Next morning Wilhelm went to visit Frau Melina, but found her not at
home. On inquiring here for the other members of the wandering
community, he learned that Philina had invited them to breakfast. Out of
curiosity, he hastened thither, and found them all in very good spirits
and of good comfort. The cunning creature had collected them, was
treating them with chocolate, and giving them to understand that some
prospects still remained for them; that, by her influence, she hoped to
convince the manager how advantageous it would be for him to introduce
so many clever hands among his company. They listened to her with
attention; swallowed cup after cup of her chocolate; thought the girl
was not so bad, after all, and went away proposing to themselves to
speak whatever good of her they could.
"Do you think, then," said our friend, who staid behind, "that Serlo
will determine to retain our comrades?"--"Not at all," replied Philina;
"nor do I care a fig for it. The sooner they are gone, the better!
Laertes alone I could wish to keep: the rest we shall by and by pack
off."
Next she signified to Wilhelm her firm persuasion that he should no
longer hide his talent, but, under the direction of a Serlo, go upon the
boards. She was lavish in her praises of the order, the taste, the
spirit, which prevailed in this establishment: she spoke so flatteringly
to Wilhelm, with such admiration of his gifts, that his heart and his
imagination were advancing towards this proposal as fast as his
understanding and his reason were retreating from it. He concealed his
inclination from himself and from Philina, and passed a restless day,
unable to resolve on visiting his trading correspondents, to receive the
letters which might there be lying for him. The anxieties of his people
during all this time he easily conceived; yet he shrank from the precise
account of them, particularly at the present time, as he promised to
himself a great and pure enjoyment from the exhibition of a new play
that evening.
Serlo had refused to let him witness the rehearsal. "You must see us on
the best side," he observed, "before we can allow you to look into our
cards."
The performance, however, where our friend did not fail to be present,
yielded him a high satisfaction. It was the first time he had ever seen
a theatre in such perfection. The actors were evidently all possessed of
excellent gifts, superior capacities, and a high, clear notion of their
art; they were not equal, but they mutually restrained and supported one
another; each breathed ardor into those around him; throughout all their
acting, they showed themselves decided and correct. You soon felt that
Serlo was the soul of the whole: as an individual, he appeared to much
advantage. A merry humor, a measured vivacity, a settled feeling of
propriety, combined with a great gift of imitation, were to be observed
in him the moment he appeared upon the stage. The inward contentment of
his being seemed to spread itself over all that looked on him; and the
intellectual style in which he could so easily and gracefully express
the finest shadings of his part, excited more delight, as he could
conceal the art which, by long-continued practice, he had made his own.
Aurelia, his sister, was not inferior: she obtained still greater
approbation; for she touched the souls of the audience, which he had it
in his power to exhilarate and amuse.
After a few days had passed pleasantly enough, Aurelia sent to inquire
for our friend. He hastened to her: she was lying on a sofa; she seemed
to be suffering from headache; her whole frame had visibly a feverish
movement. Her eye lighted up as she noticed Wilhelm. "Pardon me!" she
cried, as he entered: "the trust you have inspired me with has made me
weak. Till now I have contrived to bear up against my woes in secret;
nay, they gave me strength and consolation: but now, I know not how it
is, you have loosened the bands of silence. You will now, even against
your will, take part in the battle I am fighting with myself!"
Wilhelm answered her in kind and obliging terms. He declared that her
image and her sorrows had not ceased to hover in his thoughts; that he
longed for her confidence, and devoted himself to be her friend.
While he spoke, his eyes were attracted to the boy, who sat before her
on the floor, and was busy rattling a multitude of playthings. This
child, as Philina had observed, might be about three years of age; and
Wilhelm now conceived how that giddy creature, seldom elevated in her
phraseology, had likened it to the sun. For its cheerful eyes and full
countenance were shaded by the finest golden locks, which flowed round
in copious curls; dark, slender, softly bending eyebrows showed
themselves upon a brow of dazzling whiteness; and the living tinge of
health was glancing on its cheeks. "Sit by me," said Aurelia: "you are
looking at the happy child with admiration; in truth, I took it into my
arms with joy; I keep it carefully; yet, by it, too, I can measure the
extent of my sufferings; for they seldom let me feel the worth of such a
gift.
"Allow me," she continued, "to speak to you about myself and my destiny;
for I have it much at heart that you should not misunderstand me. I
thought I should have a few calm instants; and, accordingly, I sent for
you. You are now here, and the thread of my narrative is lost.
"'One more forsaken woman in the world!' you will say. You are a man.
You are thinking, 'What a noise she makes, the fool, about a necessary
evil; which, certainly as death, awaits a woman, when such is the
fidelity of men!' O my friend! if my fate were common, I would gladly
undergo a common evil; but it is so singular! why cannot I present it to
you in a mirror,--why not command some one to tell it you? Oh! had I,
had I been seduced, surprised, and afterwards forsaken, there would then
still be comfort in despair; but I am far more miserable. I have been my
own deceiver; I have wittingly betrayed myself; and this, this, is what
shall never be forgiven me."
"With noble feelings, such as yours," said Wilhelm, "you cannot be
entirely unhappy."
"And do you know to what I am indebted for my feelings?" asked Aurelia.
"To the worst education that ever threatened to contaminate a girl; to
the vilest examples for misleading the senses and inclinations.
"My mother dying early, the fairest years of my youth were spent with an
aunt, whose principle it was to despise the laws of decency. She
resigned herself headlong to every impulse, careless whether the object
of it proved her tyrant or her slave, so she might forget herself in
wild enjoyment.
"By children, with the pure, clear vision of innocence, what ideas of
men were necessarily formed in such a scene! How stolid, brutally bold,
importunate, unmannerly, was every one she allured! How sated, empty,
insolent, and insipid, as soon as he had had his wishes gratified! I
have seen this woman live, for years, humbled under the control of the
meanest creatures. What incidents she had to undergo! With what a front
she contrived to accommodate herself to her destiny; nay, with how much
skill, to wear these shameful fetters!
"It was thus, my friend, that I became acquainted with your sex; and
deeply did I hate it, when, as I imagined, I observed that even
tolerable men, in their conduct to ours, appeared to renounce every
honest feeling, of which nature might otherwise have made them capable.
"Unhappily, moreover, on such occasions, a multitude of painful
discoveries about my own sex were forced upon me; and, in truth, I was
then wiser, as a girl of sixteen, than I now am, now that I scarcely
understand myself. Why are we so wise when young,--so wise, and ever
growing less so?"
The boy began to make a noise: Aurelia became impatient, and rang. An
old woman came to take him out. "Hast thou toothache still?" said
Aurelia to the crone, whose face was wrapped in cloth. "Unsufferable,"
said the other, with a muffled voice, then lifted the boy, who seemed to
like going with her, and carried him away.
Scarcely was he gone, when Aurelia began bitterly to weep. "I am good
for nothing," cried she, "but lamenting and complaining; and I feel
ashamed to lie before you like a miserable worm. My recollection is
already fled: I can relate no more." She faltered, and was silent. Her
friend, unwilling to reply with a commonplace, and unable to reply with
any thing particularly applicable, pressed her hand, and looked at her
for some time without speaking. Thus embarrassed, he at length took up a
book, which he noticed lying on the table before him: it was
Shakspeare's works, and open at "Hamlet."
Serlo, at this moment entering, inquired about his sister, and, looking
in the book which our friend had hold of, cried, "So you are again at
'Hamlet'? Very good! Many doubts have arisen in me, which seem not a
little to impair the canonical aspect of the play as you would have it
viewed. The English themselves have admitted that its chief interest
concludes with the third act; the last two lagging sorrily on, and
scarcely uniting with the rest: and certainly about the end it seems to
stand stock-still."
"It is very possible," said Wilhelm, "that some individuals of a
nation, which has so many masterpieces to feel proud of, may be led by
prejudice and narrowness of mind to form false judgments; but this
cannot hinder us from looking with our own eyes, and doing justice where
we see it due. I am very far from censuring the plan of 'Hamlet': on the
other hand, I believe there never was a grander one invented; nay, it is
not invented, it is real."
"How do you demonstrate that?" inquired Serlo.
"I will not demonstrate any thing," said Wilhelm: "I will merely show
you what my own conceptions of it are."
Aurelia raised herself from her cushion, leaned upon her hand, and
looked at Wilhelm, who, with the firmest assurance that he was in the
right, went on as follows: "It pleases us, it flatters us, to see a hero
acting on his own strength, loving and hating at the bidding of his
heart, undertaking and completing, casting every obstacle aside, and
attaining some great end. Poets and historians would willingly persuade
us that so proud a lot may fall to man. In 'Hamlet' we are taught
another lesson: the hero is without a plan, but the play is full of
plan. Here we have no villain punished on some self-conceived and
rigidly accomplished scheme of vengeance: a horrid deed is done; it
rolls along with all its consequences, dragging with it even the
guiltless: the guilty perpetrator would, as it seems, evade the abyss
made ready for him; yet he plunges in, at the very point by which he
thinks he shall escape, and happily complete his course.
"For it is the property of crime to extend its mischief over innocence,
as it is of virtue to extend its blessings over many that deserve them
not; while frequently the author of the one or of the other is not
punished or rewarded at all. Here in this play of ours, how strange! The
Pit of darkness sends its spirit and demands revenge: in vain! All
circumstances tend one way, and hurry to revenge: in vain! Neither
earthly nor infernal thing may bring about what is reserved for Fate
alone. The hour of judgment comes; the wicked falls with the good; one
race is mowed away, that another may spring up."
After a pause, in which they looked at one another, Serlo said, "You pay
no great compliment to Providence, in thus exalting Shakspeare; and
besides, it appears to me, that for the honor of your poet, as others
for the honor of Providence, you ascribe to him an object and a plan
such as he himself had never thought of."