MARY.

And that was all you had expected?  Was that all.

SOPHY.

As if the good Lord could grant everything that is dreamt of by the heart of a girl who herself does not know what she desires!  But here comes Robert.  We will be quite merry, so that no gloomy thoughts will come to him.

SCENE II

Enter ROBERT.

ROBERT.

Good morning, mother dear.  Good morning, Mary.

SOPHY.

Good morning, Mr. Bridegroom-to-be.

ROBERT.

How glad I am to see you so cheerful.  But you Mary?  You are sad, Mary?  And I am so joyful, so over-joyful.  The whole morning I have been in the forest.  Where the bushes glistened brightest with the dew, there I penetrated, so that the moist branches should strike my heated face.  There I threw myself down on the grass.  But I could not stay anywhere.  It seemed that nothing could relieve me but weeping aloud.  And you—­at other times as blithe and gay as a deer—­you are sad?  Sad on this day?

SOPHY.  She surely is glad, dear Robert.  But you have known her ever since she was a little child; when others proclaim their happiness, she hides hers in silence.  MARY.  No, Robert.  Sad I surely am not.  I only have a feeling of solemnity; it has been upon me the whole morning.  Wherever I go, it seems to me as though I were in church.  And—­

ROBERT.

And what?

MARY.

And that now my life is soon to be broken off behind me, as if it were sinking away from under me, and that a new life is to begin, one so entirely new—­don’t be offended, good Robert!  This to me is so strange—­gives me such a feeling of anxiety!

ROBERT.

A new life?  A life so entirely new?  Why, Mary, it is still the old life, only more beautiful.  It is still the dear old tree under which we are sitting, only it is in bloom now.

MARY.

Besides, the thought that I am to leave my father and my mother!  The old I see passing away, the new I do not see coming; the old I must leave, the new I cannot reach.

ROBERT.

Must you indeed leave your father?  Do we not all remain together?  Has not my father for this very reason bought the estate of Duesterwalde?

SOPHY.

That is the anxiety which comes over one in spring; one knows not whence it comes, nor why.  And yet in spring one knows that everything will become more and more beautiful, and still one feels anxious.  One is merely afraid of happiness.  Now that my dearest wishes are about to be fulfilled—­do I not experience the same sensation?  I might almost wish that a roast were burnt, or that a piece of the fine china were broken.  Happiness is like the sun:  There must be a little shade if man is to be comfortable.  I will just go to see whether a little shade of that sort has not been cast in the kitchen.