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Project Gutenberg EPUB3 edition
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, Clarke, Harry, and Taylor, Bayard
MARTHA
Continue, pray!
MEPHISTOPHELES
I stood beside his bed of dying. ’Twas something better than manure,— Half-rotten straw: and yet, he died a Christian, sure, And found that heavier scores to his account were lying. He cried: “I find my conduct wholly hateful! To leave my wife, my trade, in manner so ungrateful! Ah, the remembrance makes me die! Would of my wrong to her I might be shriven!”
MARTHA (weeping)
The dear, good man! Long since was he forgiven.
MEPHISTOPHELES
“Yet she, God knows! was more to blame than I.”
MARTHA
He lied! What! On the brink of death he slandered?
MEPHISTOPHELES
In the last throes his senses wandered, If I such things but half can judge. He said: “I had no time for play, for gaping freedom: First children, and then work for bread to feed ’em,— For bread, in the widest sense, to drudge, And could not even eat my share in peace and quiet!”
MARTHA
Had he all love, all faith forgotten in his riot? My work and worry, day and night?
MEPHISTOPHELES
Not so: the memory of it touched him quite. Said he: “When I from Malta went away My prayers for wife and little ones were zealous, And such a luck from Heaven befell us, We made a Turkish merchantman our prey, That to the Soldan bore a mighty treasure. Then I received, as was most fit, Since bravery was paid in fullest measure, My well-apportioned share of it.”
MARTHA
Say, how? Say, where? If buried, did he own it?
MEPHISTOPHELES
Who knows, now, whither the four winds have blown it? A fair young damsel took him in her care, As he in Naples wandered round, unfriended; And she much love, much faith to him did bear, So that he felt it till his days were ended.
MARTHA
The villain! From his children thieving! Even all the misery on him cast Could not prevent his shameful way of living!
MEPHISTOPHELES
But see! He’s dead therefrom, at last. Were I in your place, do not doubt me, I’d mourn him decently a year, And for another keep, meanwhile, my eyes about me.
MARTHA
Ah, God! another one so dear As was my first, this world will hardly give me. There never was a sweeter fool than mine, Only he loved to roam and leave me, And foreign wenches and foreign wine, And the damned throw of dice, indeed.
MEPHISTOPHELES
Well, well! That might have done, however, If he had only been as clever, And treated your slips with as little heed. I swear, with this condition, too, I would, myself, change rings with you.
MARTHA
The gentleman is pleased to jest.
MEPHISTOPHELES
I’ll cut away, betimes, from here: She’d take the Devil at his word, I fear.
(To MARGARET)
How fares the heart within your breast?
MARGARET
What means the gentleman?
MEPHISTOPHELES (aside)
Sweet innocent, thou art!
(Aloud.)
Ladies, farewell!