"For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor,Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;A violet in the youth of primy nature,Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,The perfume and suppliance of a minute;No more.""No more but so?"
"For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor,Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;A violet in the youth of primy nature,Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,The perfume and suppliance of a minute;No more.""No more but so?"
"For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favor,Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;A violet in the youth of primy nature,Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,The perfume and suppliance of a minute;No more."
"No more but so?"
The blood fled from her eager face, her thin white fingers stirred convulsively, as she heard the wise, kind, chilling answer of Laertes:
"Think it no more.For nature, crescent, does not grow aloneIn thews and bulk; but, as this temple waxes,The inward service of the mind and soulGrows wide withal."
"Think it no more.For nature, crescent, does not grow aloneIn thews and bulk; but, as this temple waxes,The inward service of the mind and soulGrows wide withal."
"Think it no more.For nature, crescent, does not grow aloneIn thews and bulk; but, as this temple waxes,The inward service of the mind and soulGrows wide withal."
A pathetic, bewildered expression clouded her countenance, until soon, forgetful of herself and suddenly responsive to some lofty thought, some heroic passion, the light and color rippled again over brow and cheek, and a faint smile of irrepressible delight played upon her lips. When it was over, all crowded around Goethe with enthusiastic applause, while most of them added their thanks to Alide for having procured them so memorable an entertainment. In her graceful manner she did not deny herself the little pride of having shone through him.
There was much discussion at table about the play. This chance company of moderately-cultivated and ordinarily intelligent people were perhaps better able to form a correct and impartial judgment than if they had been a society of critics and Shakspeare's compatriots. Each one of Goethe's listeners heard the drama with a mind totally unbiased by any preconceived idea, and it broke upon them with all the freshness and beauty of a new work of art, the final result of the philosophy and aspiration of centuries. An Englishman would have been highly amused at the naïf admiration, the frank suggestions, the astonishment and enthusiasm of this foreign circle.
"Do you not find rather inconsistent with Hamlet's tender and sensitive temperament, Herr Goethe," suggested old Mr. Burkhardt, "the summary manner in which he disposes of the body of Polonius?"
"Nature, nature, sir!" cried Goethe; "nothing so natural as Shakspeare's men. Alas! how can our age form a judgment as to what is natural; we who from youth upwards feel everything within us, and see everything in others, laced up and decorated? I am often ashamed before Shakspeare, for it happens that at the first glance I think to myself, I should have done differently; but soon I perceive that I am a poor sinner, that nature prophesies through Shakspeare, and that my men are soap-bubbles blown from romantic fancies."
"I must confess," said Anna, "that I do not know much about the poetry; but the interest of the story never flagged for a moment."
"And yet there seemed to be no action, properly so called," interposed a young man near Goethe; "but only a development of the strange character of Hamlet."
"You are right," answered Goethe; "Shakspeare's plots, as they are called, are no plots. All his plays turn upon the hidden point which no philosopher has yet seen and defined, in which the peculiarity of our Ego, the pretended freedom of our will, clashes with the necessary course of the whole."
"I think it is very unsatisfactory," said Rahel, in her blunt way, "not to know so much at the end of a play as whether the hero was really in love or not. Was Hamlet in love with Ophelia, Wolfgang?"
Alide started as though she herself had been the object of her sister's inquiry. There was a general smile at the abruptness of the question, and Goethe himself seemed rather disconcerted.
"My clever little Mademoiselle Rahel," said he, at last, "you have hit upon the most vexed question concerning our melancholy hero. I believe that scarcely any two readers of Shakspeare have precisely the same idea in regard to Hamlet's feeling for Ophelia. In regard to hers for him, in spite of the exquisite delicacy and modesty of her character, there can, unfortunately for her, be no doubt."
Why did Alide feel as if a loved hand had struck her a sudden blow? "But you do not answer me,—what is your opinion?" persisted Rahel.
"My opinion," answered he, after a brief pause, "is that he sincerely loved her—before the opening of the play. She was the sweetheart of his boyhood, the companion of his hours of recreation. But from the moment that his capacities are disclosed to him by the revelation from another world, he is bound by the highest duty of man—that which he owes himself—to discard everything that can cramp or impede the development of his own nature, and the fulfilment of the sacred office to which he is called. The beauty and sweetness of Ophelia's character cannot be exaggerated, yet she is no mate for Hamlet. He simply outgrows her; or rather, in binding himself to her, he had underestimated his own powers, and after these have been supernaturally revealed to him it is impossible for him to return to his earlier position. His heart remains true to her, but his whole intellectual nature has gone beyond her."
"On one point I cannot agree with you," answered the young man who had previously spoken: "I think Opheliawasthe proper wife for Hamlet. Her character had all the grace, lightness, sentiment, and simplicity which his lacked, and only she, to my thinking, could have saved him, if he had but seen it in time, from the sombre madness and melancholy which ultimately destroyed him."
Goethe remained silent for a moment, and then replied, thoughtfully, "Perhaps it was Shakspeare's intention to suggest that. Such a result as you imagine is, unfortunately, one of those events that we never foresee betimes. Yes," he added, brightening again, "I return to what I said first,—that is nature. It would not have been natural if Hamlet could have studied the complications of his destiny with as clear a mind as the poet. It is pleasant to think that Shakspeare was mistaken, that we should have been nobler and truer than Hamlet, but I am afraid he shows us only too plainly how each one of us would have treated that 'Rose of May,' if we had been in Hamlet's position."
To all present, save one, this conversation appeared no more than the most indifferent criticism of an abstract subject. Alide felt her heart like lead in her bosom; her head burned and throbbed, her hands, by turns icy cold and feverishly hot, trembled. She was possessed by the illusion that it was she who was the subject of the cold comments or the galling compassion of all around her. She breathed more freely when the topic of Hamlet was finally dismissed, and when the company dispersed she had gradually regained her outward composure.
Goethe was, as usual, the last to take his leave. While he was bidding good-night to the other members of the family, Alide remained apart, seated by the table where he had read. When he came towards her, the devoted girl forgot her own trouble the moment her eyes fell upon his altered face. The color had faded from his cheeks, his eyes were sunken and haggard, and a strange contraction of the muscles of his forehead gave him a distressed and wearied expression which she had never seen before.
"My darling, what is the matter with you?" whispered she, in alarm, with the tenderness of voice and manner which she was accustomed to receive from him. "You have done too much this evening,—you are over-fatigued,—you are ill. Wolfgang, what is it?" And she took his large, shapely hand caressingly between her two little cold palms.
"Do not be foolish, sweetheart," said he, forcing a smile. "Have you never seen me tired before? A night's sleep will bring me up again. Meanwhile, do you sleep sweetly and dream of other things." He kissed her hurriedly for good-night. "Till to-morrow!" he cried, in a cheerful voice, and in a moment he was out of the house. He, on his part, had not remarked the icy chill of those affectionate hands that pressed his own, the unnatural brilliancy of the dilated eyes, the crimson spot of fever that glowed on either cheek, and the burning heat of the smooth white forehead which his lips had lightly touched. It was Madame Duroc who perceived, with a terrible sensation of oppression and anxiety, the unusual appearance of her child, and yet dared not express her sympathy by the slightest emphasis of affection. She felt that whatever trouble Alide was enduring now must be borne alone, and if it were not to pass away its solace must be left to a later period. All night the pious mother was awake, constantly invoking the blessing of Heaven upon the dear young head. She knew that the child of her heart, ill, helpless, and alone, was for the first time learning to suffer.
When Goethe hurried from the Burkhardts' home, there was a tumult in his brain, a heat and fever in his blood, a lassitude in his limbs, which he did not remember to have experienced before. A night's sleep would restore him, he had assured Alide; but when he issued into the soft night-air he said to himself that this was better than to toss uncomfortably upon his pillow, for in his nervously-excited condition sleep was an impossibility. It was past midnight, and the streets were silent and black with shadows, relieved only by the white splendor of the moon that floated high above the house-tops. He walked at a rapid pace, but not in the direction of his lodging. Contrary to his usual habit, he took no note of the beauty of the night, and the quiet, restful appearance of the sleeping town. Overcome by poignant regrets, gloomy self-reproaches, and morose imaginings of the future, he yielded to the influence of a morbid despair. He saw himself faithless to the highest responsibilities of his life. On one side his fate called out, summoning him to an austere and lofty career, to the noblest achievements and the purest rewards; on the other, a clinging, affectionate child held him to the earth, fettered, cramped, and bound with chains of flowers. What was he doing with his youth? To whom was he about to sacrifice the convictions, the activity, of his richest and strongest years of manhood? And yet, whenever the image of that beautiful young face, ennobled as it was by a pure and deep passion, formed itself upon his brain, he felt his heart beat faster and the old yearning and unrest fill his bosom. At that moment all was dark within him,—whether he truly loved, or whether he yielded to a weak, ephemeral fancy; whether he himself was the Goethe of his imagination, or merely an ordinary foolish and capricious young man, stayed entirely by insane ambition and fantastic illusions. He raised his head, and, with a passionate movement, clasped his hands, extended them wide, and let them drop by his sides, in a mute appeal to the mysterious forces of night. He had unconsciously walked towards the river, and the unexpected sight of the smooth black stream with its glittering reflections, and of the immense reach of star-sprinkled sky above, holding in its pale depths the bright, benign face of the moon, awakened him at once from the sombre unreality of his reverie to the beautiful actual world. The exquisite aspect of the June night seemed almost to give a direct answer to the cry of his agitated soul. Sweet and holy influences appeared to descend from those remote heavens upon his head, which he bared as if in prayer. Like the touch of his mother's hand the fitful yet indescribably gentle whiffs of breeze passed caressingly over his brow. He did not try to account for the sudden serenity which filled his breast after its recent turmoil and fever. This was true rest, he said to himself, this conscious repose, so different from the brutish oblivion of sleep. And yet, as the first streaks of dawn broke over the river, he was aware of an aching weariness in his limbs and a chill throughout his frame. He felt as one who has been scourged; his eyes burned, his hands trembled. With a painful effort he hurried to his lodging, flung himself, sick and shivering, upon his bed, and was immediately possessed by the profound sleep of utter exhaustion.
Alide awoke early, after an unrefreshing night disturbed by exaggerated dreams. At the hour that Goethe returned to his room, she rose and watched from her window the break of day. Even over the city streets the slow, majestic approach of morning brought its accustomed encouragement to her soul. Distressing as her sleep had seemed, it had nevertheless sufficed to restore the even flow of her blood. She recalled with astonishment her gloomy presentiments of the preceding evening, and the absurd fancy of identifying herself with Ophelia. "'Till to-morrow!' were his last cheerful words," she thought; "and to-morrow has already come." And a smile of tranquil joy broke upon her face as she raised her eyes and beheld the subdued light and delicate colors of the morning sky. A little breeze from over the river blew softly on her cheeks. At this moment of sacred expectancy just preceding the splendor of a new day, her heart was filled with pious gratitude and adoration.
She was startled from her reverie by the voice of her sister, who turned restlessly in the bed. "Alide, what are you doing so early by the open window?"
"I am at my matins," answered Alide. "Are you sleepy, Rahel?" she asked, advancing towards the bed. "Or do you care to get up with me and look at this beautiful sunrise?"
"No, I am not sleepy," replied Rahel, rising, with flushed cheeks and bright wide eyes. "I have been watching you a long time. You seemed so happy, I wondered what you could be thinking about. I had something to tell you, but I would not interrupt you. Were you really at your prayers?—you were not on your knees."
"I scarcely know myself, sister," answered Alide, with a laugh and a slight blush. "I was very peaceful and happy just then, and yet I could hardly tell you what I was thinking about. Come, put a shawl about your shoulders, and you can tell me in the window all you have to say."
"Well, I am tired enough of these hot pillows," said Rahel, who had slept like a tired child all night. And, drawing about her her little, loose white gown, she followed her sister to the window.
The city was still wrapped in a tender shadow, and the sky full of color, but without a gleam of radiance. In a moment, and as if unexpectedly, the clear sunbeams darted above the horizon, glistening over roofs and steeples, and as suddenly sprang into relief against the blue background the illuminated spire of Strasburg Cathedral. Rahel gave a little sigh. The sunlight fell into the room and dazzled their eyes. She closed the jalousies with an impatient movement, and shut out the bright picture of morning. "Yes, it is beautiful," said she; "but it only makes me think the more of morning over the meadows and mountains at home. Oh, Alide, I am so unhappy here!" And, covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.
Alide looked at her in surprise, and tried to calm her. "Yes," continued Rahel, when she had recovered sufficient composure to speak; "I have fought against it long enough. I can endure it no longer. Everything I do turns out to be a blunder. I sit among these fine ladies dumb and awkward as a peasant. I do not dress nor talk like them, nor belong to their world. When I am with Anna, I ask myself a hundred times a day what it is that puts her above me, that makes me feel like an ignorant child in her presence. She is no older than I am, she is not pretty, she is not clever, and I do not think she is kind. She is so sweet and gracious to every one's face, and yet she is spiteful enough behind their back sometimes. No, I could never be like her. And yet Gretchen is worse, for she mortifies me, and laughs at my mistakes, and makes them seem so droll to everybody else. Oh, Alide, are you not ready to go home?"
"Surely our going home does not depend upon me," said Alide. "I never suspected you were so unhappy. I will go whenever you please,—to-morrow, or Thursday. What day shall we say?"
"Do you really promise to go so soon?" cried Rahel, eagerly. "Of course it depends upon you. Mamma told me in advance that she wished to wait, for it could not be long, until you and Wolfgang had made some definite arrangement, had settled the day of your marriage at least. What will she say when she knows I have forced you home so soon? Am I not selfish and vain and—"
"Hush, Rahel," interposed Alide, gently; "you are nothing of the kind. You and mamma and all the rest are only too good to me. But no one need think that it is you who persuade me to leave: I am quite ready myself to go."
"But is it indeed too soon?" asked Rahel, remorsefully. "Have you decided upon anything? When shall you be married, Alide?"
"Oh, as to that, never mind," said Alide, with confusion. "We can arrange that at the parsonage as well as we could here, where there is always a certain constraint. But you, at any rate, need not suffer any longer."
Rahel kissed her sister impetuously, and cried, "Dear little Baby, you have grown older and wiser than I." And then, with a free heart once more, she confided to Alide her hopes and plans for her own wedding, which was to take place early in the following autumn.
She was quite like the Rahel of Sesenheim again, cheerful, merry, and talkative, when she appeared among the Burkhardt family. But Alide was thoughtful and abstracted: her sister's confession as to the real object of their visit awoke her somewhat roughly to a sense of the actual demands of her position. She could not but acknowledge to herself that she was no nearer a definite agreement with Goethe, concerning their mutual prospects, than the day she had first seen him; and in the eyes of the world they were betrothed. But nothing was to be gained by remaining in Strasburg; she felt a sincere compassion for her sister's vexations and homesickness, and was glad for her sake to leave. She did not dare to ask whether she herself were happy here; she would not have confessed in her inmost thoughts that the presence of Goethe was not all-sufficing for her; but she was conscious of an unrest and oppression ever since she had been in the city, which she attributed to the novelty and uncongeniality of town-life.
She was more impatient than usual for the hour of Goethe's accustomed visit. Punctually at one o'clock he was in the habit of presenting himself daily at the Burkhardts' house, and they generally passed the remainder of the day together. Perhaps when she told him so unexpectedly that she must leave Strasburg, he would come to some decision.
The morning passed slowly and quietly. At noon some visitors were announced, and the Duroc girls were called to receive them with their cousins. Alide's picturesque white skirt and, bodice displayed to perfection the grace and symmetry of her form; a silver comb fastened above her stately little head the loose twists of her auburn braids. Her face was transparently pale, and her eyes had the languid, drooping expression produced by a night of insufficient sleep. The strangers were charmed with her, and when the clock struck one they showed no intention of taking their leave. Her answers became more and more brief and abstracted; her eyes wandered continually to the door, which did not open; she grew restless and alarmed.
"Will you not, my dear?" were the words, uttered in a coaxing tone, that startled her from her reverie, and she found that she was expected to sing.
"One of the genuine Volkslieder, cousin," said Anna.
It was such a relief to Alide to know what they were talking about, that she rose willingly to go to the harpsichord. Who does not know the rapidly-succeeding emotions of vexation, uneasiness, anxiety, and fear in waiting beyond the appointed time for one who is dear to us? She had sufficient control over her voice to intone some of her Alsatian ballads; the words came mechanically to her lips, but all the time she was repeating to herself, "Why has he not let me know? If anything should happen to him! My darling, how harassed he looked last evening!" Before she had finished, the clock struck two; her heart beat high and loud in her breast. They pressed her for more, but she answered, in her simple, child-like way, "Please forgive me; I cannot sing any more just now."
"We are afraid it affects her chest, sometimes," said her mother; "she is so easily tired."
At last, to Alide's indescribable relief, the visit was brought to an end. It was nearly three o'clock: the one thought uppermost in her mind, that Wolfgang was ill, gained strength until it became a terrible certainty. All day her suspense was prolonged, and she was obliged to take part in the accustomed occupations and conversations of the household, and, moreover, to keep constantly on her guard, lest her agitation should be remarked. How could she wait until to-morrow? how could she lie motionless by her sister's side through the interminable hours of the night, and endure this intolerable distress and uncertainty?
Early in the evening a note was handed to her: she hurried to her room, dreading lest she should lose control over herself by a confirmation of her fears or a too sudden reaction of joy. With trembling fingers she broke the seal, and read:
"MY DARLING,—I cannot be with you till to-morrow. I laughed at your fears last evening, but nevertheless my little girl was right, as she always is. This morning I found myself suffering, and only a day in the open air and a wild ride on horseback have made me myself again. I looked forward to seeing you this evening, but an old fellow-student of Leipsic, who is passing through Strasburg to-day, has unexpectedly turned up at my lodgings, and, of course, is with me for the night I must find patience till to-morrow. Shall we not meet to-night in our dreams? I believe it, for my heart is always with you. Sleep well, and believe in the love of your own"Goethe."
"MY DARLING,—I cannot be with you till to-morrow. I laughed at your fears last evening, but nevertheless my little girl was right, as she always is. This morning I found myself suffering, and only a day in the open air and a wild ride on horseback have made me myself again. I looked forward to seeing you this evening, but an old fellow-student of Leipsic, who is passing through Strasburg to-day, has unexpectedly turned up at my lodgings, and, of course, is with me for the night I must find patience till to-morrow. Shall we not meet to-night in our dreams? I believe it, for my heart is always with you. Sleep well, and believe in the love of your own
"Goethe."
The reaction came, but it was not one of joy. She let the note slip from her fingers, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into tears.
Early on the following morning Alide left the house alone. Her grave, preoccupied air, her firm, self-confident carriage, no less than her bourgeois attire, were sufficient protection for her in the city streets. She directed her steps towards the Cathedral, walking as securely and fearlessly as though she were in the meadows at home. She was sick at heart, faint and terrified at the shadow which she foresaw about to fall upon her life, and she had need of solemn meditation and prayer. It was not the hour of service, but the organ was playing, and there were a few worshipers scattered among the aisles. Not far from the entrance knelt a woman in mourning, her face buried in her hands, and her form occasionally convulsed by stifled sobs. Alide could not fail to see her, and a sharp pang of pity smote her heart; but the stranger's grief was sacred, and at that moment beyond her compassion, and, averting her eyes, she glanced up at the altar, bowed her head meekly, folded her hands upon her breast, and sank down upon her knees.
What a throng of powerful emotions filled her heart to bursting and sent the hot tears streaming from her eyes! Could that terrible nightmare be the end of her beautiful dream? With all her might she strove to put the evil thought away from her; she denied it utterly, she tried to stifle it by directing her mind to the contemplation of things holy and eternal. This was the source whence she had never yet failed to draw serenity and courage, and to-day again she succeeded insomuch that when she rose to leave the Minster she was once more at peace. As she walked slowly down the long aisle, she was startled by seeing that the mourner whom she had remarked on entering had fallen from her kneeling posture and was lying motionless with her face downward. She advanced towards her and touched her gently on the shoulder. The woman did not move. "Mein Gott! if she be dead!" thought Alide, in affright, and looked around for help; but there was nobody near, and she did not dare to profane the sacred quiet of the place by a cry or a call. She stooped over the prostrate figure, disencumbered the head from the heavy folds of the veil, and with an effort upraised the face. It was that of a woman scarcely older than herself, of a strange, severe beauty, and its deathly pallor was heightened by the intense blackness of the thick masses of hair that waved over the forehead.
"Poor thing! but it is only a faint," said Alide to herself, as she perceived the slight rise and fall of the woman's chest; and, gently leaning the passive form against a column, she hastened away to beg the assistance of the sacristan. With his aid she gradually succeeded in restoring life to the sick woman, who stirred, opened her closely-locked lips, and raised her large, dark eyes with a bewildered expression. Alide spoke to her, and offered her some water to drink.
"You have not been well, my friend," said she: "are you strong enough now to let us help you out of the church, where you can breathe some fresh air?"
The woman looked at her with a grateful expression, but did not answer; she drank the water which Alide held out to her, and then said, in a low voice, as if she did not expect to be understood, "Je ne comprends pas," and made an effort to rise to her feet.
"Ah, she is a foreigner," grumbled the sacristan. "What is to be done, Fräulein?"
"That is nothing; I will make her understand," replied Alide; and she repeated in French what she had already said. She herself, as her name betokened, was of French descent, and the pastor had instructed his children in that language, which they spoke with rare sweetness and precision.
The stranger looked at her in surprise, and a smile of satisfaction lit up her austere features. "Ah, how good it is to hear one's own language like that!" said she. "You are an angel, mademoiselle. Yes, I am quite strong enough, if this good man will lend me his arm to go into the air. That is what I need. This hot building stifled me; I thought the walls were closing in upon me, I felt myself fall, and then—nothing! Did I cry out? where did you come from? how did you find me?"
She had a wild, almost fierce look in her large eyes, and her voice sounded rather too loud to Alide for the sacred edifice.
"Never mind that now, my friend," answered she: "I will tell you all when we get outside. Only now try to walk a step."
They helped her to her feet, and, leaning heavily on the sacristan's arm, she succeeded in reaching the vestry-room. In spite of her weakness, she absolutely refused to take Alide's hand to enable her to walk, but nevertheless begged her to sit with her a little while until she felt able to go into the street again. The window was open, and the fresh air soon revived her. She sat without speaking, drinking in the soft summer breeze, with her eyes fixed upon the sky. Great tears quivered upon her lashes, but did not fall. Alide had never seen anything more beautiful and more melancholy than this strange face. The features were regular in outline, and severe to sternness, and yet the expression was that of a passionate nature, owing to the sensuous effect of heavy eyebrows that met over the nose, the peculiar glance of the eyes, and the bold appearance given to the whole face by the arrangement of the hair, which was parted at the side, overshadowing with its luxuriance the square forehead. If she had not been so sad, Alide would almost have experienced a sensation of fear. As it was, her tender heart was overflowing with a vast pity; she wondered what the stranger's trouble was, and if it could not be alleviated. But no,—those black mourning robes proved too plainly a trouble that could know no compensation on earth. Thank God, she had been spared an affliction like that! If Wolfgang had died,—no, she could not endure the thought. And to think that this morning she had been miserable, because for a single day he had not cherished her with his wonted devotion! Now she was brought in the presence of grief, and what a mockery it made of her imaginary trouble! Who could be gentle enough to one who had suffered as this poor girl? Actuated by a sudden strong impulse of sympathy and tenderness, Alide stood up by the stranger's side, and, bending over her, kissed her forehead. The woman started and looked at her in amazement; the tears that had stood in her eyes gathered and streamed down her pale cheeks.
"You are an angel of heaven!" she cried. "I am not worthy to touch your pure, kind hand, and you do not hesitate to kiss my brow. But do not be afraid," she added, drawing back; "I will not harm you, I will not come near you; but the good God will let me breathe for a little while the atmosphere of one so pure and so gentle, and only He knows how I have suffered." And, once more averting her head, she leaned against the window and looked up at the sky.
Alide was indeed a little frightened, but her compassion overpowered all other feelings, and, advancing again, she said, "Are you not my sister in Christ? You cannot harm me, my poor girl, but I may help you. You have been ill just now, and you must not excite yourself like this. Sit down by my side, and perhaps you will grow calmer."
The woman dropped upon her knees before Alide, buried her head in the young girl's lap, and sobbed aloud. For a long time Alide talked to her as wisely as she knew, about the blessed consolations of a faith that promised everlasting mercy to the repentant sinner. It was not her words, which were the ordinary commonplaces of every priest and parson, but it was the earnest conviction, the simple piety, and, more than all, the unexampled kindness and sympathy, that softened and quieted the poor, fallen creature at her feet. She listened as if in a dream of peace to this gentle young girl, who seemed to her a living saint; but she did not confess herself: she felt that it would have been a wrong to that innocent, candid soul. At last they separated; the stranger insisted that she was quite able to find her way home alone, and she would not hear of Alide's taking a step with her in the street. Again and again she thanked her for her angelic kindness, and kissed reverently and humbly the hand which Alide offered her at parting. "May I ask you one thing more, mademoiselle?" she said, timidly, after taking a last, long look at the noble, delicate face before her. "Your name?"
"Alide Duroc. And yours, that I may pray for you?"
"Lucinda."
In returning to the Burkhardts' house, Alide felt herself under the influence of a powerful excitement. Her interview with Lucinda had entirely overshadowed her personal trouble, and had revealed to her an abyss of suffering and sin hitherto inconceivable to her joyous, innocent temperament. After a glimpse of such desolation and self-abasement, the recollection of her own happy home, and of the love which encompassed and cherished her, was refreshing as the clear air and sunlight to one who issues from a dungeon. She reproached herself with humility for her recent bitter thoughts; in everything Wolfgang had done she saw now an additional tenderness and consideration. He had not written to her until he could tell her he was well, and then it was only to speak lightly of past suffering; and, instead of understanding and rejoicing, what unjust suspicions had she harbored against him! She longed to see him, to confess her wrong, and ask forgiveness, and to hear him talk once more, in his own wise, generous way, of the duties and compensations of life, in order to reconcile her to her new knowledge of evil. Her whole heart was softened and agitated, and needed to expand in affection and to be quieted by the voice of love.
When she reached the house, Goethe had already arrived. He had come earlier than usual, and was seated in the drawing-room with Madame Burkhardt and her daughter. Alide's accustomed delight at his presence was mingled with disappointment, for she must meet him with forced composure, and continue to repress the emotions which swelled her heart. She found him in high spirits, recounting to her aunt and cousin some droll reminiscences of his student-life at Leipsic, recalled, no doubt, by the visit he had received the previous evening. The old lady and Anna had apparently been enjoying the heartiest laughter, and he himself was beyond measure gay and animated.
"Good-morning, dear friend," he cried, as he rose to greet Alide, taking one of her hands between his own and kissing it lightly. "You ran away from us early; but you have come in time to join us in the pleasantest conversation."
His merry tone jarred harshly upon Alide's mood, but, forcing herself to respond, she answered, with her natural cheerfulness, "I am glad I am not too late. I have stayed longer than I intended at the Cathedral. But tell me first, Wolfgang, are you well to-day?"
"Do I look like an invalid?" said he, turning towards her his laughing face flushed with brilliant color. "I think it must have been a disagreeable dream that I was ill for a half-dozen hours or so," he added, hurriedly; "I cannot believe it to-day. I have been telling Madame Burkhardt and Fraulein Anna of my visitor last evening,—an old fellow-student, Alide,—and it has led me back into I know not what foolish recollections of boyhood."
"Hear the lad! how he talks of his boyhood, as if he were a grandfather!" cried Madame Burkhardt; "and I do not believe it is five years back."
"You are not far wrong," he replied, with a laugh: "my Leipsic days were just six years ago. But I do not parcel out my life in years; I know that I have lived fast and developed quickly, and I know, too, how young I am by the great world-clock, and how much I have to do. No, Madame Burkhardt," he continued, with his former lightness, "indulgent as you are, you would not have tolerated the volatile, overbearing, untamed boor that I was then." And he began again to narrate an incident of that period. He was in his liveliest vein to-day, affording so much entertainment to his listeners that Alide saw little chance of a quiet interview with him. And indeed she almost ceased to desire it as the hour passed by: she could not have uttered to him in his present mood the grave words that had been upon her lips. At last, however, Madame Burkhardt withdrew, after making him promise to dine with them, that she might see him again; and shortly after, Anna discreetly followed her.
"You little runaway!" cried he, as soon as he found himself alone with Alide. "You were cruel enough to punish me for my misfortune yesterday,—was I not punished enough?"
She looked at him in mute reproach. How was it possible to imagine an act of coquetry between herself and him? He saw that he had wounded her, and tried to repair his mistake.
"If I had but known in time that you cared to go so early to the Cathedral, I should have loved to ramble over it again with you. I believe, Alide, if you were to dwell any length of time in Strasburg, the constant presence of that noble monument would gradually bring you into sympathy with the infinite world that opens to the artist's mind. Do you know that some of the grandest of those colossal statues set in the walls are the work of a woman,—Sabina von Steinbach, the daughter of Erwin?"
What was the matter with him to-day? He spoke with evident constraint, and every word he said seemed to force Alide and himself further apart.
"Yes?" answered she, absently. "I did not go there this morning to admire the architecture. And I am not going to dwell any length of time in Strasburg, either," she continued, with a quiet smile. "Do you know that we are going home to-morrow?"
"To-morrow!" cried Goethe, springing from his seat. "But you have only just arrived. And our walks, our river-excursions, our drives, all the pleasure that we promised ourselves together! What is the meaning of this sudden determination?"
She explained to him in a few words the discomfort and humiliation of her sister's position.
"Was that all?" he thought, with a sigh of relief, and he looked quickly and searchingly into Alide's ingenuous face. "I cannot dispute it," answered he: "poor Rahel has been miserably restless and unhappy here; the situation was a novel one for her, and its exactions have chafed terribly her wild spirit. But it is the more admirable how you, Alide, have fitted yourself to each new condition; everywhere you seem free as a bird in the branches."
"Wherever you are, Wolfgang, I am content," she replied, simply.
For a moment he did not speak; then, abruptly looking her full in the face, he pressed her hand warmly.
"You are a good girl, Alide," he said, and began to pace the room, with his eyes cast to the ground.
Alide felt emboldened by his evident agitation to put forward the subject nearest her heart.
"And why, Wolfgang," she began, timidly, "should I remain longer in the city? If mamma and Rahel are happier at home, why should my pleasure detain them? Whither is our present life leading,—and for what are we waiting?" She paused, with her heart in her throat.
"For what are we waiting, indeed?" repeated he, as if to himself, passing his hand over his brow and never stopping in his walk. "My youth is slipping away from me,—the precious years of activity that I had resolved to dedicate to high and serious thought and indefatigable labor. What wild yet glorious visions, what earnest purposes, did not Breitkopf recall to me last night! And is life to charm me also from my convictions, like so many other useless, indolent creatures who loiter by the way and are swept into annihilation by the storm and stress of time? How much longer am I to remain a novice and a pupil?—to squander the priceless gifts of manhood in prattling, and trifling, and dilatory self-indulgence? Everything recalls me to myself: last night it was Breitkopf who startled me by asking what I had done, and what I was doing. I remained dumb and ashamed. A stroke on a canvas, the jingle of a sonnet, a fantastic fairy-tale, are those the work of a man? And at such a moment, too,—when old faiths are passing away, old superstitions are discarded, old prejudices are abandoned, and all Germany in an attitude of expectation awaits the voice that will animate and inspire the souls of her youth."
He paused, and stood before Alide. How completely they failed to understand each other! Was that the response he should have given to her affectionate appeal? and what words had she to offer the need of his spirit? How was she fitted to enter with sympathy and intelligence into the world of his imagination? Her heart was like a stone within her; she saw him gradually passing beyond her narrow sphere into a realm where she could neither meet nor follow him.
He forced himself back from his wild reverie, and quieted himself by talking of her, questioning her again about her departure, and interesting himself in all that concerned her. He wished to accompany her the following day to Drusenheim, where the pastor was to meet his family, but Alide said she would prefer to bid him farewell here, rather than take the chance of parting before strangers at the inn; and as the driver of the diligence had been an old servant of her father's, and all the country-folk knew the Durocs, she had not the slightest fear of returning as she had come. Throughout the remainder of the day they were together, but, whether in the midst of the family group or apart from all, their conversation kept a uniform tone: they did not speak from heart to heart again.
Who has not seen a summer cloud that hangs apparently motionless become, through imperceptible changes, even while the eye is fastened upon it, something other than it was, and slowly dissolve and vanish in the bright ether?
Both Goethe and Alide looked forward with dread to the separation on the morrow; but when it came it was no tragic farewell. At the last moment they found themselves in the midst of the family, where cheerful and affectionate embraces were exchanged, as befitted friends who were separating for a brief term and who would still be but a short distance apart. There was even much merriment among them in the confusion of good-byes. They were all to meet in the autumn at latest for Rahel's wedding, and in the meantime frequent visits to the parsonage were promised by the younger Burkhardts. As for Goethe, he said he would be with them, in a week, if he could snatch a day; and Rahel, who was in high spirits, refused to bid him good-by, in order to insure his coming.
Alide was calm and quiet, and preserved her ordinary appearance and demeanor. All the cheerfulness around her did not deceive her unerring intuitions. "This is the end," she kept repeating mechanically to herself. She was in one of those moods when the necessity of a supreme effort strings the nerves to their utmost tension. She could have laughed as naturally as the rest; she could utter careless words to her kinsfolk, yes, to Wolfgang himself; she could think with a curious accuracy of every detail of their departure and journey; she observed with more than her usual keenness everything around her, whether ludicrous or serious. And all the time there was a leaden weight upon her brain, and she felt as if her heart and soul had been eaten out of her.
The first sensation which Goethe experienced when the diligence rolled away was one of relief, as if of restored freedom; but the next moment he was horrified at his own cowardice. The veil was torn from before him, and he saw clearly the position into which he had drifted. It was not the first time that his susceptible, undisciplined nature had led him into a hasty attachment which could occasion only discord and misery. To his shame he confessed it, but in this case he had bound himself to one so pure and so lovely that to free himself would be dishonor. And yet this affectionate child did not respond in any degree to the demands of his insatiable spirit: his fancy and his sense had been attracted, but the depths of his being had not been stirred. As she herself had said, "If there were a gulf between them now, what would it grow to be when they were man and wife!" His imagination pictured to him in the most forcible colors the hideous dreariness and the ever-increasing unhappiness of a marriage of disparity, where neither the convictions nor the sentiments of man and wife were in harmony. And this was what he must awaken to,—too late, too late! for he could not but acknowledge that now, at whatever sacrifice, he must stand firm. There could no longer be any self-delusion with regard to a higher duty to his art, to the responsibilities of a vocation for which ordinary men were not fitted: his duty to himself had become one with his duty to her.
The more he reflected upon his situation, the more inevitable did this necessity appear to him, and the more hopelessly entangled became the various threads of his life. He plunged into gayety to drown his tormenting thoughts; he devoted himself feverishly to work. After a day's uninterrupted study he would pass the better part of the night in dissipation or dancing. "If you could but see me," he wrote to a friend; "my whole being was sunk in dancing. And yet could I but say I am happy,—that would be better than all. 'Who is it can say, I am at the worst?' says Edgar. That is some comfort, dear friend. My heart is like a weathercock when a storm is rising and the gusts are changeable. All is not clear in my soul. I am too curiously awake not to feel that I grasp at shadows. And yet—to-morrow at seven my horse is saddled, and then adieu!"
The next morning he was on the road to Sesenheim. It was two weeks later than the date of his promised visit, but he had previously lost so much time, and he was so soon to take his degree, that it had been impossible for him to leave the city. He had formed his resolution, and he was about to put an end to all vacillations, and to the torture of self-reproach and unmanly regrets, by confronting and accepting his fate. He galloped along the familiar road in the early sunshine with a concentrated bitterness at heart. This lover who rode at such a wild pace to rejoin his betrothed and to bid her name the day of their union was saying farewell to his freedom at every moment as he advanced.
When he neared the parsonage, he saw in the garden a girl's figure bending to prop up the falling stem of a rose-bush. Her back was towards him, and her head was covered with her large, flat garden-hat. The noise of his horse's hoofs startled her, and she turned quickly: it was Rahel. Her face, which had regained its former child-like vivacity, beamed with delight as she recognized him. "At last!" she cried, and she rose and hastened towards him, dropping with a clatter on the gravel her garden-scissors and spool. "How glad I am to see you! but you are a naughty man to have made us wait so long. Oh, how happy they will all be to know you have come! Will you dismount here? Wait, and I will call Hans." And with a shrill little cry she summoned the servant to lead the horse to the stable; then, shaking Goethe warmly by the hand, she went with him into the house, exclaiming, as she entered, "Papa! Alide! Mamma! Goethe has arrived!"
He followed her as one in a dream: yes, this was his family; here was his home; from to-day henceforward all this little circle was his own. In the library they found the pastor, who welcomed him with the same enthusiastic cordiality that Rahel had shown; and shortly after appeared Frau Duroc. Her manner, less demonstrative than theirs, was unchanged in its matronly dignity and kindness.
"And Alide?" asked Goethe, as soon as he had greeted them all and explained briefly the delay of his own visit.
"She has not been quite herself of late," answered the mother; "though she does not complain. She will be with us directly."
As she spoke, Alide entered the room. Seeing her thus after a separation, Goethe was for the first time conscious of the change that had taken place in her appearance since he had known her. She had developed into a beautiful, serious woman; her expression, no longer that of joyous unconsciousness, was almost melancholy in its thoughtful gravity. She must have been ill during the last three weeks, for her face had grown noticeably thinner, and had lost entirely its glowing bloom of color, while her large, brilliant eyes were hollow and sunken in their orbits and encircled by ominous lines. At this moment, however, a tranquil cheerfulness animated her countenance as she advanced towards Goethe with her usual serene smile. She gave him her hand to kiss, and welcomed him kindly, but with a certain reserve in her manner. She questioned him about himself, his health, his vocations, his approaching examination, everything that interested him, but shrank from all allusion to herself. She denied emphatically that she had been suffering or ill since her return home, and even in doing so a natural little laugh and a momentary flush of color tended to confirm her words.
In a short time the thread of Goethe's intercourse with the family seemed resumed where it had last been dropped. The pastor, who entertained an extravagant admiration and affection for him, found no end of subjects on which to converse, and even to consult, with his young friend. Rahel was once more lively and talkative, and Alide, though unusually taciturn, seemed as cheerful as ever in Goethe's presence. It was not till after dinner that he found himself alone with her.
"Alide, I must say a word to you before I return to Strasburg," he began, hurriedly. "Had we not better go to your arbor?"
An almost imperceptible shudder ran through her frame. "As you please, Goethe," she answered; "though I scarcely think we should be interrupted here."
She had not yet called him Wolfgang in her old child-like, affectionate tone. She went to fetch her hat, and in a few moments they were out of the house together, walking through the fields.
"Before we part again, Alide," said Goethe, in a dry, husky voice, "we must put an end to this unsettled life, which places us both in a false position and creates an unrest for the spirit that precludes all useful activity. We are both very young to marry, I know, and perhaps your parents will not find it fitting that you should leave them so early; but I have reflected, and I think it best that we should be together as soon as possible."
What a poor little stiff speech it was, contrasted with the ardor and fluency of his first passionate declaration! She listened quietly, retaining to the end the same steadfast, unmoved expression. They had reached the arbor, and they entered in silence and seated themselves side by side. It was greener and shadier than when they had first met there in the autumn; the golden lights that fell upon their two youthful figures were rarer, but not less brilliant. A blue July haze hung over the landscape.
"I have a confession to make to you, dear friend," said Alide. Her voice was low, even, and natural, save for a somewhat monotonous ring. "It will give you pain, you will think me heartless and weak and foolish, but some day you will thank me that I have spoken in season. A curious change has taken place in me since I returned from Strasburg. I was able to conceal from you, yes, even from myself, how difficult that restricted conventional town-life was to me, but I was as happy as Rahel when it was brought to an end. To see papa once more, the dear old manse, the open meadows,—all this made my heart stir and leap as nothing had since I left them. I had not been at peace with myself in the city. Everything I had been accustomed to cherish seemed there of so little account. And even you, Goethe, your enthusiasms were not mine, your convictions were far different. Whenever you spoke of the Cathedral, I felt a shock and a pang. All the sacred mysteries of our faith, so inestimably precious to me, were naught to you. I was distressed by a thousand conflicting ideas and emotions, I who had been used to see all things simply and clearly. No, I was not happy there; but here I have regained my former contentment and tranquillity. You, dear friend, will advance on a brilliant, an unexampled career; but if I be drawn from my proper element I shall suffocate and die. Is it not better to part at the beginning of the roads, before they diverge too widely? I also have seen something of unhappy marriages. You are not the man, Goethe, to whom a woman should give herself with reserve and restrictions. If I cannot say, 'Wherever you go, I will follow; for you I will sacrifice my parents, my home, my pursuits, my life,—and it will be no sacrifice, but a free and joyous gift,'—if I cannot say that, I know that I have no right to call myself your wife."
She paused, but Goethe was so amazed and bewildered that he made no reply. He had listened to her in a sort of stupor, with his eyes fixed upon the prospect below him, of which he saw nothing. Alide had made her "confession" with as little sentiment as if she were reciting a studied part: her face was unnaturally white, her hands rested listlessly upon her straw hat, which she had taken off and laid upon her lap. But after she had finished speaking, in the moment of silence that ensued, the blood rushed into her cheeks, and a smile, as of the dawning of a new hope, kindled her whole countenance. Still, he neither spoke nor turned towards where she sat. The light died from her face, and a violent shudder ran through her frame; she raised her hand, passed it twice quickly over her brow and eyes, and then, almost involuntarily outstretching it towards Goethe, clasped his own, and, with a supplicating note in her voice strangely at variance with her cold words, she cried, "But, oh, Goethe! surely you will not withdraw from me your friendship?"
He started, and looked at her for the first time during their interview: her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes glittered with a peculiar light which he had never seen in them before. Something of his old tenderness of manner returned as he beheld the beautiful, agitated little face.
"You foolish child," he began, and kissed the icy hand that rested upon his own. "But no: I have not the right to speak to you in this way. You are no child, but a noble, true-hearted woman. To speak the truth as you have done, Alide, simply and fearlessly, requires something heroic. But I will not abide by what you have said: perhaps you have not considered deeply enough your own feelings, perhaps you have judged hastily our mutual position. It is quite natural that you should experience pleasure in seeing your father and your home again, even after so short a separation. Your ideas are somewhat exalted, my child: it is not expected of any woman that she should give up the instincts of her heart, the tender associations of her childhood, even for the man she is to wed. But take time, and reflect again, Alide. I shall not be present to disturb your choice. At the end of a fortnight I will return, and then, if your feelings have changed, you will know that I am still and always your own."
"But they will not change," she answered, with a quiet smile, as she rose to her feet.
They left the arbor in silence, as they had entered, and returned to the house. On the way, however, she began to talk composedly of other things. She made him pluck for her a wild flower that grew on the edge of the brook, saying she had never remarked it before, and asking him its botanical name and genus. He, on his part, was so excited and confounded by what had taken place between them that he could not speak naturally of anything. A burden had been lifted from his heart and his brain, but nevertheless he could not repress a feeling of indignation at seeing her so cold and indifferent. "To think that I was about to sacrifice myself for one so volatile as that!" he said to himself. Then, repeating unwittingly the very words that had occurred to her when they parted at Strasburg, he thought, "This is the end. Can it be that she really does not care?" And he looked at her keenly and scrutinizingly.
No, there was not a trace of passion or grief on that pale, serene face.
The fortnight passed for Goethe in a whirl of activity. A day or two after his visit to Sesenheim he took his degree, gaining his doctorate, and carrying the victory with honor over his worthy opponent. He made preparations at once for leaving Strasburg and returning to his father's home in Frankfort. But, much as the presence of Alide had troubled him of late, in her absence he could not cease to recall her myriad attractions and lovable qualities: at every turn he missed her gentle, affectionate companionship, her equable serenity, her tender, unobtrusive kindness for himself. He wrote to her several times, but, receiving no reply, he waited impatiently for the day of his return to the parsonage, when he was to bid farewell to her for months or forever, according to her own wish. Her silence, however, left him little doubt as to her final decision. "Those were painful days," he wrote later, "of which I remember nothing. When I held out my hand to her from my horse, the tears were in her eyes, and I felt sad at heart."
All was over: she would never cease to think of him with grateful affection and esteem, but she could never be his.
It would be difficult for a person of moderate emotions or well-disciplined temperament to conceive the thrilling sense of power and freedom with which Goethe started on his journey from Strasburg to Frankfort. Now at last the whole world was before him, and he was tied down by no bond of duty to the period of his immaturity: now he was free to develop all that he felt engendering and growing within him. Progress and activity,—with those two watchwords, what could he not dare and accomplish? He experienced, moreover, a purely animal sensation of delight in his liberty, as he traveled over the rich and beautiful country, reveling in the brilliant sunshine, the large air, and the sweet smells of the spacious fields. There was something contagious in the reckless exhilaration of his spirits, and all who met him were impressed by the spectacle of this handsome, happy youth, gifted with an organization of mind and body in which one could scarcely detect a flaw, and seeming to enjoy unbounded delight in the mere consciousness of existence.
Mentally and physically he was in a condition of perfect health, and he was thus fitted to receive impressions which modified for the rest of his life his whole tone of thought. At Mannheim he saw in plaster, for the first time, some of the masterpieces of Greek art, which from that moment became for him the most beautiful type of the ideal. He made companions of all whom he met by the way: now it was a learned professor, now an enthusiastic artist, a handsome peasant-woman, a burly farmer, or a prosaic burgher. He could find entertainment in the society of all, or he could pass, with higher pleasure, hours of silence and solitude among the relics of the Greeks, or in the open meadows. At Mainz he fell in with a wandering harpist, and, as the lad was clever and honest-faced, nothing would serve but that he must be Goethe's minnesinger and his fellow-traveler for the rest of the journey, and accept the hospitality of his father's house in Frankfort. So these two odd companions fared merrily through the prosperous summer fields, without the shadow of a care between them; and during all their progress Goethe was so full of mad freaks and whims, and took such fantastic pleasure in quaint disguises, and the poor harpist was so sanguine and so elated, that it would have been hard to tell who of the happy pair was the poet and who was the beggar.
When Alide, after bidding farewell to Goethe, turned in from the sunny air which struck a chill through her every bone and nerve, she succeeded with difficulty in mounting the stairs and reaching her room; but, as she entered, a faint, short cry escaped her, and she fell upon the floor. It was thus they discovered her, white as death, even to the lips, with no other sign of life than the just-perceptible pulsation of the heart. To their terror, they found it impossible to rouse her from her swoon: at times her fingers would stir, or she would slowly change the posture of an arm or a hand; but their beseeching, piteous glances of grief and affection were answered by no gleam of consciousness from her blank blue eyes, when the heavy lids were for a moment wearily raised.
They clad her in her night-dress and laid her on her bed, and through the changeless, unnatural quiet of the darkened days, and the oppressive, awful stillness of the creeping hours of night, they kept watch beside her pillow, awaiting in sickening suspense the signs of returning reason. She looked divinely peaceful in that mysterious trance: the fragile physical frame seemed utterly exhausted and as if broken, but so much the more ethereal was the spiritual calm that had settled upon the exquisite, restful face. Is it true, then, that life is the highest and the sweetest gift? Might not one hesitate to decide whether it were better to win back to earth this almost disembodied spirit, or rather thus quietly and painlessly to let her float into eternal repose?
But no such thoughts found entrance into the overwrought brain of the mother, who, with wide, dry eves, was sitting now at midnight beside her darling's prostrate form. She was the last watcher left awake in the household: the pastor and his son, useless in the sick-room, had succumbed to fatigue and anxiety and retired to seek a few hours' forgetfulness. Rahel, her pale, troubled face still streaming with tears, lay, utterly worn out, fast asleep on a couch near Alide's bedside. Madame Duroc had sat for a long time motionless as Alide herself, never turning her tearless, aching eyes away from her unconscious child. Even now she suffered less through the realization of her own approaching loss than through her overpowering maternal pity for this passionate, broken young heart that had wrestled and endured alone. She had had bitter, wicked thoughts in her weary vigil: the poor, pious mother had been tempted to invoke curses upon the stranger who had wrecked this precious life and had bereaved her own declining years. Now she could no longer pray nor think; a dull despair had absorbed all her faculties.
Suddenly a change came upon the face of Alide; the serene expression was replaced by a slight contraction of the brows, as though she suffered pain; the lips, which had been relaxed almost into a smile, were drawn closely together, and her hands, that had rested crossed over her breast, fell by her sides.
"My child! my child!" cried Madame Duroc, fancying that this was the very shadow of death darkening over her daughter's face; and, clasping her arms about Alide's neck, she raised her head from the pillow and strained it to her breast amid a passion of tears and caresses.
"What is the matter?" said Alide, in an almost inaudible voice.
In an instant Rahel also was by the bedside. "Mamma! mamma!" whispered she, "for God's sake, do not give way now!"
Madame Duroc, recalled to herself by the pathetically feeble tones of Alide, no less than by Rahel's appeal, was able to conquer her momentary weakness.
"Nothing, my darling," she answered, with sufficient composure. "You have had a long sleep; I was watching you, and I woke you just then from a painful dream."
"Is that all?" asked Alide, wearily, again closing her eyes. "But, mamma," she began in a little while, "you were mistaken. I was not dreaming at all. I have been only resting for a long time. Oh, how tired I was! Why did you wake me?"
Madame Duroc tried to avoid answering her, and to quiet her into a natural slumber. During several minutes Alide lay apparently at rest, but all at once she turned, thoroughly awake, towards the other side of the bed, where her sister sat. "Rahel," she asked, with the suspicious curiosity of the sick, "why are you here at this hour? Is it not late night? What are you both watching me for? Am I ill?"
"No, sister," answered Rahel, soothingly. "You have been ill, but now you are going to be well. Will you drink this little glass of tea for us, and go to sleep again, Alide?"
"Why not?" asked Alide, like a child; and, swallowing the draught which Rahel gave her, she seemed to sink once more into unconsciousness.
But forgetfulness was no longer to be hers. As she lay with closed eyes, too tired to stir or speak, she lived over in her mind all the joy, the disappointment, the struggle, and the agony. Her whole frame ached with utter weariness, a dull, heavy pain oppressed her heart, and her brain felt on fire with the whirl of thoughts that wrought it into preternatural activity. If she could not find some relief from this internal fever, she felt that she should go mad. She raised her eyes and saw her mother and sister silently weeping; suddenly a yearning compassion opened the flood-gates of her heart, and she burst into tears.
"Oh, mamma, let me weep!" she cried, as her mother tried to soothe her, caressing her brow and tenderly kissing her burning eyelids. "It is almost as good as rest itself to be able to weep at last!"
When her paroxysm of grief passed over, she was almost lifeless with exhaustion. "I cannot even weep any more," said she; "and yet all is so sore about my heart. Everything seems dim and strange to me. I think I am going to leave you. Rahel, come closer to me, by mamma, that I may see you both."
Her words were scarcely audible, and were continually interrupted by a dry, hard sob. They each held one other cold, damp hands in theirs, kissing it and weeping over it.
"You must ask papa and Otto to come in and see me once more," she went on, with great effort. "But first, mamma, will you promise me, and you too, Rahel, before I go, to forgivehim,—forgive him even in your thoughts?—for it is not he who was to blame: he was generous and true to the last; but it was not to be. I did not think this would be the end of all those happy days. But, believe me, it is not his fault. Tell me that you forgive him,—that you forgive me."
What could Madame Duroc answer in the anguish of such a moment, save that she would grant that touching prayer, for the sake of the very child who had been his victim? But the effort had been too much for Alide, and before her mother's words died in her ears she had relapsed into a swoon.
And yet that hour was not the last, it was only the crisis of Alide's existence. Slowly, gradually, and painfully they won her back to life. It was a colorless and joyless life enough; and nevertheless she learned that it could be endured, yes, even cherished, without the element of hope or the possibility of happiness. The tender devotion of those around her made her accuse herself on her knees to Heaven, of basest ingratitude, if for a moment she succumbed to the hungry longing and pain of her heart and wished that she had been permitted to drift away from all trouble and desire. She learned the significance and the beauty of those divine words,—duty and resignation; and, as the slow time wore away, she even found that a quiet pleasure could steal into certain days and shed a subdued radiance over her sheltered, monotonous life. She found herself capable of a sympathy with the happiness of others, a calm and serious enjoyment of much that had formerly delighted her, and a pious satisfaction in the daily victory over her own heart.
There was no need for her to retire behind the grated walls of a convent. Hers were the constant chastity, the exalted faith, the meek submission of the nun; but she found ample scope for the exercise of all womanly virtue among those whose love had rescued her from the grave, in her own pastoral home, where on every side she came in personal contact with human trouble and human joy.
A few weeks after Goethe's arrival in Frankfort he wrote the following letter to Alide:
"FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN, Sept. 25, 1771."MY DEAR FRIEND,—I have only an hour ago, and in a quite accidental manner, heard of your recent illness. I can think of nothing else until I have expressed the sympathy and concern which I feel for you, and begged you to send me, as soon as you are able, a reassuring word of your convalescence, or, still better, your complete restoration. Fortunately for me, the tidings that you were already on the road to recovery came at the same time with those of your attack: so I have been spared the anxiety and suspense of thinking that a life which is so dear to me is actually endangered. Nevertheless, a strange, superstitious dread still haunts my heart, and my spirit is unaccountably oppressed. I cannot help associating this illness, which comes so soon after my departure, with the rupture of our affectionate, intimate relations. Can it be that you have suffered through me,—you whom I retain in my memory as an ideal of all that is precious and lovely in woman? I torment myself with a thousand questions, a thousand useless surmises. Can it be I who was to blame? I, who would not wittingly injure a hair of that golden little head which I have so often pressed to my lips? Surely, my friend, this may not be. And yet why does the thought constantly recur to my mind? Was it not yourself who saw that our union was incongruous, impossible? And since my return to Frankfort I am more than ever convinced that all your views were just and correct. I feel ceaselessly impelled to a larger and wider circle of activity; all is restless and at boiling heat within me, everything seethes and ferments in my mind and spirit. What I shall accomplish I scarcely know as yet, but I feel that I shall accomplish much. I cannot sufficiently admire your courage in confronting the necessity of our situation and daring to utter the truth for the sake of our future welfare at the risk of so much present pain. Meantime, dear friend, to whom I owe so many memorable hours of tranquil happiness, do we not clasp hands in closest, warmest friendship still? I long to hear from you the reassuring word, and am, with heartfelt wishes for your speedy restoration to health,Your true"Goethe.""Please present my sincere regards to your dear parents, and recall me to the recollection of my good Fräulein Rahel."
"FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN, Sept. 25, 1771.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—I have only an hour ago, and in a quite accidental manner, heard of your recent illness. I can think of nothing else until I have expressed the sympathy and concern which I feel for you, and begged you to send me, as soon as you are able, a reassuring word of your convalescence, or, still better, your complete restoration. Fortunately for me, the tidings that you were already on the road to recovery came at the same time with those of your attack: so I have been spared the anxiety and suspense of thinking that a life which is so dear to me is actually endangered. Nevertheless, a strange, superstitious dread still haunts my heart, and my spirit is unaccountably oppressed. I cannot help associating this illness, which comes so soon after my departure, with the rupture of our affectionate, intimate relations. Can it be that you have suffered through me,—you whom I retain in my memory as an ideal of all that is precious and lovely in woman? I torment myself with a thousand questions, a thousand useless surmises. Can it be I who was to blame? I, who would not wittingly injure a hair of that golden little head which I have so often pressed to my lips? Surely, my friend, this may not be. And yet why does the thought constantly recur to my mind? Was it not yourself who saw that our union was incongruous, impossible? And since my return to Frankfort I am more than ever convinced that all your views were just and correct. I feel ceaselessly impelled to a larger and wider circle of activity; all is restless and at boiling heat within me, everything seethes and ferments in my mind and spirit. What I shall accomplish I scarcely know as yet, but I feel that I shall accomplish much. I cannot sufficiently admire your courage in confronting the necessity of our situation and daring to utter the truth for the sake of our future welfare at the risk of so much present pain. Meantime, dear friend, to whom I owe so many memorable hours of tranquil happiness, do we not clasp hands in closest, warmest friendship still? I long to hear from you the reassuring word, and am, with heartfelt wishes for your speedy restoration to health,
Your true
"Goethe."
"Please present my sincere regards to your dear parents, and recall me to the recollection of my good Fräulein Rahel."
In due time he received the following reply:
"SESENHEIM, October 8, 1771."MY DEAR FRIEND,—It is true that I have been ill; but I am already fast regaining my former health and spirits, and I cannot be grateful enough that my strength held out to the end. It was not till all was over that I succumbed. I feel as one who has been dead, and I seem to have won the right to speak to you from my heart without reserve or timidity, for the last time. No, you are not to blame for the rupture of our relations: reassure yourself on that point, dear friend. I have not to reproach you with a harsh word, an unkind look, throughout the course of our year's intimacy. Always gentle, generous, and noble, I will hold you in my memory as I knew you. But when you praised me, Goethe, in the arbor, for my 'heroism in speaking the truth fearlessly and simply,' every word I had uttered was a lie. God pardon me! but never for a moment, since I had first learned to love you, had I felt that I could not for your sake sacrifice parents, home, and life itself to follow and to serve you. A word, a gesture, a single impulse of the old tenderness, would have brought me to your side again, and made me deny every word I had that minute spoken. But it was not to be, and I knew it before I began. It was not there that I renounced you. I could easily then assume indifference, for the blow had long since been struck. It was in Strasburg, the day after your visit from Herr Breitkopf, that I said farewell to you in my heart. From that morning I knew that all was at an end between us. I watched you closely, jealously, and everything confirmed my fears. As soon as I was assured of the truth, I took my resolution. Dearly as I loved you, I could not have borne from you the cold neglect, the daily slights and wounds, which I foresaw from a continuation of our existing relations. I wronged you, Goethe: you were generous and upright to the last; but I knew that to ask me in marriage was a sacrifice of your dearest hopes and aspirations. Could I accept a union without love or sympathy? Not only for your sake, but selfishly for my own, I knew that I must reject it absolutely then and there. I thank God again and again that my purpose held firm, my strength endured till the end. Cease to reproach yourself, dear friend: these are events that could not have been foreseen. How could we choose but love each other? But you were destined for a lofty career, and God will chasten me for my foolish weakness."I have indeed been very ill, and caused my poor mother and all around me much anxiety. I am glad to be well again, for their sake and for my own. I could not have died with that lie upon my lips. I have not suffered much: it was nothing but a great weariness and exhaustion; and it has now passed away entirely."Rahel is to be married in a fortnight. Poor papa and mamma will be so lonely without her that it is a comfort to me to be with them. As long as I feel that my life is useful and almost necessary to these who are so dear to me, I cannot be quite unhappy. But I shall always be alone. The heart that has once loved Goethe can never love again."Pray do not write to me; it is best that we should remain apart. Only believe in the friendship of"ALIDE DUROC."
"SESENHEIM, October 8, 1771.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—It is true that I have been ill; but I am already fast regaining my former health and spirits, and I cannot be grateful enough that my strength held out to the end. It was not till all was over that I succumbed. I feel as one who has been dead, and I seem to have won the right to speak to you from my heart without reserve or timidity, for the last time. No, you are not to blame for the rupture of our relations: reassure yourself on that point, dear friend. I have not to reproach you with a harsh word, an unkind look, throughout the course of our year's intimacy. Always gentle, generous, and noble, I will hold you in my memory as I knew you. But when you praised me, Goethe, in the arbor, for my 'heroism in speaking the truth fearlessly and simply,' every word I had uttered was a lie. God pardon me! but never for a moment, since I had first learned to love you, had I felt that I could not for your sake sacrifice parents, home, and life itself to follow and to serve you. A word, a gesture, a single impulse of the old tenderness, would have brought me to your side again, and made me deny every word I had that minute spoken. But it was not to be, and I knew it before I began. It was not there that I renounced you. I could easily then assume indifference, for the blow had long since been struck. It was in Strasburg, the day after your visit from Herr Breitkopf, that I said farewell to you in my heart. From that morning I knew that all was at an end between us. I watched you closely, jealously, and everything confirmed my fears. As soon as I was assured of the truth, I took my resolution. Dearly as I loved you, I could not have borne from you the cold neglect, the daily slights and wounds, which I foresaw from a continuation of our existing relations. I wronged you, Goethe: you were generous and upright to the last; but I knew that to ask me in marriage was a sacrifice of your dearest hopes and aspirations. Could I accept a union without love or sympathy? Not only for your sake, but selfishly for my own, I knew that I must reject it absolutely then and there. I thank God again and again that my purpose held firm, my strength endured till the end. Cease to reproach yourself, dear friend: these are events that could not have been foreseen. How could we choose but love each other? But you were destined for a lofty career, and God will chasten me for my foolish weakness.
"I have indeed been very ill, and caused my poor mother and all around me much anxiety. I am glad to be well again, for their sake and for my own. I could not have died with that lie upon my lips. I have not suffered much: it was nothing but a great weariness and exhaustion; and it has now passed away entirely.
"Rahel is to be married in a fortnight. Poor papa and mamma will be so lonely without her that it is a comfort to me to be with them. As long as I feel that my life is useful and almost necessary to these who are so dear to me, I cannot be quite unhappy. But I shall always be alone. The heart that has once loved Goethe can never love again.
"Pray do not write to me; it is best that we should remain apart. Only believe in the friendship of
"ALIDE DUROC."
"Alide's answer," says Goethe, "to the letter in which I had bidden her adieu tore my heart. I now for the first time became aware of her bereavement, and saw no possibility of alleviating it. She was ever in my thoughts; I felt that she was wanting to me, and, worst of all, I could not forgive myself. Gretchen had been taken from me, Annette had left me; but now for the first time I was guilty: I had wounded to its very depths one of the most beautiful and tender of hearts. And that period of gloomy repentance, bereft of the love which had so invigorated me, was agonizing, insupportable. But man will live. Under the broad, open sky, on the heights or in the valleys, in the fields and through the woods, my mind regained some of its calmness. I almost lived on the road, wandering between the mountains and the plains. Often I went alone, or in company, right through my native city, as though I were a stranger in it, dining at one of the great inns in the High Street, and after dinner pursuing my way. I turned more than ever to the open world and to nature; there alone I found comfort."
Late in the afternoon of the 24th of September, 1779, two young men alighted from the diligence in the court-yard of one of the principal inns in Strasburg. There was enough resemblance between them for a stranger to have supposed them to be brothers, though one seemed not less than thirty, and the other scarcely past his majority. Both had the same type of face,—handsome in outline, open, joyous, and animated in expression; but that of the elder had the advantage of exquisite refinement and extraordinary intellect. He was not remarkably tall, but the proportions of his figure were remarkable, and there was something majestic in the pose of his head. His companion, shorter, stouter, and more commonplace in appearance, was, nevertheless, a noble-looking fellow. Though by so much the younger of the two, he seemed to receive from his companion the trifling kindnesses which one traveler can render another, with the unconscious grace and dignity of one who is accustomed to be served. A frank equality of friendship must have existed between them, for they used the brotherlyThouin conversation; but at times a just-perceptible tone of deference in the voice of the elder implied some inferiority of station. The elder of these two young men was Geheimrath Goethe, the author of "Götz von Berlichingen," "Werther," and "Iphigenia;" and his fellow-traveler was Prince Karl August, Duke of Saxe-Weimar.