Faust [endeavoring to lead her away] Margaret Faust Oh, do not haste! [Caressing him. Ah, haste! For if thou still delay'st, Faust Why on thy neck so anxious do I feel When formerly a perfect heaven of bliss From thy dear looks and words would o'er me steal? Kiss me! Or I'll kiss thee! Woe! woe! thy lips are cold, Thy love where hast thou left? Come! Follow me, my dearest love, be bold! Margaret [turning towards him]— Faust And art thou he? and art thou really he? 'Tis I! Oh come! Margaret Faust Thou wilt strike off my chain, How comes it that thou dost not shrink from me? Come! come! already night begins to wane. Margaret I drowned my child beneath the wave. 'Tis thou thyself! I scarce believe it yet. Quick, wipe it off! Meseems that yet Ah, God! what hast thou done? Put up thy sword, I beg of thee! 'Tis wet! Faust Oh, dearest, let the past forgotten be! Margaret Faust No, thou must linger here in sorrow! To-morrow: The best place give to my mother, Me at some distance lay- And the little one place on my right breast. To nestle beside thee so lovingly. If thou dost feel 'tis I, then come with me. Margaret What, there? without? Faust Faust Yes, forth in the free air. Aye, if the grave's without. If death lurks there! And not one step beyond!- Thou'rt leaving me? Thou canst! But will it! Open stands the door. Margaret I dare not go! I've naught to hope for more. Faust Quick! Quick! Save thy poor child! Keep to the path The brook along, Faust To the wood beyond, To the left, where the plank is, Seize it at once! It fain would rise, It struggles still! Save it. Oh save! Dear Gretchen, more collected be! My brain, alas, is cold with dread!- And to and fro she shakes her head; Faust Since here avails nor argument nor prayer, Margaret- With murderous hand hold not so fast! Day dawns! My love! My love! Margaret Yes! day draws near. Faust They bind and seize me! I'm hurried along, Mephistopheles [appearing without] — Margaret Faust Up, or you're lost! Vain hesitation! babbling, quaking! My steeds are shivering, What from the floor ascendeth like a ghost? It is for me he cometh! Margaret Thou shalt live! Judgment of God! to thee my soul I give! Mephistopheles [to FAUST] Come, come! With her I'll else abandon thee! Margaret Father, I'm thine! Do thou deliver me! Ye angels! Ye angelic hosts! descend, Encamp around to guard me and defend!Henry! I shudder now to look on thee! Mephistopheles— She now is judged! Voices [from above] Is saved! Mephistopheles [to FAUST] – Come thou with me! Voice [from within, dying away]-Henry! Henry! GOETHE AND BETTINA. BY GEORGE HENRY LEWES. [GEORGE HENRY LEWES: An English author, husband of George Eliot; born in London, April 18, 1817; died there November 28, 1878. His career was varied he attended school in London, Jersey, Brittany, and Greenwich, studied law and medicine, became an actor and a playwright, and finally an author and journalist. Among his writings are: "Biographical History of Philosophy" (4 vols., 1845-1846), "The Spanish Drama" (1847), "Rose, Blanche, and Violet" (1848), "Life of Maximilien Robespierre" (1849), "The Noble Heart" (1850), "Life and Works of Goethe" (1855), "Seaside Studies" (1858), "Physiology of Common Life" (2 vols., 1859-1860), "Studies in Animal Life" (1862), "Aristotle" (1864), "Problems of Life and Mind" (5 vols., 1874-1879), and "The Physical Basis of Mind" (1877).] IT IS very characteristic that during the terror and the pillage of Weimar, Goethe's greatest anxiety on his own account was lest his scientific manuscripts should be destroyed. Wine, plate, furniture, could be replaced; but to lose his manuscripts was to lose what was irreparable. Herder's posthumous manuscripts were destroyed; Meyer lost everything, even his sketches: but Goethe lost nothing, except wine and money. The Duke, commanded by Prussia to submit to Napoleon, laid down his arms and returned to Weimar, there to be received with the enthusiastic love of his people, as some compensation for the indignities he had endured. Peace was restored. Weimar breathed again. Goethe availed himself of the quiet to print his "Farbenlehre" and "Faust," that they might be rescued from any future peril. He also began to meditate once more an epic on William Tell; but the death of the Duchess Amalia on the 10th of April drove the subject from his mind. On the 23d of April Bettina came to Weimar. We must pause awhile to consider this strange figure, who fills a larger space in the literary history of the nineteenth century than any other German woman. Every one knows "the Child" Bettina Brentano,- daughter of the Maximiliane Brentano with whom Goethe flirted at Frankfurt in the Werther days, wife of Achim von Arnim, the fantastic Romanticist, the worshiper of Goethe and Beethoven, -for some time the privileged favorite of the King of Prussia, and writer of that wild but unveracious book, "Goethe's Correspondence with a Child." She is one of those phantasts to whom everything seems permitted. More elf than woman, yet with flashes of genius which light up in splendor whole chapters of nonsense, she defies criticism, and puts every verdict at fault. If you are grave with her, people shrug their shoulders, and saying, "She is a Brentano," consider all settled. "At the point where the folly of others ceases, the folly of the Brentanos begins," runs the proverb in Germany. I do not wish to be graver with Bettina than the occasion demands; but while granting fantasy its widest license, while grateful to her for the many picturesque anecdotes she has preserved from the conversation of Goethe's mother, I must consider the history of her relation to Goethe seriously, because out of it has arisen a charge against his memory which is very false and injurious. Many unsuspecting readers of her book, whatever they may think of the passionate expressions of her love for Goethe, whatever they may think of her demeanor towards him, on first coming into his presence, feel greatly |