and the baroness lived in
perpetual fright lest, beneath this apparent serenity, a secret rancor might be
lurking,—a silent purpose to revenge the offence he had so accidentally
discovered. She determined, therefore, to make Jarno her confidant; and this
the more freely, as that gentleman and she already stood in a relation to
each other where it is not usual to be very cautious in keeping secrets. For
some time Jarno had been her dearest friend, yet they had been dexterous
enough to conceal their attachment and joys from the noisy world in which
they moved. To the countess alone this new romance had not remained
unknown; and very possibly the baroness might wish to get her fair friend
occupied with some similar engagement, and thus to escape the silent
reproaches she had often to endure from that noble-minded woman.
Scarcely had the baroness related the occurrence to her lover, when he cried
out laughing, "To a certainty the old fool believes that he has seen his ghost!
He dreads that the vision may betoken some misfortune, perhaps death, to
him; and so he is become quite tame, as all half-men do, in thinking of that
consummation which no one has escaped or will escape. Softly a little! As I
hope he will live long enough, we may now train him at least, so that he
shall not again give disturbance to his wife and household."
They accordingly, as soon as any opportunity occurred, began talking, in
the presence of the count, about warnings, visions, apparitions, and the like.
Jarno played the sceptic, the baroness likewise; and they carried it so far,
that his lordship at last took Jarno aside, reproved him for his free-thinking,
and produced his own experience to prove the possibility, nay, actual
occurrence, of such preternatural events. Jarno affected to be struck, to be in
doubt, and finally to be convinced; but, in private with his friend, he made
himself so much the merrier at the credulous weakling, who had thus been
cured of his evil habits by a bugbear, but who, they admitted, still deserved

some praise for expecting dire calamity, or death itself, with such
composure.
"The natural result which the present apparition might have had, would
possibly have ruffled him!" exclaimed the baroness, with her wonted
vivacity; to which, when anxiety was taken from her heart, she had instantly
returned. Jarno was richly rewarded; and the two contrived fresh projects
for frightening the count still further, and still further exciting and
confirming the affection of the countess for Wilhelm.
With this intention, the whole story was related to the countess. She, indeed,
expressed her displeasure at such conduct; but from that time she became
more thoughtful, and in peaceful moments seemed to be considering,
pursuing, and painting out that scene which had been prepared for her.
The preparations now going forward on every side left no room for doubt
that the armies were soon to move in advance, and the prince at the same
time to change his headquarters. It was even said that the count intended
leaving his castle, and returning to the city. Our players could therefore,
without difficulty, calculate the aspect of their stars; yet none of them,
except Melina, took any measures in consequence: the rest strove only to
catch as much enjoyment as they could from the moment that was passing
over them.
Wilhelm, in the mean time, was engaged with a peculiar task. The countess
had required from him a copy of his writings, and he looked on this request
as the noblest recompense for his labors.
A young author, who has not yet seen himself in print, will, in such a case,
apply no ordinary care to provide a clear and beautiful transcript of his
works. It is like the golden age of authorship: he feels transported into those
centuries when the press had not inundated the world with so many useless
writings, when none but excellent performances were copied, and kept by
the noblest men; and he easily admits the illusion, that his own accurately
ruled and measured manuscript may itself prove an excellent performance,
worthy to be kept and valued by some future critic.
The prince being shortly to depart, a great entertainment had been
appointed in honor of him. Many ladies of the neighborhood were invited,

and the countess had dressed betimes. On this occasion she had taken a
costlier suit than usual. Her head-dress, and the decorations of her hair,
were more exquisite and studied: she wore all her jewels. The baroness, too,
had done her utmost to appear with becoming taste and splendor.
Philina, observing that both ladies, in expectation of their guests, felt the
time rather tedious, proposed to send for Wilhelm, who was wishing to
present his manuscript, now completed, and to read them some other little
pieces. He came, and on his entrance was astonished at the form and the
graces of the countess, which her decorations had but made more visible
and striking. Being ordered by the ladies, he began to read; but with so
much absence of mind, and so badly, that, had not his audience been
excessively indulgent, they would very soon have dismissed him.
Every time he looked at the countess, it seemed to him as if a spark of
electric fire were glancing before his eyes. In the end he knew not where to
find the breath he wanted for his reading. The countess had always pleased
him, but now it appeared as if he never had beheld a being so perfect and so
lovely. A thousand thoughts flitted up and down his soul: what follows
might be nearly their substance.
"How foolish is it in so many poets, and men of sentiment as they are
called, to make war on pomp and decoration; requiring that women of all
ranks should wear no dress but what is simple, and conformable to nature!
They rail at decoration, without once considering, that, when we see a plain
or positively ugly person clothed in a costly and gorgeous fashion, it is not
the poor decoration that displeases us. I would assemble all the judges in
the world, and ask them here if they wished to see one of these folds, of
these ribbons and laces, these braids, ringlets, and glancing stones,
removed? Would they not dread disturbing the delightful impression that so
naturally and spontaneously meets us here? Yes, naturally I will say! As
Minerva sprang in complete armor from the head of Jove; so does this
goddess seem to have stepped forth with a light foot, in all her ornaments,
from the bosom of some flower."
While reading, he turned his eyes upon her frequently, as if he wished to
stamp this image on his soul forever: he more than once read wrong, yet
without falling into confusion of mind; though, at other times, he used to

feel the mistaking of a word or a letter as a painful deformity, which spoiled
a whole recitation.
A false alarm of the arrival of the guests put an end to the reading; the
baroness went out; and the countess, while about to shut her writing-desk,
which was standing open, took up her casket, and put some other rings upon
her finger. "We are soon to part," said she, keeping her eyes upon the
casket: "accept a memorial of a true friend, who wishes nothing more
earnestly than that you may always prosper." She then took out a ring,
which, underneath a crystal, bore a little plait of woven hair beautifully set
with diamonds. She held it out to Wilhelm, who, on taking it, knew neither
what to say nor do, but stood as if rooted to the ground. The countess shut
her desk, and sat down upon the sofa.
"And I must go empty?" said Philina, kneeling down at the countess's right
hand. "Do but look at the man: he carries such a store of words in his
mouth, when no one wants to hear them; and now he cannot stammer out
the poorest syllable of thanks. Quick, sir! Express your services by way of
pantomime at least; and if to-day you can invent nothing, then, for Heaven's
sake, be my imitator."
Philina seized the right hand of the countess, and kissed it warmly. Wilhelm
sank upon his knee, laid hold of the left, and pressed it to his lips. The
countess seemed embarrassed, yet without displeasure.
"Ah!" cried Philina, "so much splendor of attire, I may have seen before,
but never one so fit to wear it. What bracelets, but also what a hand! What a
neckdress, but also what a bosom."
"Peace, little cozener!" said the countess.
"Is this his lordship, then?" said Philina, pointing to a rich medallion, which
the countess wore on her left side, by a particular chain.
"He is painted in his bridegroom-dress," replied the countess.
"Was he, then, so young?" inquired Philina: "I know it is but a year or two
since you were married."
"His youth must be placed to the artist's account," replied the lady.

"He is a handsome man," observed Philina. "But was there never," she
continued, placing her hand on the countess's heart, "never any other image
that found its way in secret hither?"
"Thou art very bold, Philina," cried she: "I have spoiled thee. Let me never
hear the like again."
"If you are angry, then am I unhappy," said Philina, springing up, and
hastening from the room.
Wilhelm still held that lovely hand in both of his. His eyes were fixed on
the bracelet-clasp: he noticed, with extreme surprise, that his initials were
traced on it, in lines of brilliants.
"Have I, then," he modestly inquired, "your own hair in this precious ring?"
"Yes," replied she in a faint voice; then, suddenly collecting herself, she
said, and pressed his hand, "Arise, and fare you well!"
"Here is my name," cried he, "by the most curious chance!" He pointed to
the bracelet-clasp.
"How?" cried the countess: "it is the cipher of a female friend!"
"They are the initials of my name. Forget me not. Your image is engraven
on my heart, and will never be effaced. Farewell! I must be gone."
He kissed her hand, and meant to rise; but, as in dreams, some strange thing
fades and changes into something stranger, and the succeeding wonder
takes us by surprise; so, without knowing how it happened, he found the
countess in his arms: her lips were resting upon his, and their warm mutual
kisses were yielding them that blessedness which mortals sip from the
topmost sparkling foam on the freshly poured cup of love.
Her head lay on his shoulder: the disordered ringlets and ruffles were
forgotten. She had thrown her arm round him: he clasped her with vivacity,
and pressed her again and again to his breast. Oh that such a moment could
but last forever! And woe to envious Fate that shortened even this brief
moment to our friends!

How terrified was Wilhelm, how astounded did he start from his happy
dream, when the countess, with a shriek, on a sudden tore herself away, and
hastily pressed her hand against her heart.
He stood confounded before her: she held the other hand upon her eyes,
and, after a moment's pause, exclaimed, "Away! leave me! delay not!"
He continued standing.
"Leave me!" she cried; and, taking off her hand from her eyes, she looked at
him with an indescribable expression of countenance, and added, in the
most tender and affecting voice, "Flee, if you love me."
Wilhelm was out of the chamber, and again in his room, before he knew
what he was doing.
Unhappy creatures! What singular warning of chance or of destiny tore
them asunder?

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.
Laertes was standing at the window in a thoughtful mood, resting on his
arm, and looking out into the fields. Philina came gliding towards him,
across the large hall: she leaned upon him, and began to mock him for his
serious looks.
"Do not laugh," replied he: "it is frightful to think how time goes on, how
all things change and have an end. See here! A little while ago there was a
stately camp: how pleasantly the tents looked! what restless life and motion
was within them! how carefully they watched the whole enclosure! And,
behold, it is all vanished in a day! For a short while, that trampled straw,
those holes which the cooks have dug, will show a trace of what was here;
and soon the whole will be ploughed and reaped as formerly, and the
presence of so many thousand gallant fellows in this quarter will but
glimmer in the memories of one or two old men."
Philina began to sing, and dragged forth her friend to dance with her in the
hall. "Since Time is not a person we can overtake when he is past," cried
she, "let us honor him with mirth and cheerfulness of heart while he is
passing."
They had scarcely made a step or two, when Frau Melina came walking
through the hall. Philina was wicked enough to invite her to join them in the
dance, and thus to bring her in mind of the shape to which her pregnancy
had reduced her.
"That I might never more see a woman in an interesting situation!" said
Philina, when her back was turned.

"Yet she feels an interest in it," said Laertes.
"But she manages so shockingly. Didst thou notice that wabbling fold of her
shortened petticoat, which always travels out before her when she moves?
She has not the smallest knack or skill to trim herself a little, and conceal
her state."
"Let her be," said Laertes. "Time will soon come to her aid."
"It were prettier, however," cried Philina, "if we could shake children from
the trees."
The baron entered, and spoke some kind words to them, adding a few
presents, in the name of the count and the countess, who had left the place
very early in the morning. He then went to Wilhelm, who was busy in the
side-chamber with Mignon. She had been extremely affectionate and
taking; had asked minutely about Wilhelm's parents, brothers, sisters, and
relations; and so brought to his mind the duty he owed his people, to send
them some tidings of himself.
With the farewell compliments of the family, the baron delivered him an
assurance from the count, that his lordship had been exceedingly obliged by
his acting, his poetical labors, and theatrical exertions. For proof of this
statement, the baron then drew forth a purse, through whose beautiful
texture the bright glance of new gold coin was sparkling out. Wilhelm drew
back, refusing to accept of it.
"Look upon this gift," said the baron, "as a compensation for your time, as
an acknowledgment of your trouble, not as the reward of your talents. If
genius procures us a good name and good will from men, it is fair likewise,
that, by our diligence and efforts, we should earn the means to satisfy our
wants; since, after all, we are not wholly spirit. Had we been in town, where
every thing is to be got, we should have changed this little sum into a
watch, a ring, or something of that sort; but, as it is, I must place the magic
rod in your own hands; procure a trinket with it, such as may please you
best and be of greatest use, and keep it for our sakes. At the same time, you
must not forget to hold the purse in honor. It was knit by the fingers of our
ladies: they meant that the cover should give to its contents the most
pleasing form."

"Forgive my embarrassment," said Wilhelm, "and my doubts about
accepting this present. It, as it were, annihilates the little I have done, and
hinders the free play of happy recollection. Money is a fine thing, when any
matter is to be completely settled and abolished: I feel unwilling to be so
entirely abolished from the recollection of your house."
"That is not the case," replied the baron; "but, feeling so tenderly yourself,
you could not wish that the count should be obliged to consider himself
wholly your debtor, especially when I assure you that his lordship's highest
ambition has always consisted in being punctual and just. He is not
uninformed of the labor you have undergone, or of the zeal with which you
have devoted all your time to execute his views; nay, he is aware, that, to
quicken certain operations, you have even expended money of your own.
With what face shall I appear before him, then, if I cannot say that his
acknowledgment has given you satisfaction?"
"If I thought only of myself," said Wilhelm, "if I might follow merely the
dictates of my own feelings, I should certainly, in spite of all these reasons,
steadfastly refuse this gift, generous and honorable as it is; but I will not
deny, that, at the very moment when it brings me into one perplexity, it
frees me from another, into which I have lately fallen with regard to my
relations, and which has in secret caused me much uneasiness. My
management, not only of the time, but also of the money, for which I have
to give account, has not been the best; and now, by the kindness of his
lordship, I shall be enabled, with confidence, to give my people news of the
good fortune to which this curious by-path has led me. I therefore sacrifice
those feelings of delicacy, which, like a tender conscience, admonish us on
such occasions, to a higher duty; and, that I may appear courageously
before my father, I must consent to stand ashamed before you."
"It is singular," replied the baron, "to see what a world of hesitation people
feel about accepting money from their friends and patrons, though ready to
receive any other gift with joy and thankfulness. Human nature manifests
some other such peculiarities, by which many scruples of a similar kind are
produced and carefully cherished."
"Is it not the same with all points of honor?" said our friend.

"It is so," replied the baron, "and with several other prejudices. We must not
root them out, lest in doing so we tear up noble plants along with them. Yet
I am always glad when I meet with men that feel superior to such
objections, when the case requires it; and I recall with pleasure the story of
that ingenious poet who had written several plays for the court-theatre,
which met with the monarch's warmest approbation. 'I must give him a
distinguished recompense,' said the generous prince: 'ask him whether he
would choose to have some jewel given him, or if he would disdain to
accept a sum of money.' In his humorous way, the poet answered the
inquiring courtier, 'I am thankful, with all my heart, for these gracious
purposes; and, as the emperor is daily taking money from us, I see not
wherefore I should feel ashamed of taking some from him.'"
Scarcely had the baron left the room, when Wilhelm eagerly began to count
the cash, which had come to him so unexpectedly, and, as he thought, so
undeservedly. It seemed as if the worth and dignity of gold, not usually felt
till later years, had now, by anticipation, twinkled in his eyes for the first
time, as the fine, glancing coins rolled out from the beautiful purse. He
reckoned up, and found, that, particularly as Melina had engaged
immediately to pay the loan, he had now as much or more on the right side
of his account as on that day when Philina first asked him for the nosegay.
With a little secret satisfaction, he looked upon his talents; with a little
pride, upon the fortune which had led and attended him. He now seized the
pen, with an assured mind, to write a letter which might free his family
from their anxieties, and set his late proceedings in the most favorable light.
He abstained from any special narrative, and only by significant and
mysterious hints left them room for guessing at what had befallen him. The
good condition of his cash-book, the advantage he had earned by his talents,
the favor of the great and of the fair, acquaintance with a wider circle, the
improvement of his bodily and mental gifts, his hopes from the future,
altogether formed such a fair cloud-picture, that Fata Morgana itself could
scarcely have thrown together a stranger or a better.
In this happy exaltation, the letter being folded up, he went on to maintain a
conversation with himself, recapitulating what he had been writing, and
pointing out for himself an active and glorious future. The example of so
many gallant warriors had fired him; the poetry of Shakspeare had opened a

new world to him; from the lips of the beautiful countess he had inhaled an
inexpressible inspiration. All this could not and would not be without effect.
The Stallmeister came to inquire whether they were ready with their
packing. Alas! with the single exception of Melina, no one of them had
thought of it. Now, however, they were speedily to be in motion. The count
had engaged to have the whole party conveyed forward a few days' journey
on their way: the horses were now in readiness, and could not long be
wanted. Wilhelm asked for his trunk: Frau Melina had taken it to put her
own things in. He asked for money: Herr Melina had stowed it all far down
at the bottom of his box. Philina said she had still some room in hers: she
took Wilhelm's clothes, and bade Mignon bring the rest. Wilhelm, not
without reluctance, was obliged to let it be so.
While they were loading, and getting all things ready, Melina said, "I am
sorry we should travel like mountebanks and rope-dancers. I could wish
that Mignon would put on girl's clothes, and that the harper would let his
beard be shorn." Mignon clung firmly to Wilhelm, and cried, with great
vivacity, "I am a boy—I will be no girl!" The old man held his peace; and
Philina, on this suggestion, made some merry observations on the
singularity of their protector, the count. "If the harper should cut off his
beard," said she, "let him sew it carefully upon a ribbon, and keep it by him,
that he may put it on again whenever his lordship the count falls in with him
in any quarter of the world. It was this beard alone that procured him the
favor of his lordship."
On being pressed to give an explanation of this singular speech, Philina said
to them, "The count thinks it contributes very much to the completeness of
theatrical illusion if the actor continues to play his part, and to sustain his
character, even in common life. It was for this reason that he showed such
favor to the Pedant: and he judged it, in like manner, very fitting that the
harper not only wore his false beard at nights on the stage, but also
constantly by day; and he used to be delighted at the natural appearance of
the mask."
While the rest were laughing at this error, and the other strange opinions of
the count, the harper led our friend aside, took leave of him, and begged,
with tears, that he would even now let him go. Wilhelm spoke to him,

declaring that he would protect him against all the world; that no one should
touch a hair of his head, much less send him off against his will.
The old man seemed affected deeply: an unwonted fire was glowing in his
eyes. "It is not that," cried he, "which drives me away. I have long been
reproaching myself in secret for staying with you. I ought to linger
nowhere; for misfortune flies to overtake me, and injures all that are
connected with me. Dread every thing, unless you dismiss me; but ask me
no questions. I belong not to myself. I cannot stay."
"To whom dost thou belong? Who can exert such a power on thee?"
"Leave me my horrid secret, and let me go! The vengeance which pursues
me is not of the earthly judge. I belong to an inexorable destiny. I cannot
stay, and I dare not."
"In the situation I see thee in, I shall certainly not let thee go."
"It were high treason against you, my benefactor, if I should delay. I am
secure while with you, but you are in peril. You know not whom you keep
beside you. I am guilty, but more wretched than guilty. My presence scares
happiness away, and good deeds grow powerless when I become concerned
in them. Fugitive, unresting I should be, that my evil genius might not seize
me, which pursues but at a distance, and only appears when I have found a
place, and am laying down my head to seek repose. More grateful I cannot
show myself than by forsaking you."
"Strange man! Thou canst neither take away the confidence I place in thee,
nor the hope I feel to see thee happy. I wish not to penetrate the secrets of
thy superstition; but if thou livest in belief of wonderful forebodings, and
entanglements of fate, then, to cheer and hearten thee, I say, unite thyself to
my good fortune, and let us see which genius is the stronger, thy dark or my
bright one."
Wilhelm seized this opportunity of suggesting to him many other
comfortable things; for of late our friend had begun to imagine that this
singular attendant of his must be a man, who, by chance or destiny, had
been led into some weighty crime, the remembrance of which he was ever
bearing on his conscience.

A few days ago Wilhelm, listening to his singing, had observed attentively
the following lines:—

"For him the light of ruddy morn
But paints the horizon red with flame;
And voices, from the depths of nature borne,
Woe! woe! upon his guilty head proclaim."

But, let the old man urge what arguments he pleased, our friend had
constantly a stronger argument at hand. He turned every thing on its fairest
side; spoke so bravely, heartily, and cheerily, that even the old man seemed
again to gather spirits, and to throw aside his whims.

CHAPTER II.
Melina was in hopes to get established, with his company, in a small but
thriving town at some distance. They had already reached the place where
the count's horses were to turn, and now they looked about for other
carriages and cattle to transport them onward. Melina had engaged to
provide them a conveyance: he showed himself but niggardly, according to
his custom. Wilhelm, on the contrary, had the shining ducats of the countess
in his pocket, and thought he had the fullest right to spend them merrily;
forgetting very soon how ostentatiously he had produced them in the stately
balance transmitted to his father.
His friend Shakspeare, whom with the greatest joy he acknowledged as his
godfather, and rejoiced the more that his name was Wilhelm, had introduced
him to a prince, who frolicked for a time among mean, nay, vicious
companions, and who, notwithstanding his nobleness of nature, found
pleasure in the rudeness, indecency, and coarse intemperance of these
altogether sensual knaves. This ideal likeness, which he figured as the type
and the excuse of his own actual condition, was most welcome to our
friend; and the process of self-deception, to which already he displayed an
almost invincible tendency, was thereby very much facilitated.

He now began to think about his dress. It struck him that a waistcoat, over
which, in case of need, one could throw a little short mantle, was a very fit
thing for a traveller. Long knit pantaloons, and a pair of lacing-boots,
seemed the true garb of a pedestrian. He next procured a fine silk sash,
which he tied about him, under the pretence at first of securing warmth for
his person. On the other hand, he freed his neck from the tyranny of stocks,
and got a few stripes of muslin sewed upon his shirt; making the pieces of
considerable breadth, so that they presented the complete appearance of an
ancient ruff. The beautiful silk neckerchief, the memorial of Mariana, which
had once been saved from burning, now lay slackly tied beneath this muslin
collar. A round hat, with a party-colored band, and a large feather, perfected
the mask.
The women all asserted that this garb became him very well. Philina in
particular appeared enchanted with it. She solicited his hair for herself,—
beautiful locks, which, the closer to approach the natural ideal, he had
unmercifully clipped. By so doing she recommended herself not amiss to
his favor; and our friend, who by his open-handedness had acquired the
right of treating his companions somewhat in Prince Harry's manner,
erelong fell into the humor of himself contriving a few wild tricks, and
presiding in the execution of them. The people fenced, they danced, they
devised all kinds of sports, and, in their gayety of heart, partook of what
tolerable wine they could fall in with in copious proportions; while, amid
the disorder of this tumultuous life, Philina lay in wait for the coy hero,—
over whom let his better genius keep watch!
One chief diversion, which yielded the company a frequent and very
pleasing entertainment, consisted in producing an extempore play, in which
their late benefactors and patrons were mimicked, and turned into ridicule.
Some of our actors had seized very neatly whatever was peculiar in the
outward manner of several distinguished people in the count's
establishment; their imitation of these was received by the rest of the party
with the greatest approbation: and when Philina produced, from the secret
archives of her experience, certain peculiar declarations of love that had
been made to her, the audience were like to die with laughing and malicious
joy.

Wilhelm censured their ingratitude; but they told him in reply that these
gentry well deserved what they were getting, their general conduct toward
such deserving people, as our friends believed themselves, not having been
by any means the best imaginable. The little consideration, the neglect they
had experienced, were now described with many aggravations. The jesting,
bantering, and mimicry proceeded as before: our party were growing
bitterer and more unjust every minute.
"I wish," observed Wilhelm, "there were no envy or selfishness lurking
under what you say, but that you would regard those persons and their
station in the proper point of view. It is a peculiar thing to be placed, by
one's very birth, in an elevated situation in society. The man for whom
inherited wealth has secured a perfect freedom of existence; who finds
himself from his youth upwards abundantly encompassed with all the
secondary essentials, so to speak, of human life,—will generally become
accustomed to consider these qualifications as the first and greatest of all;
while the worth of that mode of human life, which nature from her own
stores equips and furnishes, will strike him much more faintly. The behavior
of noblemen to their inferiors, and likewise to each other, is regulated by
external preferences. They give each credit for his title, his rank, his clothes,
and equipage; but his individual merits come not into play."
This speech was honored with the company's unbounded applause. They
declared it to be shameful, that men of merit should constantly be pushed
into the background; and that, in the great world, there should not be a trace
of natural and hearty intercourse. On this latter point particularly they
overshot all bounds.
"Blame them not for it," said Wilhelm, "rather pity them! They have seldom
an exalted feeling of that happiness which we admit to be the highest that
can flow from the inward abundance of nature. Only to us poor creatures is
it granted to enjoy the happiness of friendship in its richest fulness. Those
dear to us we cannot elevate by our countenance, or advance by our favor,
or make happy by our presents. We have nothing but ourselves. This whole
self we must give away; and, if it is to be of any value, we must make our
friend secure of it forever. What an enjoyment, what a happiness, for giver
and receiver! With what blessedness does truth of affection invest our

situation! It gives to the transitory life of man a heavenly certainty: it forms
the crown and capital of all that we possess."
While he spoke thus, Mignon had come near him: she threw her little arms
round him, and stood with her cheek resting on his breast. He laid his hand
on the child's head, and proceeded, "It is easy for a great man to win our
minds to him, easy to make our hearts his own. A mild and pleasant manner,
a manner only not inhuman, will of itself do wonders,—and how many
means does he possess of holding fast the affections he has once
conquered? To us, all this occurs less frequently; to us it is all more
difficult; and we naturally, therefore, put a greater value on whatever, in the
way of mutual kindness, we acquire and accomplish. What touching
examples of faithful servants giving themselves up to danger and death for
their masters? How finely has Shakspeare painted out such things to us!
Fidelity, in this case, is the effort of a noble soul, struggling to become
equal with one exalted above it. By steadfast attachment and love, the
servant is made equal to his lord, who, but for this, is justified in looking on
him as a hired slave. Yes, these virtues belong to the lower class of men
alone: that class cannot do without them, and with them it has a beauty of
its own. Whoever is enabled to requite all favors easily will likewise easily
be tempted to raise himself above the habit of acknowledgment. Nay, in this
sense, I am of opinion it might almost be maintained, that a great man may
possess friends, but cannot be one."
Mignon clung more and more closely to him.
"It may be so," replied one of the party: "we do not need their friendship,
and do not ask it. But it were well if they understood a little more about the
arts, which they affect to patronize. When we played in the best style, there
was none to mind us: it was all sheer partiality. Any one they chose to favor,
pleased; and they did not choose to favor those that merited to please. It was
intolerable to observe how often silliness and mere stupidity attracted notice
and applause."
"When I abate from this," said Wilhelm, "what seemed to spring from irony
and malice, I think we may nearly say, that one fares in art as he does in
love. And, after all, how shall a fashionable man of the world, with his
dissipated habits, attain that intimate presence with a special object, which

an artist must long continue in, if he would produce any thing approaching
to perfection,—a state of feeling without which it is impossible for any one
to take such an interest, as the artist hopes and wishes, in his work?
"Believe me, my friends, it is with talents as with virtue; one must love
them for their own sake, or entirely renounce them. And neither of them is
acknowledged and rewarded, except when their possessor can practise them
unseen, like a dangerous secret."
"Meanwhile, until some proper judge discovers us, we may all die of
hunger," cried a fellow in the corner.
"Not quite inevitably," answered Wilhelm. "I have observed, that, so long as
one stirs and lives, one always finds food and raiment, though they be not
of the richest sort. And why should we repine? Were we not, altogether
unexpectedly, and when our prospects were the very worst, taken kindly by
the hand, and substantially entertained? And now, when we are in want of
nothing, does it once occur to us to attempt any thing for our improvement,
or to strive, though never so faintly, towards advancement in our art? We
are busied about indifferent matters; and, like school-boys, we are casting
all aside that might bring our lesson to our thoughts."
"In sad truth," said Philina, "it is even so! Let us choose a play: we will go
through it on the spot. Each of us must do his best, as if he stood before the
largest audience."
They did not long deliberate: a play was fixed on. It was one of those which
at that time were meeting great applause in Germany, and have now passed
away. Some of the party whistled a symphony; each speedily bethought him
of his part; they commenced, and acted the entire play with the greatest
attention, and really well beyond expectation. Mutual applauses circulated:
our friends had seldom been so pleasantly diverted.
On finishing, they all felt exceedingly contented, partly on account of their
time being spent so well, partly because each of them experienced some
degree of satisfaction with his own performance. Wilhelm expressed
himself copiously in their praise: the conversation grew cheerful and merry.
"You would see," cried our friend, "what advances we should make, if we
continued this sort of training, and ceased to confine our attention to mere

learning by heart, rehearsing and playing mechanically, as if it were a
barren duty, or some handicraft employment. How different a character do
our musical professors merit! What interest they take in their art! how
correct are they in the practisings they undertake in common! What pains
they are at in tuning their instruments; how exactly they observe time; how
delicately they express the strength and the weakness of their tones! No one
there thinks of gaining credit to himself by a loud accompaniment of the
solo of another. Each tries to play in the spirit of the composer, each to
express well whatever is committed to him, be it much or little.
"Should not we, too, go as strictly and as ingeniously to work, seeing we
practise an art far more delicate than that of music,—seeing we are called
on to express the commonest and the strangest emotions of human nature,
with elegance, and so as to delight? Can any thing be more shocking than to
slur over our rehearsal, and in our acting to depend on good luck, or the
capricious choice of the moment? We ought to place our highest happiness
and satisfaction in mutually desiring to gain each other's approbation: we
should even value the applauses of the public only in so far as we have
previously sanctioned them among ourselves. Why is the master of the band
more secure about his music than the manager about his play? Because, in
the orchestra, each individual would feel ashamed of his mistakes, which
offend the outward ear; but how seldom have I found an actor disposed to
acknowledge or feel ashamed of mistakes, pardonable or the contrary, by
which the inward ear is so outrageously offended! I could wish, for my part,
that our theatre were as narrow as the wire of a rope-dancer, that so no inept
fellow might dare to venture on it, instead of being, as it is, a place where
every one discovers in himself capacity enough to flourish and parade."
The company gave this apostrophe a kind reception; each being convinced
that the censure conveyed in it could not apply to him, after acting a little
while ago so excellently with the rest. On the other hand, it was agreed, that
during this journey, and for the future if they remained together, they would
regularly proceed with their training in the manner just adopted. Only it was
thought, that, as this was a thing of good humor and free will, no formal
manager must be allowed to have a hand in it. Taking it for an established
fact, that, among good men, the republican form of government is the best,
they declared that the post of manager should go round among them: he
must be chosen by universal suffrage, and every time have a sort of little

senate joined in authority along with him. So delighted did they feel with
this idea, that they longed to put it instantly in practice.
"I have no objection," said Melina, "if you incline making such an
experiment while we are travelling: I shall willingly suspend my own
directorship until we reach some settled place." He was in hopes of saving
cash by this arrangement, and of casting many small expenses on the
shoulders of the little senate or of the interim manager. This fixed, they
went very earnestly to counsel how the form of the new commonwealth
might best be adjusted.
"'Tis an itinerating kingdom," said Laertes: "we shall at least have no
quarrels about frontiers."
They directly proceeded to the business, and elected Wilhelm as their first
manager. The senate also was appointed, the women having seat and vote in
it: laws were propounded, were rejected, were agreed to. In such playing,
the time passed on unnoticed; and, as our friends had spent it pleasantly,
they also conceived that they had really been effecting something useful,
and, by their new constitution, had been opening a new prospect for the
stage of their native country.

CHAPTER III.
Seeing the company so favorably disposed, Wilhelm now hoped he might
further have it in his power to converse with them on the poetic merit of the
plays which might come before them. "It is not enough," said he next day,
when they were all again assembled, "for the actor merely to glance over a
dramatic work, to judge of it by his first impression, and thus, without
investigation, to declare his satisfaction or dissatisfaction with it. Such
things may be allowed in a spectator, whose purpose it is rather to be
entertained and moved than formally to criticise. But the actor, on the other
hand, should be prepared to give a reason for his praise or censure; and how
shall he do this, if he have not taught himself to penetrate the sense, the
views, and feelings of his author? A common error is, to form a judgment of

a drama from a single part in it, and to look upon this part itself in an
isolated point of view, not in its connection with the whole. I have noticed
this within a few days, so clearly in my own conduct, that I will give you
the account as an example, if you please to hear me patiently.
"You all know Shakspeare's incomparable 'Hamlet:' our public reading of it
at the castle yielded every one of us the greatest satisfaction. On that
occasion we proposed to act the play; and I, not knowing what I undertook,
engaged to play the prince's part. This I conceived that I was studying,
while I began to get by heart the strongest passages, the soliloquies, and
those scenes in which force of soul, vehemence and elevation of feeling,
have the freest scope; where the agitated heart is allowed to display itself
with touching expressiveness.
"I further conceived that I was penetrating quite into the spirit of the
character, while I endeavored, as it were, to take upon myself the load of
deep melancholy under which my prototype was laboring, and in this
humor to pursue him through the strange labyrinths of his caprices and his
singularities. Thus learning, thus practising, I doubted not but I should by
and by become one person with my hero.
"But, the farther I advanced, the more difficult did it become for me to form
any image of the whole, in its general bearings; till at last it seemed as if
impossible. I next went through the entire piece, without interruption; but
here, too, I found much that I could not away with. At one time the
characters, at another time the manner of displaying them, seemed
inconsistent; and I almost despaired of finding any general tint, in which I
might present my whole part with all its shadings and variations. In such
devious paths I toiled, and wandered long in vain; till at length a hope arose
that I might reach my aim in quite a new way.
"I set about investigating every trace of Hamlet's character, as it had shown
itself before his father's death: I endeavored to distinguish what in it was
independent of this mournful event, independent of the terrible events that
followed; and what most probably the young man would have been, had no
such thing occurred.
"Soft, and from a noble stem, this royal flower had sprung up under the
immediate influences of majesty: the idea of moral rectitude with that of

princely elevation, the feeling of the good and dignified with the
consciousness of high birth, had in him been unfolded simultaneously. He
was a prince, by birth a prince; and he wished to reign, only that good men
might be good without obstruction. Pleasing in form, polished by nature,
courteous from the heart, he was meant to be the pattern of youth and the
joy of the world.
"Without any prominent passion, his love for Ophelia was a still
presentiment of sweet wants. His zeal in knightly accomplishments was not
entirely his own: it needed to be quickened and inflamed by praise
bestowed on others for excelling in them. Pure in sentiment, he knew the
honorable-minded, and could prize the rest which an upright spirit tastes on
the bosom of a friend. To a certain degree, he had learned to discern and
value the good and the beautiful in arts and sciences; the mean, the vulgar,
was offensive to him; and, if hatred could take root in his tender soul, it was
only so far as to make him properly despise the false and changeful insects
of a court, and play with them in easy scorn. He was calm in his temper,
artless in his conduct, neither pleased with idleness, nor too violently eager
for employment. The routine of a university he seemed to continue when at
court. He possessed more mirth of humor than of heart: he was a good
companion, pliant, courteous, discreet, and able to forget and forgive an
injury, yet never able to unite himself with those who overstepped the limits
of the right, the good, and the becoming.
"When we read the piece again, you shall judge whether I am yet on the
proper track. I hope at least to bring forward passages that shall support my
opinion in its main points."
This delineation was received with warm approval; the company imagined
they foresaw that Hamlet's manner of proceeding might now be very
satisfactorily explained; they applauded this method of penetrating into the
spirit of a writer. Each of them proposed to himself to take up some piece,
and study it on these principles, and so unfold the author's meaning.

CHAPTER IV.

Our friends had to continue in the place for a day or two, and it was not
long ere sundry of them got engaged in adventures of a rather pleasant kind.
Laertes in particular was challenged by a lady of the neighborhood, a
person of some property; but he received her blandishments with extreme,
nay, unhandsome, coldness, and had in consequence to undergo a multitude
of jibes from Philina. She took this opportunity of detailing to our friend the
hapless love-story which had made the youth so bitter a foe to womankind.
"Who can take it ill of him," she cried, "that he hates a sex which has
played him so foul, and given him to swallow, in one stoutly concentrated
potion, all the miseries that man can fear from woman? Do but conceive it:
within four and twenty hours, he was lover, bridegroom, husband, cuckold,
patient, and widower! I wot not how you could use a man worse."
Laertes hastened from the room half vexed, half laughing; and Philina in
her sprightliest style began to relate the story: how Laertes, a young man of
eighteen, on joining a company of actors, found in it a girl of fourteen on
the point of departing with her father, who had quarrelled with the manager.
How, on the instant, he had fallen mortally in love; had conjured the father
by all possible considerations to remain, promising at length to marry the
young woman. How, after a few pleasing hours of groomship, he had
accordingly been wedded, and been happy as he ought; whereupon, next
day, while he was occupied at the rehearsal, his wife, according to
professional rule, had honored him with a pair of horns; and how as he, out
of excessive tenderness, hastening home far too soon, had, alas! found a
former lover in his place, he had struck into the affair with thoughtless
indignation, had called out both father and lover, and sustained a grievous
wound in the duel. How father and daughter had thereupon set off by night,
leaving him behind to labor with a double hurt. How the leech he applied to
was unhappily the worst in nature, and the poor fellow had got out of the
adventure with blackened teeth and watering eyes. That he was greatly to be
pitied, being otherwise the bravest young man on the surface of the earth.
"Especially," said she, "it grieves me that the poor soul now hates women;
for, hating women, how can one keep living?"
Melina interrupted them with news, that, all things being now ready for the
journey, they would set out to-morrow morning. He handed them a plan,
arranging how they were to travel.

"If any good friend take me on his lap," said Philina, "I shall be content,
though we sit crammed together never so close and sorrily: 'tis all one to
me."
"It does not signify," observed Laertes, who now entered.
"It is pitiful," said Wilhelm, hastening away. By the aid of money, he
secured another very comfortable coach; though Melina had pretended that
there were no more. A new distribution then took place; and our friends
were rejoicing in the thought that they should now travel pleasantly, when
intelligence arrived that a party of military volunteers had been seen upon
the road, from whom little good could be expected.
In the town these tidings were received with great attention, though they
were but variable and ambiguous. As the contending armies were at that
time placed, it seemed impossible that any hostile corps could have
advanced, or any friendly one hung a-rear, so far. Yet every man was eager
to exhibit to our travellers the danger that awaited them as truly dangerous:
every man was eager to suggest that some other route might be adopted.
By these means, most of our friends had been seized with anxiety and fear;
and when, according to the new republican constitution, the whole members
of the state had been called together to take counsel on this extraordinary
case, they were almost unanimously of opinion that it would be proper
either to keep back the mischief by abiding where they were, or to evade it
by choosing another road.
Wilhelm alone, not participating in the panic, regarded it as mean to
abandon, for the sake of mere rumors, a plan they had not entered on
without much thought. He endeavored to put heart into them: his reasons
were manly and convincing.
"It is but a rumor," he observed; "and how many such arise in time of war!
Well-informed people say that the occurrence is exceedingly improbable,
nay, almost impossible. Shall we, in so important a matter, allow a vague
report to determine our proceedings? The route pointed out to us by the
count, and to which our passport was adapted, is the shortest and in the best
condition. It leads us to the town, where you see acquaintances, friends,
before you, and may hope for a good reception. The other way will also

bring us thither; but by what a circuit, and along what miserable roads!
Have we any right to hope, that, in this late season of the year, we shall get
on at all? and what time and money shall we squander in the mean while!"
He added many more considerations, presenting the matter on so many
advantageous sides, that their fear began to dissipate, and their courage to
increase. He talked to them so much about the discipline of regular troops,
he painted the marauders and wandering rabble so contemptuously, and
represented the danger itself as so pleasant and inspiring, that the spirits of
the party were altogether cheered.
Laertes from the first had been of his opinion: he now declared that he
would not flinch or fail. Old Boisterous found a consenting phrase or two to
utter, in his own vein; Philina laughed at them all; and Madam Melina, who,
notwithstanding her advanced state of pregnancy, had lost nothing of her
natural stout-heartedness, regarded the proposal as heroic. Herr Melina,
moved by this harmonious feeling, hoping also to save somewhat by
travelling the short road which had been first contemplated, did not
withstand the general consent; and the project was agreed to with universal
alacrity.
They next began to make some preparations for defence at all hazards. They
bought large hangers, and slung them in well-quilted straps over their
shoulders. Wilhelm further stuck a pair of pistols in his girdle. Laertes,
independently of this occurrence, had a good gun. They all took the road in
the highest glee.
On the second day of their journey, the drivers, who knew the country well,
proposed to take their noon's rest in a certain woody spot of the hills; since
the town was far off, and in good weather the hill-road was generally
preferred.
The day being beautiful, all easily agreed to the proposal. Wilhelm, on foot,
went on before them through the hills; making every one that met him stare
with astonishment at his singular figure. He hastened with quick and
contented steps across the forest; Laertes walked whistling after him; none
but the women continued to be dragged along in the carriages. Mignon, too,
ran forward by his side, proud of the hanger, which, when the party were all
arming, she would not go without. Around her hat she had bound the pearl

necklace, one of Mariana's relics, which Wilhelm still possessed. Friedrich,
the fair-haired boy, carried Laertes's gun. The harper had the most pacific
look; his long cloak was tucked up within his girdle, to let him walk more
freely; he leaned upon a knotty staff; his harp had been left behind him in
the carriage.
Immediately on reaching the summit of the height, a task not without its
difficulties, our party recognized the appointed spot, by the fine beech-trees
which encircled and screened it. A spacious green, sloping softly in the
middle of the forest, invited one to tarry; a trimly bordered well offered the
most grateful refreshment; and on the farther side, through chasms in the
mountains, and over the tops of the woods, appeared a landscape distant,
lovely, full of hope. Hamlets and mills were lying in the bottoms, villages
upon the plain: and a new chain of mountains, visible in the distance, made
the prospect still more significant of hope; for they entered only like a soft
limitation.
The first comers took possession of the place, rested a while in the shade,
lighted a fire, and so awaited, singing as they worked, the remainder of the
party, who by degrees arrived, and with one accord saluted the place, the
lovely weather, and still lovelier scene.

CHAPTER V.
If our friends had frequently enjoyed a good and merry hour together while
within four walls, they were naturally much gayer here, where the freedom
of the sky and the beauty of the place seemed, as it were, to purify the
feelings of every one. All felt nearer to each other: all wished that they
might pass their whole lives in so pleasant an abode. They envied hunters,
charcoal-men, and wood-cutters,—people whom their calling constantly
retains in such happy places,—but prized, above all, the delicious economy
of a band of gypsies. They envied these wonderful companions, entitled to
enjoy in blissful idleness all the adventurous charms of nature: they rejoiced
at being in some degree like them.

Meanwhile the women had begun to boil potatoes, and to unwrap and get
ready the victuals brought along with them. Some pots were standing by the
fire. The party had placed themselves in groups, under the trees and bushes.
Their singular apparel, their various weapons, gave them a foreign aspect.
The horses were eating their provender at a side. Could one have concealed
the coaches, the look of this little horde would have been romantic, even to
complete illusion.
Wilhelm enjoyed a pleasure he had never felt before. He could now imagine
his present company to be a wandering colony, and himself the leader of it.
In this character he talked with those around him, and figured out the
fantasy of the moment as poetically as he could. The feelings of the party
rose in cheerfulness: they ate and drank and made merry, and repeatedly
declared that they had never passed more pleasant moments.
Their contentment had not long gone on increasing, till activity awoke
among the younger part of them. Wilhelm and Laertes seized their rapiers,
and began to practise on this occasion with theatrical intentions. They
undertook to represent the duel in which Hamlet and his adversary find so
tragical an end. Both were persuaded, that, in this powerful scene, it was not
enough merely to keep pushing awkwardly hither and thither, as it is
generally exhibited in theatres: they were in hopes to show by example
how, in presenting it, a worthy spectacle might also be afforded to the critic
in the art of fencing. The rest made a circle round them. Both fought with
skill and ardor. The interest of the spectators rose higher every pass.
But all at once, in the nearest bush, a shot went off, and immediately
another; and the party flew asunder in terror. Next moment armed men were
to be seen pressing forward to the spot where the horses were eating their
fodder, not far from the coaches that were packed with luggage.
A universal scream proceeded from the women: our heroes threw away
their rapiers, seized their pistols, and ran towards the robbers; demanding,
with violent threats, the meaning of such conduct.
This question being answered laconically, with a couple of musket-shots,
Wilhelm fired his pistol at a crisp-headed knave, who had got upon the top
of the coach, and was cutting the cords of the package. Rightly hit, this
artist instantly came tumbling down; nor had Laertes missed. Both,

encouraged by success, drew their side-arms; when a number of the
plundering party rushed out upon them, with curses and loud bellowing,
fired a few shots at them, and fronted their impetuosity with glittering
sabres. Our young heroes made a bold resistance. They called upon their
other comrades, and endeavored to excite them to a general resistance. But,
erelong, Wilhelm lost the sight of day, and the consciousness of what was
passing. Stupefied by a shot that wounded him between the breast and the
left arm, by a stroke that split his hat in two, and almost penetrated to his
brain, he sank down, and only by the narratives of others came afterwards
to understand the luckless end of this adventure.
On again opening his eyes, he found himself in the strangest posture. The
first thing that pierced the dimness, which yet swam before his vision, was
Philina's face bent down over his. He felt weak, and, making a movement to
rise, discovered that he was in Philina's lap; into which, indeed, he again
sank down. She was sitting on the sward. She had softly pressed towards
her the head of the fallen young man, and made for him an easy couch, as
far as in her power. Mignon was kneeling with dishevelled and bloody hair
at his feet, which she embraced with many tears.
On noticing his bloody clothes, Wilhelm asked, in a broken voice, where he
was, and what had happened to him and the rest. Philina begged him to be
quiet: the others, she said, were all in safety, and none but he and Laertes
wounded. Further she would tell him nothing, but earnestly entreated him to
keep still, as his wounds had been but slightly and hastily bound. He
stretched out his hand to Mignon, and inquired about the bloody locks of
the child, who he supposed was also wounded.
For the sake of quietness, Philina let him know that this true-hearted
creature, seeing her friend wounded, and in the hurry of the instant being
able to think of nothing which would stanch the blood, had taken her own
hair, that was flowing round her head, and tried to stop the wounds with it,
but had soon been obliged to give up the vain attempt; that afterwards they
had bound him with moss and dry mushrooms, Philina giving up her
neckerchief for that purpose.
Wilhelm noticed that Philina was sitting with her back against her own
trunk, which still looked firmly locked and quite uninjured. He inquired if

the rest also had been so lucky as to save their goods. She answered with a
shrug of the shoulders, and a look over the green, where broken chests, and
coffers beaten into fragments, and knapsacks ripped up, and a multitude of
little wares, lay scattered all round. No person was to be seen in the place,
this strange group thus being alone in the solitude.
Inquiring further, our friend learned more and more particulars. The rest of
the men, it appeared, who, at all events, might still have made resistance,
were struck with terror, and soon overpowered. Some fled, some looked
with horror at the accident. The drivers, for the sake of their cattle, had held
out more obstinately; but they, too, were at last thrown down and tied; after
which, in a few minutes, every thing was thoroughly ransacked, and the
booty carried off. The hapless travellers, their fear of death being over, had
begun to mourn their loss; had hastened with the greatest speed to the
neighboring village, taking with them Laertes, whose wounds were slight,
and carrying off but a very few fragments of their property. The harper,
having placed his damaged instrument against a tree, had proceeded in their
company to the place, to seek a surgeon, and return with his utmost rapidity
to help his benefactor, whom he had left apparently upon the brink of death.

CHAPTER VI.
Meanwhile our three adventurers continued yet a space in their strange
position, no one returning to their aid. Evening was advancing: the darkness
threatened to come on. Philina's indifference was changing to anxiety;
Mignon ran to and fro, her impatience increasing every moment; and at last,
when their prayer was granted, and human creatures did approach, a new
alarm fell upon them. They distinctly heard a troop of horses coming up the
road they had lately travelled: they dreaded lest a second time some
company of unbidden guests might be purposing to visit this scene of battle,
and gather up the gleanings.
The more agreeable was their surprise, when, after a few moments, a lady
issued from the thickets, riding on a gray courser, and accompanied by an

elderly gentleman and some cavaliers, followed by grooms, servants, and a
troop of hussars.
Philina started at this phenomenon, and was about to call, and entreat the
fair Amazon for help, when the latter turned her astonished eyes on the
group, instantly checked her horse, rode up to them, and halted. She
inquired eagerly about the wounded man, whose posture in the lap of this
light-minded Samaritan seemed to strike her as peculiarly strange.
"Is he your husband?" she inquired of Philina. "Only a friend," replied the
other, with a tone Wilhelm liked not at all. He had fixed his eyes upon the
soft, elevated, calm, sympathizing features of the stranger: he thought he
had never seen aught nobler or more lovely. Her shape he could not see: it
was hid by a man's white great-coat, which she seemed to have borrowed
from some of her attendants, to screen her from the chill evening air.
By this the horsemen also had come near. Some of them dismounted: the
lady did so likewise. She asked, with humane sympathy, concerning every
circumstance of the mishap which had befallen the travellers, but especially
concerning the wounds of the poor youth who lay before her. Thereupon
she turned quickly round, and went aside with the old gentleman to some
carriages, which were slowly coming up the hill, and which at length
stopped upon the scene of action.
The young lady having stood with her conductor a short time at the door of
one of the coaches, and talked with the people in it, a man of a squat figure
stepped out, and came along with them to our wounded hero. By the little
box which he held in his hand, and the leathern pouch with instruments in
it, you soon recognized him for a surgeon. His manners were rude rather
than attractive; but his hand was light, and his help welcome.
Having examined strictly, he declared that none of the wounds were
dangerous. He would dress them, he said, on the spot; after which the
patient might be carried to the nearest village.
The young lady's anxiety seemed to augment. "Do but look," she said, after
going to and fro once or twice, and again bringing the old gentleman to the
place: "look how they have treated him! And is it not on our account that he
is suffering?" Wilhelm heard these words, but did not understand them. She

went restlessly up and down: it seemed as if she could not tear herself away
from the presence of the wounded man; while at the same time she feared to
violate decorum by remaining, when they had begun, though not without
difficulty, to remove some part of his apparel. The surgeon was just cutting
off the left sleeve of his patient's coat, when the old gentleman came near,
and represented to the lady, in a serious tone, the necessity of proceeding on
their journey. Wilhelm kept his eyes bent on her, and was so enchanted with
her looks, that he scarcely felt what he was suffering or doing.
Philina, in the mean time, had risen to kiss the lady's hand. While they stood
beside each other, Wilhelm thought he had never seen such a contrast.
Philina had never till now appeared in so unfavorable a light. She had no
right, as it seemed to him, to come near that noble creature, still less to
touch her.
The lady asked Philina various things, but in an under-tone. At length she
turned to the old gentleman, and said, "Dear uncle, may I be generous at
your expense?" She took off the great-coat, with the visible intention to give
it to the stripped and wounded youth.
Wilhelm, whom the healing look of her eyes had hitherto held fixed, was
now, as the surtout fell away, astonished at her lovely figure. She came near,
and softly laid the coat above him. At this moment, as he tried to open his
mouth and stammer out some words of gratitude, the lively impression of
her presence worked so strongly on his senses, already caught and
bewildered, that all at once it appeared to him as if her head were encircled
with rays; and a glancing light seemed by degrees to spread itself over all
her form. At this moment the surgeon, making preparations to extract the
ball from his wound, gave him a sharper twinge; the angel faded away from
the eyes of the fainting patient; he lost all consciousness; and, on returning
to himself, the horsemen and coaches, the fair one with her attendants, had
vanished like a dream.

CHAPTER VII.

Wilhelm's wounds once dressed, and his clothes put on, the surgeon
hastened off, just as the harper with a number of peasants arrived. Out of
some cut boughs, which they speedily wattled with twigs, a kind of litter
was constructed, upon which they placed the wounded youth, and under the
conduct of a mounted huntsman, whom the noble company had left behind
them, carried him softly down the mountain. The harper, silent, and
shrouded in his own thoughts, bore with him his broken instrument. Some
men brought on Philina's box, herself following with a bundle. Mignon
skipped along through copse and thicket, now before the party, now beside
them, and looked up with longing eyes at her hurt protector.
He, meanwhile, wrapped in his warm surtout, was lying peacefully upon the
litter. An electric warmth seemed to flow from the fine wool into his body:
in short, he felt in the most delightful frame of mind. The lovely being,
whom this garment lately covered, had affected him to the very heart. He
still saw the coat falling down from her shoulders; saw that noble form,
begirt with radiance, stand beside him; and his soul hied over rocks and
forests on the footsteps of his vanished benefactress.
It was nightfall when the party reached the village, and halted at the door of
the inn where the rest of the company, in the gloom of despondency, were
bewailing their irreparable loss. The one little chamber of the house was
crammed with people. Some of them were lying upon straw, some were
occupying benches, some had squeezed themselves behind the stove. Frau
Melina, in a neighboring room, was painfully expecting her delivery. Fright
had accelerated this event. With the sole assistance of the landlady, a young,
inexperienced woman, nothing good could be expected.
As the party just arrived required admission, there arose a universal
murmur. All now maintained, that by Wilhelm's advice alone, and under his
especial guidance, they had entered on this dangerous road, and exposed
themselves to such misfortunes. They threw the blame of the disaster
wholly on him: they stuck themselves in the door, to oppose his entrance;
declaring that he must go elsewhere and seek quarters. Philina they received
with still greater indignation, nor did Mignon and the harper escape their
share.

The huntsman, to whom the care of the forsaken party had been earnestly
and strictly recommended by his beautiful mistress, soon grew tired of this
discussion: he rushed upon the company with oaths and menaces;
commanding them to fall to the right and left, and make way for this new
arrival. They now began to pacify themselves. He made a place for Wilhelm
on a table, which he shoved into a corner: Philina had her box put there, and
then sat down upon it. All packed themselves as they best could, and the
huntsman went away to see if he could not find for "the young couple" a
more convenient lodging.
Scarcely was he gone, when spite again grew noisy, and one reproach began
to follow close upon another. Each described and magnified his loss,
censuring the foolhardiness they had so keenly smarted for. They did not
even hide the malicious satisfaction they felt at Wilhelm's wounds: they
jeered Philina, and imputed to her as a crime the means by which she had
saved her trunk. From a multitude of jibes and bitter innuendoes, you were
required to conclude, that, during the plundering and discomfiture, she had
endeavored to work herself into favor with the captain of the band, and had
persuaded him, Heaven knew by what arts and complaisance, to give her
back the chest unhurt. To all this she answered nothing, only clanked with
the large padlocks of her box, to impress her censurers completely with its
presence, and by her own good fortune to augment their desperation.

CHAPTER VIII.
Though our friend was weak from loss of blood, and though, ever since the
appearance of that helpful angel, his feelings had been soft and mild, yet at
last he could not help getting vexed at the harsh and unjust speeches which,
as he continued silent, the discontented company went on uttering against
him. Feeling himself strong enough to sit up, and expostulate on the
annoyance they were causing to their friend and leader, he raised his
bandaged head, and propping himself with some difficulty, and leaning
against the wall, he began to speak as follows:—

"Considering the pain your losses occasion, I forgive you for assailing me
with injuries at a moment when you should condole with me; for opposing
and casting me from you the first time I have needed to look to you for
help. The services I did you, the complaisance I showed you, I regarded as
sufficiently repaid by your thanks, by your friendly conduct: do not warp
my thoughts, do not force my heart to go back and calculate what I have
done for you; the calculation would be painful to me. Chance brought me
near you, circumstances and a secret inclination kept me with you. I
participated in your labors and your pleasures: my slender abilities were
ever at your service. If you now blame me with bitterness for the mishap
that has befallen us, you do not recollect that the first project of taking this
road came to us from stranger people, was weighed by all of you, and
sanctioned by every one as well as by me.
"Had our journey ended happily, each would have taken credit to himself
for the happy thought of suggesting this plan, and preferring it to others;
each would joyfully have put us in mind of our deliberations, and of the
vote he gave: but now you make me alone responsible; you force a piece of
blame upon me, which I would willingly submit to, if my conscience, with
a clear voice, did not pronounce me innocent, nay, if I might not appeal
with safety even to yourselves. If you have aught to say against me, bring it
forward in order, and I shall defend myself; if you have nothing reasonable
to allege, then be silent, and do not torment me now, when I have such
pressing need of rest."
By way of answer, the girls once more began whimpering and whining, and
describing their losses circumstantially. Melina was quite beside himself;
for he had suffered more in purse than any of them,—more, indeed, than we
can rightly estimate. He stamped like a madman up and down the little
room, he knocked his head against the wall, he swore and scolded in the
most unseemly manner; and the landlady entering at this very time with
news that his wife had been delivered of a dead child, he yielded to the
most furious ebullitions; while, in accordance with him, all howled and
shrieked, and bellowed and uproared, with double vigor.
Wilhelm, touched to the heart at the same time with sympathy for their
sorrows and with vexation at their mean way of thinking, felt all the vigor
of his soul awakened, notwithstanding the weakness of his body.

"Deplorable as your case may be," exclaimed he, "I shall almost be
compelled to despise you! No misfortune gives us right to load an innocent
man with reproaches. If I had share in this false step, am not I suffering my
share? I lie wounded here; and, if the company has come to loss, I myself
have come to most. The wardrobe of which we have been robbed, the
decorations that are gone, were mine; for you, Herr Melina, have not yet
paid me; and I here fully acquit you of all obligation in that matter."
"It is well to give what none of us will ever see again," replied Melina.
"Your money was lying in my wife's coffer, and it is your own blame that
you have lost it. But, ah! if that were all!" And thereupon he began anew to
stamp and scold and squeal. Every one recalled to memory the superb
clothes from the count's wardrobe; the buckles, watches, snuff-boxes, hats,
for which Melina had so happily transacted with the head valet. Each, then,
thought also of his own, though far inferior, treasures. They looked with
spleen at Philina's box, and gave Wilhelm to understand that he had indeed
done wisely to connect himself with that fair personage, and to save his
own goods also, under the shadow of her fortune.
"Do you think," he exclaimed at last, "that I shall keep any thing apart while
you are starving? And is this the first time I have honestly shared with you
in a season of need? Open the trunk: all that is mine shall go to supply the
common wants."
"It is my trunk," observed Philina, "and I will not open it till I please. Your
rag or two of clothes, which I have saved for you, could amount to little,
though they were sold to the most conscientious of Jews. Think of yourself,
—what your cure will cost, what may befall you in a strange country."
"You, Philina," answered Wilhelm, "will keep back from me nothing that is
mine; and that little will help us out of the first perplexity. But a man
possesses many things besides coined money to assist his friends with. All
that is in me shall be devoted to these hapless persons, who, doubtless, on
returning to their senses, will repent their present conduct. Yes," continued
he, "I feel that you have need of help; and, what is mine to do, I will
perform. Give me your confidence again; compose yourselves for a
moment, and accept of what I promise. Who will receive the engagement of
me in the name of all?"

Here he stretched out his hand, and cried, "I promise not to flinch from you,
never to forsake you till each shall see his losses doubly and trebly repaired;
till the situation you are fallen into, by whose blame soever, shall be totally
forgotten by all of you, and changed with a better."
He kept his hand still stretched out, but no one would take hold of it. "I
promise it again," cried he, sinking back upon his pillow. All continued
silent: they felt ashamed, but nothing comforted: and Philina, sitting on her
chest, kept cracking nuts, a stock of which she had discovered in her
pocket.

CHAPTER IX.
The huntsman now came back with several people, and made preparations
for carrying away the wounded youth. He had persuaded the parson of the
place to receive the "young couple" into his house; Philina's trunk was
taken out; she followed with a natural air of dignity. Mignon ran before;
and, when the patient reached the parsonage, a wide couch, which had long
been standing ready as guest's bed and bed of honor, was assigned him.
Here it was first discovered that his wound had opened, and bled profusely.
A new bandage was required for it. He fell into a feverish state: Philina
waited on him faithfully; and, when fatigue overpowered her, she was
relieved by the harper. Mignon, with the firmest purpose to watch, had
fallen asleep in a corner.
Next morning Wilhelm, who felt himself in some degree refreshed, learned,
by inquiring of the huntsman, that the honorable persons who last night
assisted him so nobly, had shortly before left their estates, in order to avoid
the movements of the contending armies, and remain, till the time of peace,
in some more quiet district. He named the elderly nobleman, as well as his
niece, mentioned the place they were first going to, and told how the young
lady had charged him to take care of Wilhelm.
The entrance of the surgeon interrupted the warm expressions of gratitude
our friend was giving vent to. He made a circumstantial description of the

wounds, and certified that they would soon heal, if the patient took care of
them, and kept himself at peace.
When the huntsman was gone, Philina signified that he had left with her a
purse of twenty louis-d'or; that he had given the parson a remuneration for
their lodging, and left with him money to defray the surgeon's bill when the
cure should be completed. She added, that she herself passed everywhere
for Wilhelm's wife; that she now begged leave to introduce herself once for
all to him in this capacity, and would not allow him to look out for any
other sick-nurse.
"Philina," said Wilhelm, "in this disaster that has overtaken us, I am already
deeply in your debt, for kindness shown me; and I should not wish to see
my obligations increased. I am uneasy so long as you are about me, for I
know of nothing by which I can repay your labor. Give me what things of
mine you have saved in your trunk; join the rest of the company; seek
another lodging; take my thanks, and the gold watch as a small
acknowledgment: only leave me; your presence disturbs me more than you
can fancy."
She laughed in his face when he had ended. "Thou art a fool," she said:
"thou wilt not gather wisdom. I know better what is good for thee: I will
stay, I will not budge from the spot. I have never counted on the gratitude of
men, and therefore not on thine; and, if I have a touch of kindness for thee,
what hast thou to do with it?"
She staid accordingly, and soon wormed herself into favor with the parson
and his household; being always cheerful, having the knack of giving little
presents, and of talking to each in his own vein; at the same time always
contriving to do exactly what she pleased. Wilhelm's state was not
uncomfortable: the surgeon, an ignorant but not unskilful man, let nature
have sway; and the patient was soon on the road to recovery. For such a
consummation he vehemently longed, being eager to pursue his plans and
wishes.
Incessantly he kept recalling that event, which had made an ineffaceable
impression on his heart. He saw the beautiful Amazon again come riding
out of the thickets: she approached him, dismounted, went to and fro, and
strove to serve him. He saw the garment she was wrapped in fall down from

her shoulders: he saw her countenance, her figure, vanish in their radiance.
All the dreams of his youth now fastened on this image. Here he conceived
he had at length beheld the noble, the heroic, Clorinda with his own eyes;
and again he bethought him of that royal youth, to whose sick-bed the
lovely, sympathizing princess came in her modest meekness.
"May it not be," said he often to himself in secret, "that, in youth as in
sleep, the images of coming things hover round us, and mysteriously
become visible to our unobstructed eyes? May not the seeds of what is to
betide us be already scattered by the hand of Fate? may not a foretaste of
the fruits we yet hope to gather possibly be given us?"
His sick-bed gave him leisure to repeat those scenes in every mood. A
thousand times he called back the tone of that sweet voice: a thousand times
he envied Philina, who had kissed that helpful hand. Often the whole
incident appeared before him as a dream; and he would have reckoned it a
fiction, if the white surtout had not been left behind to convince him that the
vision had a real existence.
With the greatest care for this piece of apparel, he combined the most ardent
wish to wear it. The first time he arose, he put it on, and was kept in fear all
day lest it might be hurt by some stain or other injury.

CHAPTER X.
Laertes visited his friend. He had not been present during that lively scene
at the inn, being then confined to bed in an upper chamber. For his loss he
was already in a great degree consoled: he helped himself with his
customary, "What does it signify?" He detailed various laughable
particulars about the company; particularly charging Frau Melina with
lamenting the loss of her stillborn daughter, solely because she herself could
not on that account enjoy the Old-German satisfaction of having a
Mechthilde christened. As for her husband, it now appeared that he had
been possessed of abundant cash, and even at first had by no means needed
the advances which he had cajoled from Wilhelm. Melina's present plan

was, to set off by the next post-wagon, and he meant to require of Wilhelm
an introductory letter to his friend, Manager Serlo, in whose company, the
present undertaking having gone to wreck, he now wished to establish
himself.
For some days Mignon had been singularly quiet: when pressed with
questions, she at length admitted that her right arm was out of joint. "Thou
hast thy own folly to thank for that," observed Philina, and then told how
the child had drawn her sword in the battle, and, seeing her friend in peril,
had struck fiercely at the freebooters, one of whom had at length seized her
by the arm, and pitched her to a side. They chid her for not sooner speaking
of her ailment; but they easily saw that she was apprehensive of the
surgeon, who had hitherto looked on her as a boy. With a view to remove
the mischief, she was made to keep her arm in a sling, which arrangement,
too, displeased her; for now she was obliged to surrender most part of her
share in the management and nursing of our friend to Philina. That pleasing
sinner but showed herself the more active and attentive on this account.
One morning, on awakening, Wilhelm found himself strangely near to her.
In the movements of sleep, he had hitched himself quite to the back of the
spacious bed. Philina was lying across from the front part of it: she seemed
to have fallen asleep on the bed while sitting there and reading. A book had
dropped from her hand: she had sunk back; and her head was lying near his
breast, over which her fair and now loosened hair was spread in streams.
The disorder of sleep enlivened her charms more than art or purpose could
have done: a childlike smiling rest hovered on her countenance. He looked
at her for a time, and seemed to blame himself for the pleasure this gave
him. He had viewed her attentively for some moments, when she began to
awake. He softly closed his eyes, but could not help glimmering at her
through his eyelashes, as she trimmed herself again, and went away to see
about breakfast.
All the actors had at length successively announced themselves to Wilhelm;
asking introductory letters, requiring money for their journey with more or
less impatience and ill-breeding, and constantly receiving it, against
Philina's will. It was in vain for her to tell our friend that the huntsman had
already left a handsome sum with these people, and that accordingly they
did but cozen him. To these remonstrances he gave no heed: on the contrary,

the two had a sharp quarrel about it; which ended by Wilhelm signifying,
once for all, that Philina must now join the rest of the company, and seek
her fortune with Serlo.
For an instant or two she lost temper; but, speedily recovering her
composure, she cried, "If I had but my fair-haired boy again, I should not
care a fig for any of you." She meant Friedrich, who had vanished from the
scene of battle, and never since appeared.
Next morning Mignon brought news to the bedside, that Philina had gone
off by night; leaving all that belonged to Wilhelm very neatly laid out in the
next room. He felt her absence; he had lost in her a faithful nurse, a cheerful
companion; he was no longer used to be alone. But Mignon soon filled up
the blank.
Ever since that light-minded beauty had been near the patient with her
friendly cares, the little creature had by degrees drawn back, and remained
silent and secluded in herself; but, the field being clear once more, she
again came forth with her attentions and her love, again was eager in
serving, and lively in entertaining, him.

CHAPTER XI.
Wilhelm was rapidly approaching complete recovery: he now hoped to be
upon his journey in a few days. He proposed no more to lead an aimless
routine of existence: the steps of his career were henceforth to be calculated
for an end. In the first place, he purposed to seek out that beneficent lady,
and express the gratitude he felt to her; then to proceed without delay to his
friend the manager, that he might do his utmost to assist the luckless
company; intending, at the same time, to visit the commercial friends whom
he had letters for, and to transact the business which had been intrusted to
him. He was not without hope that fortune, as formerly, would favor him,
and give him opportunity, by some lucky speculation, to repair his losses,
and fill up the vacuity of his coffer.

The desire of again beholding his beautiful deliverer augmented every day.
To settle his route, he took counsel with the clergyman,—a person well
skilled in statistics and geography, and possessing a fine collection of charts
and books. They two searched for the place which this noble family had
chosen as their residence while the war continued: they searched for
information respecting the family itself. But their place was to be found in
no geography or map, and the heraldic manuals made no mention of their
name.
Wilhelm grew uneasy; and, having mentioned the cause of his anxiety, the
harper told him he had reason to believe that the huntsman, from whatever
motive, had concealed the real designations.
Conceiving himself now to be in the immediate neighborhood of his lovely
benefactress, Wilhelm hoped he might obtain some tidings of her if he sent
out the harper; but in this, too, he was deceived. Diligently as the old man
kept inquiring, he could find no trace of her. Of late days a number of quick
movements and unforeseen marches had taken place in that quarter; no one
had particularly noticed the travelling party; and the ancient messenger, to
avoid being taken for a Jewish spy, was obliged to return, and appear
without any olive-leaf before his master and friend. He gave a strict account
of his conduct in this commission, striving to keep far from him all
suspicions of remissness. He endeavored by every means to mitigate the
trouble of our friend; bethought him of every thing that he had learned from
the huntsman, and advanced a number of conjectures; out of all which, one
circumstance at length came to light, whereby Wilhelm could explain some
enigmatic words of his vanished benefactress.
The freebooters, it appeared, had lain in wait, not for the wandering troop,
but for that noble company, whom they rightly guessed to be provided with
store of gold and valuables, and of whose movements they must have had
precise intelligence. Whether the attack should be imputed to some free
corps, to marauders, or to robbers, was uncertain. It was clear, however,
that, by good fortune for the high and rich company, the poor and low had
first arrived upon the place, and undergone the fate which was provided for
the others. It was to this that the lady's words referred, which Wilhelm yet
well recollected. If he might now be happy and contented, that a prescient
Genius had selected him for the sacrifice, which saved a perfect mortal, he

was, on the other hand, nigh desperate, when he thought that all hope of
finding her and seeing her again was, at least for the present, completely
gone.
What increased this singular emotion still further, was the likeness which he
thought he had observed between the countess and the beautiful unknown.
They resembled one another as two sisters may, of whom neither can be
called the younger or the elder, for they seem to be twins.
The recollection of the amiable countess was to Wilhelm infinitely sweet.
He recalled her image but too willingly into his memory. But anon the
figure of the noble Amazon would step between: one vision melted and
changed into the other, and the form of neither would abide with him.
A new resemblance—the similarity of their handwritings—naturally struck
him with still greater wonder. He had a charming song in the countess's
hand laid up in his portfolio; and in the surtout he had found a little note,
inquiring with much tender care about the health of an uncle.
Wilhelm was convinced that his benefactress must have penned this billet;
that it must have been sent from one chamber to another, at some inn during
their journey, and put into the coat-pocket by the uncle. He held both papers
together; and, if the regular and graceful letters of the countess had already
pleased him much, he found in the similar but freer lines of the stranger a
flowing harmony which could not be described. The note contained
nothing; yet the strokes of it seemed to affect him, as the presence of their
fancied writer once had done.
He fell into a dreamy longing; and well accordant with his feelings was the
song which at that instant Mignon and the harper began to sing, with a
touching expression, in the form of an irregular duet.

"'Tis but who longing knows,
My grief can measure.
Alone, reft of repose,
All joy, all pleasure,
I thither look to those
Soft lines of azure.
Ah! far is he who knows

Me, and doth treasure.
I faint, my bosom glows
'Neath pain's sore pressure.
'Tis but who longing knows,
My grief can measure."
—Editor's Version.

CHAPTER XII.
The soft allurements of his dear presiding angel, far from leading our friend
to any one determined path, did but nourish and increase the unrest he had
previously experienced. A secret fire was gliding through his veins: objects
distinct and indistinct alternated within his soul, and awoke unspeakable
desire. At one time he wished for a horse, at another for wings; and not till
it seemed impossible that he could stay, did he look round him to discover
whither he was wanting to go.
The threads of his destiny had become so strangely entangled, he wished to
see its curious knots unravelled, or cut in two. Often when he heard the
tramp of a horse, or the rolling of a carriage, he would run to the window,
and look out, in hopes it might be some one seeking him,—some one, even
though it were by chance, bringing him intelligence and certainty and joy.
He told stories to himself, how his friend Werner might visit these parts, and
come upon him; how, perhaps, Mariana might appear. The sound of every
post's horn threw him into agitation. It would be Melina sending news to
him of his adventures: above all, it would be the huntsman coming back to
carry him to the beauty he worshipped.
Of all these possibilities, unhappily no one occurred: he was forced at last
to return to the company of himself; and, in again looking through the past,
there was one circumstance which, the more he viewed and weighed it,
grew the more offensive and intolerable to him. It was his unprosperous
generalship, of which he never thought without vexation. For although, on
the evening of that luckless day, he had produced a pretty fair defence of his

conduct when accused by the company, yet he could not hide from himself
that he was guilty. On the contrary, in hypochondriac moments, he took the
blame of the whole misfortune.
Self-love exaggerates our faults as well as our virtues. Wilhelm thought he
had awakened confidence in himself, had guided the will of the rest; that,
led by inexperience and rashness, they had ventured on, till a danger seized
them, for which they were no match. Loud as well as silent reproaches had
then assailed him; and if, in their sorrowful condition, he had promised the
company, misguided by him, never to forsake them till their loss had been
repaid with usury, this was but another folly for which he had to blame
himself,—the folly of presuming to take upon his single shoulders a
misfortune that was spread over many. One instant he accused himself of
uttering this promise, under the excitement and the pressure of the moment;
the next, he again felt that this generous presentation of his hand, which no
one deigned to accept, was but a light formality compared with the vow his
heart had taken. He meditated means of being kind and useful to them: he
found every cause conspire to quicken his visit to Serlo. Accordingly he
packed his things together; and without waiting his complete recovery,
without listening to the counsel of the parson or of the surgeon, he hastened,
in the strange society of Mignon and the harper, to escape the inactivity in
which his fate had once more too long detained him.

CHAPTER XIII.
Serlo received him with open arms, crying as he met him, "Is it you? Do I
see you again? You have scarcely changed at all. Is your love for that
noblest of arts still as lively and strong? So glad am I at your arrival, that I
even feel no longer the mistrust your last letters had excited in me."
Wilhelm asked with surprise for a clearer explanation.
"You have treated me," said Serlo, "not like an old friend, but as if I were a
great lord, to whom with a safe conscience you might recommend useless

people. Our destiny depends on the opinion of the public; and I fear Herr
Melina and his suite can hardly be received among us."
Wilhelm tried to say something in their favor; but Serlo began to draw so
merciless a picture of them, that our friend was happy when a lady came
into the room, and put a stop to the discussion. She was introduced to him
as Aurelia, the sister of his friend; she received him with extreme kindness;
and her conversation was so pleasing, that he did not even remark a shade
of sorrow visible on her expressive countenance, to which it lent peculiar
interest.
For the first time during many months, Wilhelm felt once more in his
proper element. Of late in talking, he had merely found submissive
listeners, and even these not always; but now he had the happiness to speak
with critics and artists, who not only fully understood him, but repaid his
observations by others equally instructive. With wonderful vivacity they
travelled through the latest plays, with wonderful correctness judged them.
The decisions of the public they could try and estimate: they speedily threw
light on each other's thoughts.
Loving Shakspeare as our friend did, he failed not to lead round the
conversation to the merits of that dramatist. Expressing, as he entertained,
the liveliest hopes of the new epoch which these exquisite productions must
form in Germany, he erelong introduced his "Hamlet," which play had
busied him so much of late.
Serlo declared that he would long ago have represented the play, had it at all
been possible, and that he himself would willingly engage to act Polonius.
He added, with a smile, "An Ophelia, too, will certainly turn up, if we had
but a Prince."
Wilhelm did not notice that Aurelia seemed a little hurt at her brother's
sarcasm. Our friend was in his proper vein, becoming copious and didactic,
expounding how he would have "Hamlet" played. He circumstantially
delivered to his hearers the opinions we before saw him busied with; taking
all the trouble possible to make his notion of the matter acceptable,
sceptical as Serlo showed himself regarding it. "Well, then," said the latter
finally, "suppose we grant you all this, what will you explain by it?"

"Much, every thing," said Wilhelm. "Conceive a prince such as I have
painted him, and that his father suddenly dies. Ambition and the love of rule
are not the passions that inspire him. As a king's son, he would have been
contented; but now he is first constrained to consider the difference which
separates a sovereign from a subject. The crown was not hereditary; yet his
father's longer possession of it would have strengthened the pretensions of
an only son, and secured his hopes of succession. In place of this, he now
beholds himself excluded by his uncle, in spite of specious promises, most
probably forever. He is now poor in goods and favor, and a stranger in the
scene which from youth he had looked upon as his inheritance. His temper
here assumes its first mournful tinge. He feels that now he is not more, that
he is less, than a private nobleman; he offers himself as the servant of every
one; he is not courteous and condescending, he is needy and degraded.
"His past condition he remembers as a vanished dream. It is in vain that his
uncle strives to cheer him, to present his situation in another point of view.
The feeling of his nothingness will not leave him.
"The second stroke that came upon him wounded deeper, bowed still more.
It was the marriage of his mother. The faithful, tender son had yet a mother,
when his father passed away. He hoped, in the company of his surviving
noble-minded parent, to reverence the heroic form of the departed: but his
mother, too, he loses; and it is something worse than death that robs him of
her. The trustful image, which a good child loves to form of its parents, is
gone. With the dead there is no help, on the living no hold. Moreover, she is
a woman; and her name is Frailty, like that of all her sex.
"Now only does he feel completely bowed down, now only orphaned; and
no happiness of life can repay what he has lost. Not reflective or sorrowful
by nature, reflection and sorrow have become for him a heavy obligation. It
is thus that we see him first enter on the scene. I do not think that I have
mixed aught foreign with the play, or overcharged a single feature of it."
Serlo looked at his sister, and said, "Did I give thee a false picture of our
friend? He begins well: he has still many things to tell us, many to persuade
us of." Wilhelm asseverated loudly, that he meant not to persuade, but to
convince: he begged for another moment's patience.

"Figure to yourselves this youth," cried he, "this son of princes; conceive
him vividly, bring his state before your eyes, and then observe him when he
learns that his father's spirit walks; stand by him in the terrors of the night,
when even the venerable ghost appears before him. He is seized with
boundless horror; he speaks to the mysterious form; he sees it beckon him;
he follows and hears. The fearful accusation of his uncle rings in his ears,
the summons to revenge, and the piercing, oft-repeated prayer, Remember
me!
"And, when the ghost has vanished, who is it that stands before us? A young
hero panting for vengeance? A prince by birth, rejoicing to be called to
punish the usurper of his crown? No! trouble and astonishment take hold of
the solitary young man: he grows bitter against smiling villains, swears that
he will not forget the spirit, and concludes with the significant ejaculation,
—

"'The time is out of joint: O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!'

"In these words, I imagine, will be found the key to Hamlet's whole
procedure. To me it is clear that Shakspeare meant, in the present case, to
represent the effects of a great action laid upon a soul unfit for the
performance of it. In this view the whole play seems to me to be composed.
There is an oak-tree planted in a costly jar, which should have borne only
pleasant flowers in its bosom: the roots expand, the jar is shivered.
"A lovely, pure, noble, and most moral nature, without the strength of nerve
which forms a hero, sinks beneath a burden it cannot bear and must not cast
away. All duties are holy for him: the present is too hard. Impossibilities
have been required of him,—not in themselves impossibilities, but such for
him. He winds and turns, and torments himself; he advances and recoils; is
ever put in mind, ever puts himself in mind; at last does all but lose his
purpose from his thoughts, yet still without recovering his peace of mind."

CHAPTER XIV.

Several people entering interrupted the discussion. They were musical
dilettanti, who commonly assembled at Serlo's once a week, and formed a
little concert. Serlo himself loved music much: he used to maintain, that a
player without taste for it never could attain a distinct conception and
feeling of the scenic art. "As a man performs," he would observe, "with far
more ease and dignity when his gestures are accompanied and guided by a
tune; so the player ought, in idea as it were, to set to music even his prose
parts, that he may not monotonously slight them over in his individual style,
but treat them in suitable alternation by time and measure."
Aurelia seemed to give but little heed to what was passing: at last she
conducted Wilhelm to another room; and going to the window, and looking
out at the starry sky, she said to him, "You have more to tell us about
Hamlet: I will not hurry you,—my brother must hear it as well as I; but let
me beg to know your thoughts about Ophelia."
"Of her there cannot much be said," he answered; "for a few master-strokes
complete her character. The whole being of Ophelia floats in sweet and ripe
sensation. Kindness for the prince, to whose hand she may aspire, flows so
spontaneously, her tender heart obeys its impulses so unresistingly, that both
father and brother are afraid: both give her warning harshly and directly.
Decorum, like the thin lawn upon her bosom, cannot hide the soft, still
movements of her heart: it, on the contrary, betrays them. Her fancy is smit;
her silent modesty breathes amiable desire; and, if the friendly goddess
Opportunity should shake the tree, its fruit would fall."
"And then," said Aurelia, "when she beholds herself forsaken, cast away,
despised; when all is inverted in the soul of her crazed lover, and the highest
changes to the lowest, and, instead of the sweet cup of love, he offers her
the bitter cup of woe"—
"Her heart breaks," cried Wilhelm; "the whole structure of her being is
loosened from its joinings; her father's death strikes fiercely against it, and
the fair edifice altogether crumbles into fragments."
Our friend had not observed with what expressiveness Aurelia pronounced
those words. Looking only at this work of art, at its connection and
completeness, he dreamed not that his auditress was feeling quite a different

influence; that a deep sorrow of her own was vividly awakened in her breast
by these dramatic shadows.
Aurelia's head was still resting on her arms; and her eyes, now full of tears,
were turned to the sky. At last, no longer able to conceal her secret grief, she
seized both hands of her friend, and exclaimed, while he stood surprised
before her, "Forgive, forgive a heavy heart! I am girt and pressed together
by these people; from my hard-hearted brother I must seek to hide myself;
your presence has untied these bonds. My friend!" continued she, "it is but a
few minutes since we saw each other first, and already you are going to
become my confidant." She could scarcely end the words, and sank upon
his shoulder. "Think not worse of me," she said, with sobs, "that I disclose
myself to you so hastily, that I am so weak before you. Be my friend,
remain my friend: I shall deserve it." He spoke to her in his kindest manner,
but in vain: her tears still flowed, and choked her words.
At this moment Serlo entered, most unwelcomely, and, most unexpectedly,
Philina, with her hand in his. "Here is your friend," said he to her: "he will
be glad to welcome you."
"What!" cried Wilhelm in astonishment: "are you here?" With a modest,
settled mien, she went up to him; bade him welcome; praised Serlo's
goodness, who, she said, without merit on her part, but purely in the hope of
her improvement, had agreed to admit her into his accomplished troop. She
behaved, all the while, in a friendly manner towards Wilhelm, yet with a
dignified distance.
But this dissimulation lasted only till the other two were gone. Aurelia
having left them, that she might conceal her trouble, and Serlo being called
away, Philina first looked very sharply at the doors, to see that both were
really out; then began skipping to and fro about the room, as if she had been
mad; at last dropped down upon the floor, like to die of giggling and
laughing. She then sprang up, patted and flattered our friend; rejoicing
above measure that she had been clever enough to go before, and spy the
land, and get herself nestled in.
"Pretty things are going on here," she said; "just of the sort I like. Aurelia
has had a hapless love-affair with some nobleman, who seems to be a very
stately person, one whom I myself could like to see some day. He has left