a pine.
At that time his beard was still black as coal. Many a girl that would
gladly have married him set her cap at him; that I knew. But to me he
seemed too serious, too severe. He took everything so seriously, and he
cared nothing for amusements. It was no easy matter to accommodate
myself to him. I never had to worry about the means of subsistence; and
if I should say that he ever treated me harshly, I should be telling a
lie; even if he pretended to be harsh.

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 no