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