M E L C H I O R G A B O R

“What?  —Why wouldn’t I speak with Wendla Bergmann if we should come upon one another in the woods? We have NO NEED of a cause greater than a Sunday school childhood in common. Do you know she still goes to the houses of the day laborers with baskets of charity! AND—” How absurd the derailing question feels as it pulls him along off the course of his own thoughts-- these maddening worries that spin away within but have no satisfactory point of emission. And suddenly it feels as though his best friend has seen through the wool he meant not to wear and spied the wolf beneath; that rabid beast that savaged the girl in question— the one he mistakes for the object of Moritz's concern. Perhaps the question is not what cause he has to speak with that old friend, but rather what disastrous folly had taken hold of him that allowed him to think they could linger in each other's company and trade time and words as equals! He becomes infected with that same malaise that so troubles his friend and against which he thought himself innoculated by knowledge. Is it all truly destined to be as terrible as Moritz frets? Must it be? He is shaken. Not by all that he does not know— no, he has always understood that there is so much more to be known yet, but by the neck-prickling thought that he must question all that he thought already known.

The apology had been reflex, and having it examined, having it put under the scrutiny of YET ANOTHER QUESTION renders Moritz dumb. She can feel her insides all twisted up, accompanied by a nausea that would seem to indicate these and all her other internal gore was attempting to push itself out through her mouth and turn her entirely inside out. (An ugly imagining, that! Why think a nasty thing like that? It would hurt. It would hurt. Why doesn’t that revolt her?) But Melchior SAVES her yet again, mercifully skimming past this question. It doesn’t spare her must pain, though, when his words come to her father.

“Nor I!” comes the simple, agonized reply, and it threatens to become a sob, or else a laugh. Either would be possible in this exasperated state. Finally her head tips back and she looks about the room with weary, wary eyes. “I know that I am meant to SUCCEED, and that the bank should fall to me if I do. I know ——— I know I’ll die if I fail. I know it. … It’s getting dark out, Melchi, they’ll want me back — he’ll want —!” Is she trying to escape the inquisition with this reminder, or is it only a new source of dread; does she want Melchior to ask her to STAY? “I’ll yet forget that. I will, if only you wouldn’t speak of— I’m sorry,” she says again before she can bite it back. Her voice trembles more now, and the words come fast and desperate. “I shouldn’t argue. If I say you’re right, if I say I want to be treated well, would that be enough? If I say it hurts me — they hurt me — he hurts me — and I don’t want it…? That I want a kind hand and that I wish—! Tell me what I’m supposed to say, Melchi. Tell me please, and I’ll listen now. I’ll listen and I’ll forget it’s dark out.”

How troubled Moritz looked! Any other pair of eyes upon her would have been moved towards deep worry for the girl, surely-- but not Melchior, who was all too familiar with her life-long anxiety. This was just a moment such as any other moment in their friendship, in which his dearest and closest companion felt buffeted about by the waves of life. Here he was the brave and rogue captain, steady atop a vessel of his own command, parting the swells of life’s currents boldly, while Moritz simply suffered along in a dinghy-- green with sickness. It felt to him as though this had always been so-- how far back would he have had to reach in memory to find a Moritz who was not panicked and suffering from one thing or another?

Now when he hears that strangle in her voice, the indecision between laughter and crying, he is only so moved by it. Perhaps he should feel more-- or notice that these days her panic ratchets higher and higher for reasons so silly, yet ultimately he is distracted by the shake-up and goings on of his own world. Wendla has yet to have truly left his mind...

“It’s not easy as all that, Moritz.” This he says with almost a laugh, a gentle shake of that shoulder beneath his hand prompting her to meet his mischievous gaze. “That’s just what they say.” Here he pulled away, acting now, his bedroom becoming a stage where he performs for her--- a hand held to his collar, his face a mask of horror. “Oh, I would die of shame! Oh, OH! They died of fright!” Snippets overheard as parts of other terrible conversations, Melchior’s voice a mocking pantomime of the adult women of their town and what he considers their fear-mongering. This irreverent response is his answer to her plea for help, an excuse for her to stay and be calmed from all her worries. “Have you heard the one about Herr Braun’s hair turning white from it? As if the chemistry of our bodies worked that way!”

Laughter, then a pause that turns awkward.

“Did you know that Martha’s parents beat her?” It is what comes to mind now and tumbles out of his mouth. How sudden the come-down from his momentary playful high! When did he fall asleep and awaken in a town of such savages? Why now does he hear of the cruelties his school and age mates experience in their deceptively happy homes? It seems contrary to his observations of nature that this should be the way the adults wish to train them towards happiness and success. Is it a sign of him becoming one of them that now along with the manly itch that visits him there is too that other wicked urge-- the same that allowed him to take that cursed switch to Wendla’s legs?

all my soul craves on this day is some martha/moritz why does the world fail me why must everyone be so blind to the potential in this ship?