Chapter XII: Hamlet

"When we are man and wife." These half-dozen words kept ringing in Goethe's ears and haunting persistently his brain. Each one seemed to fall separately upon his sense with its own little shock of surprise, though the idea they conveyed had been long, in a vague way, familiar to his mind. It would be idle to assert that he had drifted blindly to this end and that he now for the first time realized the significance and result of his passion. But it is true that he had never before framed this idea in words, nor imagined it as it now presented itself, an incongruous and inevitable fact. He who felt conscious of a superabundant vitality that was to expend itself in every phase of experience, he who awoke daily to a keener perception of the capabilities of a worthily-developed soul, he who fancied in his exalted hours that he heard the voices of art, science, and nature invoking him, their darling son,--in the recklessness of his extravagant youth he had fettered himself for the remainder of his days, he had cramped his wide-soaring flight to keep pace with the halting footsteps of a child; at the threshold of a world that seemed all too narrow for his energies and capacities he had bound himself to tread the accustomed, decorous paths of a commonplace German citizen. For so long a time he had been in the habit of seeing all things through the medium of his passion, that it seemed as if a film or a glamour had been brushed suddenly from before his eyesight.

And yet it was no witchcraft that had made him find her marvelously pretty; for so she looked at this moment as she advanced towards him, with her half-timid, half-confident air, and her free, graceful carriage, as though she stepped on grass and heath.

"I have come to beg a favor of you, Wolfgang," said she; "but you must promise beforehand to grant it."

"Naturally," answered he, forcing a smile, "that is the way you women always beg: first must come the consent, and then you humbly present your petition." Then, seeing her discomfited expression, he added, with his usual spirit, "But you know very well that I am always at your service, Alide. What is it now? I am ready for anything you propose."

"Ah, now I recognize you again," cried she. "The girls are expecting some friends this evening, and they have sent me to beg you to entertain the company with reading aloud as you used to do for us at the parsonage."

"Is that all?" asked he, good-humoredly. "Of course I will do my best to oblige you; only they must promise in their turn to be very attentive, and not to grow impatient if I require two or three hours to myself."

She led him joyfully among the family group, where he was thanked on all sides for his amiability, and Alide received her share of reflected admiration and homage from those who perceived her influence over him. As few of them were familiar with English literature, and he was in the period of his first enthusiasm for Shakspeare, he selected "Hamlet" as the subject of the evening's diversion. Never had Alide seen him more inspired than he appeared this night. He delivered every part with eloquent expression; but when he uttered the words of Hamlet himself he seemed to be in living reality the beautiful melancholy poet-prince, whose nobly-dowered, ill-balanced nature had been so "horribly shaken with thoughts beyond the reaches of his soul."

The attention of the whole company was strained to its utmost; they were enveloped by an atmosphere which they had never before breathed, and transported to scenes hitherto unimagined. Their ears were spell-bound by the thrilling modulations of that strangely sympathetic voice, which alone filled the room, no less with its gravest tones of awe and grief and its deepest murmurs of tenderness than with its irresistible force in the "very torrent and tempest of passion." Alide sat directly opposite Goethe: throughout every act she remained motionless, with her eyes fixed upon his face, utterly unconscious of any other presence. And yet, though her attitude remained unchanged, and her hands lay quietly crossed in her lap, any one who had watched her attentively would have seen that she was a prey to a succession of various and powerful emotions. From time to time she sighed deeply, and a passing color tinged her cheeks.

"For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor,
Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute;
No more."

"No more but so?"

The blood fled from her eager face, her thin white fingers stirred convulsively, as she heard the wise, kind, chilling answer of Laertes:

"Think it no more.
For nature, crescent, does not grow alone
In thews and bulk; but, as this temple waxes,
The inward service of the mind and soul
Grows wide withal."

A pathetic, bewildered expression clouded her countenance, until soon, forgetful of herself and suddenly responsive to some lofty thought, some heroic passion, the light and color rippled again over brow and cheek, and a faint smile of irrepressible delight played upon her lips. When it was over, all crowded around Goethe with enthusiastic applause, while most of them added their thanks to Alide for having procured them so memorable an entertainment. In her graceful manner she did not deny herself the little pride of having shone through him.

There was much discussion at table about the play. This chance company of moderately-cultivated and ordinarily intelligent people were perhaps better able to form a correct and impartial judgment than if they had been a society of critics and Shakspeare's compatriots. Each one of Goethe's listeners heard the drama with a mind totally unbiased by any preconceived idea, and it broke upon them with all the freshness and beauty of a new work of art, the final result of the philosophy and aspiration of centuries. An Englishman would have been highly amused at the naïf admiration, the frank suggestions, the astonishment and enthusiasm of this foreign circle.

"Do you not find rather inconsistent with Hamlet's tender and sensitive temperament, Herr Goethe," suggested old Mr. Burkhardt, "the summary manner in which he disposes of the body of Polonius?"

"Nature, nature, sir!" cried Goethe; "nothing so natural as Shakspeare's men. Alas! how can our age form a judgment as to what is natural; we who from youth upwards feel everything within us, and see everything in others, laced up and decorated? I am often ashamed before Shakspeare, for it happens that at the first glance I think to myself, I should have done differently; but soon I perceive that I am a poor sinner, that nature prophesies through Shakspeare, and that my men are soap-bubbles blown from romantic fancies."

"I must confess," said Anna, "that I do not know much about the poetry; but the interest of the story never flagged for a moment."

"And yet there seemed to be no action, properly so called," interposed a young man near Goethe; "but only a development of the strange character of Hamlet."

"You are right," answered Goethe; "Shakspeare's plots, as they are called, are no plots. All his plays turn upon the hidden point which no philosopher has yet seen and defined, in which the peculiarity of our Ego, the pretended freedom of our will, clashes with the necessary course of the whole."

"I think it is very unsatisfactory," said Rahel, in her blunt way, "not to know so much at the end of a play as whether the hero was really in love or not. Was Hamlet in love with Ophelia, Wolfgang?"

Alide started as though she herself had been the object of her sister's inquiry. There was a general smile at the abruptness of the question, and Goethe himself seemed rather disconcerted.

"My clever little Mademoiselle Rahel," said he, at last, "you have hit upon the most vexed question concerning our melancholy hero. I believe that scarcely any two readers of Shakspeare have precisely the same idea in regard to Hamlet's feeling for Ophelia. In regard to hers for him, in spite of the exquisite delicacy and modesty of her character, there can, unfortunately for her, be no doubt."

Why did Alide feel as if a loved hand had struck her a sudden blow? "But you do not answer me,--what is your opinion?" persisted Rahel.

"My opinion," answered he, after a brief pause, "is that he sincerely loved her--before the opening of the play. She was the sweetheart of his boyhood, the companion of his hours of recreation. But from the moment that his capacities are disclosed to him by the revelation from another world, he is bound by the highest duty of man--that which he owes himself--to discard everything that can cramp or impede the development of his own nature, and the fulfilment of the sacred office to which he is called. The beauty and sweetness of Ophelia's character cannot be exaggerated, yet she is no mate for Hamlet. He simply outgrows her; or rather, in binding himself to her, he had underestimated his own powers, and after these have been supernaturally revealed to him it is impossible for him to return to his earlier position. His heart remains true to her, but his whole intellectual nature has gone beyond her."

"On one point I cannot agree with you," answered the young man who had previously spoken: "I think Ophelia _was_ the proper wife for Hamlet. Her character had all the grace, lightness, sentiment, and simplicity which his lacked, and only she, to my thinking, could have saved him, if he had but seen it in time, from the sombre madness and melancholy which ultimately destroyed him."

Goethe remained silent for a moment, and then replied, thoughtfully, "Perhaps it was Shakspeare's intention to suggest that. Such a result as you imagine is, unfortunately, one of those events that we never foresee betimes. Yes," he added, brightening again, "I return to what I said first,--that is nature. It would not have been natural if Hamlet could have studied the complications of his destiny with as clear a mind as the poet. It is pleasant to think that Shakspeare was mistaken, that we should have been nobler and truer than Hamlet, but I am afraid he shows us only too plainly how each one of us would have treated that 'Rose of May,' if we had been in Hamlet's position."

To all present, save one, this conversation appeared no more than the most indifferent criticism of an abstract subject. Alide felt her heart like lead in her bosom; her head burned and throbbed, her hands, by turns icy cold and feverishly hot, trembled. She was possessed by the illusion that it was she who was the subject of the cold comments or the galling compassion of all around her. She breathed more freely when the topic of Hamlet was finally dismissed, and when the company dispersed she had gradually regained her outward composure.

Goethe was, as usual, the last to take his leave. While he was bidding good-night to the other members of the family, Alide remained apart, seated by the table where he had read. When he came towards her, the devoted girl forgot her own trouble the moment her eyes fell upon his altered face. The color had faded from his cheeks, his eyes were sunken and haggard, and a strange contraction of the muscles of his forehead gave him a distressed and wearied expression which she had never seen before.

"My darling, what is the matter with you?" whispered she, in alarm, with the tenderness of voice and manner which she was accustomed to receive from him. "You have done too much this evening,--you are over-fatigued,--you are ill. Wolfgang, what is it?" And she took his large, shapely hand caressingly between her two little cold palms.

"Do not be foolish, sweetheart," said he, forcing a smile. "Have you never seen me tired before? A night's sleep will bring me up again. Meanwhile, do you sleep sweetly and dream of other things." He kissed her hurriedly for good-night. "Till to-morrow!" he cried, in a cheerful voice, and in a moment he was out of the house. He, on his part, had not remarked the icy chill of those affectionate hands that pressed his own, the unnatural brilliancy of the dilated eyes, the crimson spot of fever that glowed on either cheek, and the burning heat of the smooth white forehead which his lips had lightly touched. It was Madame Duroc who perceived, with a terrible sensation of oppression and anxiety, the unusual appearance of her child, and yet dared not express her sympathy by the slightest emphasis of affection. She felt that whatever trouble Alide was enduring now must be borne alone, and if it were not to pass away its solace must be left to a later period. All night the pious mother was awake, constantly invoking the blessing of Heaven upon the dear young head. She knew that the child of her heart, ill, helpless, and alone, was for the first time learning to suffer.

When Goethe hurried from the Burkhardts' home, there was a tumult in his brain, a heat and fever in his blood, a lassitude in his limbs, which he did not remember to have experienced before. A night's sleep would restore him, he had assured Alide; but when he issued into the soft night-air he said to himself that this was better than to toss uncomfortably upon his pillow, for in his nervously-excited condition sleep was an impossibility. It was past midnight, and the streets were silent and black with shadows, relieved only by the white splendor of the moon that floated high above the house-tops. He walked at a rapid pace, but not in the direction of his lodging. Contrary to his usual habit, he took no note of the beauty of the night, and the quiet, restful appearance of the sleeping town. Overcome by poignant regrets, gloomy self-reproaches, and morose imaginings of the future, he yielded to the influence of a morbid despair. He saw himself faithless to the highest responsibilities of his life. On one side his fate called out, summoning him to an austere and lofty career, to the noblest achievements and the purest rewards; on the other, a clinging, affectionate child held him to the earth, fettered, cramped, and bound with chains of flowers. What was he doing with his youth? To whom was he about to sacrifice the convictions, the activity, of his richest and strongest years of manhood? And yet, whenever the image of that beautiful young face, ennobled as it was by a pure and deep passion, formed itself upon his brain, he felt his heart beat faster and the old yearning and unrest fill his bosom. At that moment all was dark within him,--whether he truly loved, or whether he yielded to a weak, ephemeral fancy; whether he himself was the Goethe of his imagination, or merely an ordinary foolish and capricious young man, stayed entirely by insane ambition and fantastic illusions. He raised his head, and, with a passionate movement, clasped his hands, extended them wide, and let them drop by his sides, in a mute appeal to the mysterious forces of night. He had unconsciously walked towards the river, and the unexpected sight of the smooth black stream with its glittering reflections, and of the immense reach of star-sprinkled sky above, holding in its pale depths the bright, benign face of the moon, awakened him at once from the sombre unreality of his reverie to the beautiful actual world. The exquisite aspect of the June night seemed almost to give a direct answer to the cry of his agitated soul. Sweet and holy influences appeared to descend from those remote heavens upon his head, which he bared as if in prayer. Like the touch of his mother's hand the fitful yet indescribably gentle whiffs of breeze passed caressingly over his brow. He did not try to account for the sudden serenity which filled his breast after its recent turmoil and fever. This was true rest, he said to himself, this conscious repose, so different from the brutish oblivion of sleep. And yet, as the first streaks of dawn broke over the river, he was aware of an aching weariness in his limbs and a chill throughout his frame. He felt as one who has been scourged; his eyes burned, his hands trembled. With a painful effort he hurried to his lodging, flung himself, sick and shivering, upon his bed, and was immediately possessed by the profound sleep of utter exhaustion.