Act II
Scene First
Evening in Melchior’s study. The window is open, a lamp burns on the table.—Melchior and Moritz on the divan.
Moritz.
Now I’m quite gay again, only a little bit excited.——But during the Greek lesson I slept like the besotted Polyphemus. I’m astonished that the pronunciation of the ancient tongue doesn’t give me the earache.——To-day I was within a hair of being late——My first thought on waking was of the verbs in μι——Himmel—Herrgott—Teufel—Donnerwetter, during breakfast and all along the road I conjugated until I saw green.——I must have popped off to sleep shortly after three. My pen made a blot in the book. The lamp was smoking when Mathilde woke me; the blackbirds in the elder bushes under the window were chirping so happily——and I felt so inexpressibly melancholy. I put on my collar and passed the brush through my hair.——One feels it when one imposes upon nature.
Melchior.
May I roll you a cigarette?
Moritz.
Thanks, I don’t smoke.——If it only keeps on this way! I will work and work until my eyes fall out of my head.——Ernest Röbel has failed three times since vacation; three times in Greek, twice with Knochenbruch; the last time in the history of literature. I have been first five times in this lamentable conflict, and from to-day it does not bother me!——Röbel will not shoot himself. Röbel has no parents who sacrifice everything for him. If he wants he can become a soldier, a cowboy or a sailor. If I fail, my father will feel the blow and Mamma will land in the madhouse. One can’t live through a thing like that!——Before the examination I begged God to give me consumption that the cup might pass me by untouched. He passed me by, though to-day His aureole shines in the distance, so that I dare not lift my eyes by night or day.——Now that I have grasped the bar I shall swing up on it. The natural consequence will be that I shall break my neck if I fall.
Melchior.
Life is a worthless commonplace. It wouldn’t have been a bad idea if I had hanged myself in the cradle.——Why doesn’t Mamma come with the tea!
Moritz.
Your tea will do me good, Melchior!——I’m shivering. I feel so strangely spiritualized. Touch me once, please. I see,—I hear,—I feel, much more acutely——and yet everything seems like a dream——oh, so harmonious.——How still the garden stretches out there in the moonlight, so still, so deep, as if it extended to eternity. From out the bushes step indefinable figures that slip away in breathless officiousness through the clearings and then vanish in the twilight. It seems to me as if a counsel were to be held under the chestnut tree.——Shall we go down there, Melchior?
Melchior.
Let’s wait until we have drunk our tea.
Moritz.
The leaves whisper so busily.——It’s just as if I heard my dead grandmother telling me the story of the “Queen Without a Head.” There was once a wonderfully beautiful Queen, beautiful as the sun, more beautiful than all the maidens in the country. Only, unfortunately, she came into the world without a head. She could not eat, not drink, not kiss. She could only communicate with her courtiers by using her soft little hand. With her dainty feet she stamped declarations of war and orders for executions. Then, one day, she was besieged by a King, who, by chance, had two heads, which, year in and year out, disputed with one another so violently that neither could get a word in edgewise. The Court Conjurer-in-chief took off the smallest of these heads and set it upon the Queen’s body. And, behold, it became her extraordinarily well! Therefore, the King and the Queen were married, and the two heads disputed no longer, but kissed each other upon the brow, the cheeks and the mouth, and lived thereafter through long, long years of joy and peace.——Delectable nonsense! Since vacation I can’t get the headless Queen out of my mind. When I see a pretty girl, I see her without a head——and then presently, I, myself appear to be the headless Queen.——It is possible that someone may be set over me yet.
(Frau Gabor comes in with the steaming tea, which she sets before Melchior and Moritz on the table.)
Frau Gabor.
Here, children, here’s a mouthful for you. Good-evening, Herr Stiefel, how are you?
Moritz.
Thank you, Frau Gabor.——I’m watching the dance down there.
Frau Gabor.
But you don’t look very good——don’t you feel well?
Moritz.
It’s not worth mentioning. I went to bed somewhat too late last night.
Melchior.
Only think, he worked all through the night.
Frau Gabor.
You shouldn’t do such things, Herr Stiefel. You ought to take care of yourself. Think of your health. Don’t set your school above your health. Take plenty of walks in the fresh air. At your age, that is more important than a correct use of middle high German.
Moritz.
I will go walking. You are right. One can be industrious while one is taking a walk. Why didn’t I think of that myself!——The written work I shall still have to do at home.
Melchior.
You can do your writing here; that will make it easier for both of us.——You know, Mamma, that Max von Trenk has been down with brain fever!——To-day at noon Hans Rilow came from von Trenk’s deathbed to announce to Rector Sonnenstich that von Trenk had just died in his presence. “Indeed?” said Sonnenstich, “haven’t you two hours from last week to make up? Here is the beadle’s report. See that the matter is cleared up once for all! The whole class will attend the burial.”——Hans was struck dumb.
Frau Gabor.
What book is that you have, Melchior?
Melchior.
“Faust.”
Frau Gabor.
Have you read it yet?
Melchior.
Not to the end.
Moritz.
We’re just at the Walpurgisnacht.
Frau Gabor.
If I were you I should have waited for one or two years.
Melchior.
I know of no book, Mamma, in which I have found so much beauty. Why shouldn’t I read it?
Frau Gabor.
Because you can’t understand it.
Melchior.
You can’t know that, Mamma. I feel very well that I am not yet able to grasp the work in its entirety——
Moritz.
We always read together; that helps our understanding wonderfully.
Frau Gabor.
You are old enough, Melchior, to be able to know what is good and what is bad for you. Do what you think best for yourself. I should be the first to acknowledge your right in this respect, because you have never given me a reason to have to deny you anything. I only want to warn you that even the best can do one harm when one isn’t ripe enough in years to receive it properly.——I would rather put my trust in you than in conventional educational methods.——If you need anything, children, you, Melchior, come up and call me. I shall be in my bedroom.
(Exit.)
Moritz.
Your Mamma means the story of Gretchen.
Melchior.
Weren’t we discussing it just a moment ago!
Moritz.
Faust himself cannot have deserted her in cold blood!
Melchior.
The masterpiece does not end with this infamous action!——Faust might have promised the maiden marriage, he might have forsaken her afterwards, but in my eyes he would have been not a hair less worthy of punishment. Gretchen might have died of a broken heart for all I care.——One sees how this attracts the eyes continually; one might think that the whole world turned on sex!2
Moritz.
To be frank with you, Melchior, I have almost the same feeling since I read your explanation.——It fell at my feet during the first vacation days. I was startled. I fastened the door and flew through the flaming lines as a frightened owl flies through a burning wood——I believe I read most of it with my eyes shut. Your explanation brought up a host of dim recollections, which affected me as a song of his childhood affects a man on his deathbed when heard from the lips of another. I felt the most vehement pity over what you wrote about maidens. I shall never lose that sensation. Believe me, Melchior, to suffer a wrong is sweeter than to do a wrong. To be overcome by such a sweet wrong and still be blameless seems to me the fullness of earthly bliss.
Melchior.
I don’t want my bliss as alms!
Moritz.
But why not?
Melchior.
I don’t want anything for which I don’t have to fight!
Moritz.
Is it enjoyable then, Melchior?——The maiden’s enjoyment is as that of the holy gods. The maiden controls herself, thanks to her self-denial. She keeps herself free from every bitterness until the last moment, in order that she may see the heavens open over her in an instant. The maiden fears hell even at the moment that she perceives a blooming paradise. Her feeling is as pure as a mountain spring. The maiden holds a cup over which no earthly breath has blown as yet; a nectar chalice, the contents of which is spilled when it flames and flares.——The enjoyment that the man finds in that, I think, is insipid and flat.
Melchior.
You can think what you like about it, but keep your thoughts to yourself——I don’t like to think about it.
Notes
2: “Man möchte glauben, die ganze Welt drehe sich um P—— und V——!”