The Prince had violated all regulations of court etiquette by starting incognito on a pleasure-excursion to Switzerland with his inseparable friend. They had already stopped at Frankfort, and visited Goethe's home, and from thence had come by short and easy stages to Strasburg. Having shaken off the dust of their journey and refreshed themselves at the inn, they set out for a walk through the city after sunset. Goethe had not been here since he had bidden farewell to Alide, eight years ago: everything recalled vividly to his mind her beautiful personality and that brief and happy episode of his life. He began by narrating to the Duke some pleasant incidents of his residence and studies here, but gradually, as the twilight deepened, the two friends fell into a serious conversation on the subjects which they most enjoyed discussing together,—philosophy, religion, art, and even love. The image of Alide, an insubstantial, mocking vision, floated continually before Goethe: he could not banish the recollection of all the joy, passion, and misery crowded into one year for that poor little generous soul.
The two young men mounted to the platform of the Cathedral after the moon had risen; and there, softened by so many sweet and sad reminiscences, Goethe opened his heart to his friend, and confided the story of his love for Alide,—pointing out in the wide-lying country, illuminated by that silver light, the spot, far beyond the city, where, shadowed by its mountains, lay the village of Sesenheim. He would go to-morrow and satisfy himself as to how that kindly family fared, and whether they still held a friendly remembrance of him; and he begged Karl August to accompany him on his day's jaunt. But the Prince said it was not fitting that he should be present at the reunion of such old acquaintances. Goethe must go, but he must go alone: if he were coldly received, he would not be mortified before his friend; and if he met with a cordial greeting, he would be sure that it was owing to a sincere regard for himself, "and not," added the Duke, modestly, "to the obligation of extending hospitality to a stranger."
The next day, at noon, Goethe started on his ride to Drusenheim. He left his horse at the inn, and approached the parsonage, just as he had done years before, in the glow of an autumn afternoon. It might have been yesterday that he was here, for all the changes that had taken place in the house or its surroundings. The roses bloomed in the garden, the woodbine flourished over the porch, the same air of serene prosperity enveloped orchard and vineyard and shining meadow; the immortal purple light streamed again on the luxuriant slopes of the far-away mountains.
A little girl, some five or six years old, was playing with her doll in the garden. As Goethe entered the gate, she was about to run into the house; but he called her back gently.
"Do not be afraid, my little friend. Does the Pastor Duroc live here still?"
Reassured by his winning voice, she turned towards him, but, without advancing, waited until he reached her. He patted her on the head, and, looking into the wondering, upturned face, he saw a curious blending of the faces he so well remembered. The child had the golden hair, Saxon mouth, and broad cheeks of Waldstein, and the dark, brilliant eyes and rich complexion of Rahel. Goethe had never seen a more dainty, exquisite little creature.
"Will you take me into the house?" said he. "I am an old friend of your grandpapa's, and I should love dearly to see him again. And your mamma,—is she at home?"
"I have no mamma," answered the child, quietly, without taking her eyes from the stranger's face. "How funny his hair is,—all in rings!" she was saying to herself.
The shock of her words was so great to Goethe, as he stood in the bright sunshine, expecting momently to see the laughing face of Rahel beam out upon him from the door or the window, that the sudden tears started in his eyes. All that exuberant life and spirit already passed from earth! He was afraid to ask the child any more questions; but she had taken such a fancy to his appearance that she was bold enough to begin prattling herself. "Papa is away; but all the rest are at home,—grandpapa, and grandmamma, and Aunt Alide." And, with a charming confidence that made Goethe smile again, she put her tiny hand in his.
"Come, and I will take you to the house," she said: "if you knew mamma, I am sure they will be glad to see you; you must be a very, very old friend. I never knew her myself, and I am nearly seven years old. But who shall I tell them is here?"
"I am Herr Goethe," answered he. "Shall you remember that name, my clever little girl? Tell your grandmamma that Goethe is here."
He entered the library with his heart beating high in his breast. What changes he must expect to find in this household where already a breach had been made! He could not realize that Rahel was dead: it seemed impossible that she should not enter this room, where everything reminded him so vividly of her picturesque presence. A cheerful cry of welcome startled him from the gloomy reflections into which he had fallen, and the pastor stood before him with outstretched hands. He was much moved to see again Goethe, who could not fail to remark the traces of age and trouble in the old man's demeanor and appearance. The greeting of Madame Duroc was not less friendly and hearty than that of her husband, though her manner was quieter and more composed.
Immediately after her came Alide. She was still beautiful, though she had matured and suffered so much since he had seen her. Her face was paler and more delicate, but the large gray eyes had lost none of their soft, tender radiance; her form was slender, and seemed to have gained height and graceful stateliness, owing to the difference in her costume, for she wore a long French gown. The little girl was with her, hand in hand, and Alide advanced to meet her old lover with as much dignity and frank pleasure as if she were a young mother. After she had welcomed him she brought forth the child, saying, with a smile, "I believe you have already made friends with Fräulein Clara;" and then added, in a low voice, "We think she looks like her dear mother: do you find it so? Come, Clärchen, you must shake hands with this gentleman, and when you grow to be an old, old woman like grandmamma, you can boast that you have shaken hands with the great Goethe."
"Why do you put such foolish ideas in the young one's head?" said Goethe, laughing, but with visible embarrassment. "We are already good friends, as you say, and you must not make her afraid of me. It is your aunt who is great," he said to the child, as he bent and kissed her forehead to conceal his agitation; "and may you grow to be as true and noble a woman as she is!"
Goethe's own words will best describe the remainder of the day which he passed at the parsonage: "On the 25th I rode towards Sesenheim, and there found the family which I had left eight years ago. I was welcomed in the most friendly manner. The second daughter loved me in those days better than I deserved, and more than others to whom I have given so much passion and faith. I was forced to leave her at a moment when it nearly cost her her life: she passed lightly over that episode, to tell me what traces still remained of the old illness, and behaved with such exquisite delicacy and generosity from the moment I stood before her unexpected on the threshold, that I felt quite relieved. I must do her the justice to say that she made not the slightest attempt to rekindle in my bosom the cinders of love. She led me into the arbor, and there we sat down. It was a lovely moonlight, and I inquired after every one and everything. Neighbors had spoken of me not a week ago. I found old songs which I had composed, and a carriage which I had painted. We recalled many a pastime of those happy days, and I found myself as vividly conscious of all as if I had been away only six months. The old people were frank and hearty, and thought me looking younger. I stayed the night there, and departed at dawn, leaving behind me friendly faces, so that I can now think once more of this corner of the world with comfort, and know that they are at peace with me."