But for the letters of fire that burns one's brain the place
would be as black as night; and it is still as night; one can sit and
listen. And now that dull throbbing sound--and a strain of music--is it
the young wife who, all unknowing, is digging her husband's grave? How
sad she is! She pities the poor prisoner, whoever he may be. She would
not dig this grave if she knew: she calls herself _Fidelio_; she is
faithful to her love. But now--but now--though this hole is black as
night, and silent, and the waters are lapping outside, cannot one know
what is passing there? There are some who are born to be happy. Ah, look
at the faithful wife now, as she strikes off her husband's
fetters--listen to the glad music, _destin ormai felice!_--they take
each other's hand--they go away proudly into the glad daylight--husband
and wife together for evermore. This poor prisoner listens, though his
heart will break. The happy music grows more and more faint--the husband
and wife are together now--the beautiful white day is around them--the
poor prisoner is left alone: there is no one even coming to bid him
farewell.
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