Martha’s House.

Martha. [alone] In honest truth, it was not nobly done, In my good spouse to leave me here alone! May God forgive him! while he roams at large, O’er the wide world, I live at my own charge. Sure he could have no reason to complain! So good a wife he’ll not find soon again. [She weeps.] He may be dead!—Ah me!—could I but know, By a certificate, that ’tis really so!

Enter Margaret.

Margaret. Martha!

Martha. What wouldst thou, dear?

Margaret. My knees can scarcely bear me!—only hear! I found a second box to-day Of ebon-wood, just where the first one lay, Brimful of jewels passing rare, Much finer than the others.

Martha. Have a care You keep this well masked from your mother— ’Twould fare no better than the other.

Margaret. Only come near, and see! look here!

Martha. [decking her with the jewels] Thou art a lucky little dear!

Margaret. And yet I dare not thus be seen In church, or on the public green.

Martha. Just come across when you’ve an hour to spare, And put the gauds on here with none to see! Then promenade awhile before the mirror there; ’Twill be a joy alike to thee and me. Then on a Sunday, or a holiday, Our riches by degrees we can display. A necklace first, the drops then in your ear; Your mother sees it not; and should she hear, ’Tis easy to invent some fair pretence or other.

Margaret. But whence the pretty caskets came? I fear There’s something in it not right altogether. [Knocking.] Good God!—I hear a step—is it my mother?

Martha. [looking through the casement] ’Tis a strange gentleman. Come in!

Enter Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles. I hope the ladies will not think me rude, That uninvited thus I here intrude. [Observing Margaret, he draws back respectfully.] I have commands for Mistress Martha Schwerdtlein.

Martha. For me? what has the gentleman to say?

Mephistopheles. [softly to her] Excuse my freedom. I perceive that you Have visitors of rank to-day; For this time I shall bid adieu, And after dinner do myself the pleasure To wait upon you, when you’re more at leisure.

Martha. [aloud] Think, child! of all things in the world the last! My Gretchen for a lady should have passed!

Margaret. The gentleman is far too good; I’m a poor girl—boast neither wealth nor blood. This dress, these jewels, are not mine.

Mephistopheles. ’Tis not the dress alone that I admire; She has a mien, a gait, a look so fine, That speak the lady more than costliest attire.

Martha. And now your business, sir? I much desire—

Mephistopheles. Would God I had a better tale to tell! Small thanks I should receive, I knew it well. Your husband’s dead—his last fond words I bear.

Martha. Is dead! the good fond soul! O woe! My man is dead! flow, sorrow, flow!

Margaret. Beseech thee, dearest Martha, don’t despair.

Mephistopheles. Now hear my mournful story to the end.

Margaret. I would not love a man on earth, to rend Me thus with grief, when he might hap to die.

Mephistopheles. Joy hath its sorrow, sorrow hath its joy; Twin sisters are they, as the proverb saith.

Martha. Now let me hear the manner of his death.

Mephistopheles. Where Padua’s sacred turrets rise, Above the grave of holy Antony, On consecrated ground thy husband lies, And slumbers for eternity.

Martha. No further message? is this all?

Mephistopheles. Yes! one request, and that not small. For his soul’s peace, your good man wanted Three hundred masses to be chanted. This is the whole of my commission.

Martha. What! not a jewel? not a coin? No journeyman, however poor, However wild, could make such an omission, But in the bottom of his pouch is sure To keep some small memorial for his wife, And rather beg, and rather pine Away the remnant of his life—

Mephistopheles. Madam! for your hard case I greatly grieve, But your good husband had no gold to leave. His sins and follies he lamented sore— Yes! and bewailed his own mishap much more.

Margaret. Alas for all the miseries of mankind! He shall not want my oft-repeated prayer.

Mephistopheles. [to Margaret] Thou, gentle heart, dost well deserve to find A husband worthy of a bride so fair.

Margaret. Ah no!—for that, it is too soon.

Mephistopheles. A lover, then, might in the meantime do. ’Tis bounteous Heaven’s choicest boon To fondle in one’s arms so sweet a thing as you.

Margaret. Such things are never done with us.

Mephistopheles. Done or not done!—it may be managed thus:—

Martha. Now let me hear!

Mephistopheles. By his death-bed I stood. It was a little better than of dung, Of mouldy straw; there, as a Christian should, With many a sin repented on his tongue, He died.—“Oh! how must I,” he said, “Myself detest so to throw up my trade, And my dear wife abandon so! It kills me with the simple memory, oh! Might she but now forgive me, ere I die!”

Martha. [weeping] Good soul! I have forgiven him long ago.

Mephistopheles. [continuing his interrupted narrative] And yet was she, God knows, much more to blame than I.

Martha. What! did he lie? on the grave’s brink to lie!

Mephistopheles. He fabled to the last, be sure, If I am half a connoisseur. “In sooth, I had no time to gape,” he said, “First to get children, then to get them bread, To clothe them, and to put them to a trade, From toil and labor I had no release, And could not even eat my own thin slice in peace.”

Martha. Can it then be? has he forgotten quite My fag and drudgery, by day and night?

Mephistopheles. Not quite! attend the sequel of my tale. “When last we sailed from Malta”—so he said, “For wife and children fervently I prayed, And Heaven then blew a favorable gale. We came across a Turkish ship that bore Home bullion to increase the Sultan’s store, And soon, by valor’s right, were masters Of all the Infidel piastres; The precious spoil was shared among the crew, And I received the part that was my due.”

Martha. But where and how?—has he then buried it?

Mephistopheles. Who knows where the four winds have hurried it! A lady took him under her protection At Naples, as he wandered to and fro; She left him many a mark of her affection, As to his life’s end he had cause to know.

Martha. The knave, to treat his helpless orphans so! To all our misery and all our need, Amid his reckless life, he gave no heed!

Mephistopheles. And for that cause he’s dead. If I were you, Now mark me well, I tell you what I’d do; I’d mourn him decently for one chaste year, Then look about me for another dear.

Martha. Alas! God knows it would be hard to find Another so completely to my mind. A better-hearted fool you never knew, A love of roving was his only vice; And foreign wine, and foreign women too, And the accursèd gambling dice.

Mephistopheles. Such marriage-articles were most convenient, Had he to you been only half so lenient. On terms like these myself had no objection To change with you the ring of conjugal affection.

Martha. You jest, mein Herr!

Mephistopheles. [aside] A serious jest for me! I’d better go; for, if I tarry here, She’ll take the devil at his word, I fear. [To Margaret.] How stands it with your heart then?—is it free?

Margaret. I scarce know what you mean.

Mephistopheles. Sweet guileless heart! Ladies, farewell!

Margaret. Farewell!

Martha. One word before we part! I fain would have it solemnly averred, How my dear husband died, and where he was interred. Order was aye my special virtue; and ’Tis right both where and when he died should stand In the newspapers.

Mephistopheles. Yes, when two attest, As Scripture saith, the truth is manifest. I have a friend, who, at your requisition, Before the judge will make a deposition. I’ll bring him here.

Martha. Yes, bring him with you, do!

Mephistopheles. And we shall meet your fair young lady too? [To Margaret.] A gallant youth!—has been abroad, and seen The world—a perfect cavalier, I trow.

Margaret. ’Twould make me blush, should he bestow A single look on one so mean.

Mephistopheles. You have no cause to be ashamed before The proudest king that ever sceptre bore.

Martha. This evening, in the garden then, behind The house, you’ll find warm hearts and welcome kind!