The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01 · Chapter 48The Neighbor's House
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MARTHA (alone)
God pardon my dear husband, he Doth not in truth act well by me! Forth in the world abroad to roam, And leave me on the straw at home. And yet his will I ne'er did thwart, God knows, I lov'd him from my heart.
[She weeps.]
Perchance he's dead!—oh wretched state!— Had I but a certificate!
(MARGARET comes.)
Dame Martha!
Gretchen?
Only think! My knees beneath me well-nigh sink! Within my press I've found today Another case, of ebony. And things—magnificent they are, More costly than the first, by far.
You must not name it to your mother! It would to shrift, just like the other.
Nay look at them! now only see!
MARTHA (dresses her up)
Thou happy creature!
Woe is me! Them in the street I cannot wear, Or in the church, or anywhere.
Come often over here to me, The gems put on quite privately; And then before the mirror walk an hour or so, Thus we shall have our pleasure too. Then suitable occasions we must seize, As at a feast, to show them by degrees: A chain at first, pearl ear-drops then,—your mother Won't see them, or we'll coin some tale or other.
But, who, I wonder, could the caskets bring? I fear there's something wrong about the thing!
[A knock.]
Good heavens! can that my mother be?
MARTHA (peering through the blind)
'Tis a strange gentleman, I see. Come in!
[MEPHISTOPHELES enters.]
I've ventur'd to intrude today. Ladies, excuse the liberty, I pray.
[He steps back respectfully before MARGARET.]
After dame Martha Schwerdtlein I inquire!
'Tis I. Pray what have you to say to me?
MEPHISTOPHELES (aside to her)
I know you now,—and therefore will retire; At present you've distinguished company. Pardon the freedom, Madam, with your leave, I will make free to call again at eve.
MARTHA (aloud)
Why, child, of all strange notions, he For some grand lady taketh thee!
I am, in truth, of humble blood— The gentleman is far too good— Nor gems nor trinkets are my own.
Oh 'tis not the mere ornaments alone; Her glance and mien far more betray. Rejoiced I am that I may stay.
Your business, Sir? I long to know—
Would I could happier tidings show! I trust mine errand you'll not let me rue; Your husband's dead, and greeteth you.
Is dead? True heart! Oh misery! My husband dead! Oh, I shall die!
Alas! good Martha! don't despair!
Now listen to the sad affair!
I for this cause should fear to love. The loss my certain death would prove.
Joy still must sorrow, sorrow joy attend.
Proceed, and tell the story of his end!
At Padua, in St. Anthony's, In holy ground his body lies; Quiet and cool his place of rest, With pious ceremonials blest.
And had you naught besides to bring?
Oh yes! one grave and solemn prayer; Let them for him three hundred masses sing! But in my pockets, I have nothing there.
No trinket! no love-token did he send! What every journeyman safe in his pouch will hoard There for remembrance fondly stored, And rather hungers, rather begs than spend!
Madam, in truth, it grieves me sore, But he his gold not lavishly hath spent. His failings too he deeply did repent, Ay! and his evil plight bewail'd still more.
Alas! That men should thus be doomed to woe! I for his soul will many a requiem pray.
A husband you deserve this very day; A child so worthy to be loved.
Ah no, That time hath not yet come for me.
If not a spouse, a gallant let it be. Among heaven's choicest gifts, I place, So sweet a darling to embrace.
Our land doth no such usage know.
Usage or not, it happens so.
Go on, I pray!
I stood by his bedside. Something less foul it was than dung; 'Twas straw half rotten; yet, he as a Christian died. And sorely hath remorse his conscience wrung. "Wretch that I was," quoth he, with parting breath, "So to forsake my business and my wife! Ah! the remembrance is my death. Could I but have her pardon in this life!"—
MARTHA (weeping)
Dear soul! I've long forgiven him, indeed!
"Though she, God knows, was more to blame than I."
He lied! What, on the brink of death to lie!
If I am skill'd the countenance to read, He doubtless fabled as he parted hence.— "No time had I to gape, or take my ease," he said, "First to get children, and then get them bread; And bread, too, in the very widest sense; Nor could I eat in peace even my proper share."
What, all my truth, my love forgotten quite? My weary drudgery by day and night!
Not so! He thought of you with tender care. Quoth he: "Heaven knows how fervently I prayed, For wife and children when from Malta bound;— The prayer hath heaven with favor crowned; We took a Turkish vessel which conveyed Rich store of treasure for the Sultan's court; Its own reward our gallant action brought; The captur'd prize was shared among the crew, And of the treasure I received my due."
How? Where? The treasure hath he buried, pray?
Where the four winds have blown it, who can say? In Naples as he stroll'd, a stranger there,— A comely maid took pity on my friend: And gave such tokens of her love and care, That he retained them to his blessed end.
Scoundrel! to rob his children of their bread! And all this misery, this bitter need, Could not his course of recklessness impede!
Well, he hath paid the forfeit, and is dead. Now were I in your place, my counsel hear; My weeds I'd wear for one chaste year, And for another lover meanwhile would look out.
Alas, I might search far and near, Not quickly should I find another like my first! There could not be a fonder fool than mine, Only he loved too well abroad to roam; Loved foreign women too, and foreign wine, And loved besides the dice accurs'd.
All had gone swimmingly, no doubt, Had he but given you at home, On his side, just as wide a range. Upon such terms, to you I swear, Myself with you would gladly rings exchange!
The gentleman is surely pleas'd to jest!
MEPHISTOPHELES (aside)
Now to be off in time, were best! She'd make the very devil marry her.
(To MARGARET)
How fares it with your heart?
How mean you, Sir?
MEPHISTOPHELES (aside)
The sweet young innocent!
(aloud)
Ladies, farewell!
Farewell!
But ere you leave us, quickly tell! I from a witness fain had heard, Where, how, and when my husband died and was interr'd. To forms I've always been attached indeed, His death I fain would in the journals read.
Ay, madam, what two witnesses declare Is held as valid everywhere; A gallant friend I have, not far from here, Who will for you before the judge appear. I'll bring him straight.
I pray you do!
And this young lady, we shall find her too? A noble youth, far traveled, he Shows to the sex all courtesy.
I in his presence needs must blush for shame.
Not in the presence of a crownèd king!
The garden, then, behind my house, we'll name, There we'll await you both this evening.