ALIDE

AN EPISODE OF GOETHE'S LIFE.

BY

EMMA LAZARUS,

AUTHOR OF "ADMETUS, AND OTHER POEMS," ETC.

PHILADELPHIA:

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

TO MY FRIEND,

MRS. HOOPER,

THIS STORY
IS AFFECTIONATELY AND GRATEFULLY
INSCRIBED.

PREFACE

It seems hardly necessary, but it may prevent misunderstanding, to state that I have incorporated in the ensuing pages whole passages from the autobiography of Goethe. Wherever it has been possible, he has been allowed to speak for himself, and thus no imagination has been exercised in the portrayal of his character. "Alide Duroc," on the contrary, is a purely imaginary creation, though her story is that of Frederika Brion.

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I [Dr. Julius Steck]
CHAPTER II [The Parsonage]
CHAPTER III [Alide]
CHAPTER IV [A Moonlight Walk]
CHAPTER V [Goethe]
CHAPTER VI [First Love]
CHAPTER VII [In Strasburg]
CHAPTER VIII [Happiness]
CHAPTER IX [After-thoughts]
CHAPTER X [Quiet Pleasures]
CHAPTER XI [In the Shadow of the Cathedral]
CHAPTER XII [Hamlet]
CHAPTER XIII [The Clouds gather]
CHAPTER XIV [A Strange Interview]
CHAPTER XV [Drifting Apart]
CHAPTER XVI [Parting]
CHAPTER XVII [Freedom]
CHAPTER XVIII [Letters]
[Epilogue]

ALIDE

CHAPTER I
DR. JULIUS STECK

"If it were not that I must play true to my clerical gown, Max, I could for very delight in the glory of this October afternoon caper one of my lately-learned waltzes on the roadside. Gods! what a gift life is on such a day as this! Do, you not feel this mountain air tingling like wine through your veins? My blood is all aglow within me—my heart is as light as flame." It was a rich, vibrant, sonorous voice, and yet it had a boyish ring of merriment that seemed in no wise to belong to the soberly-clad student who walked demurely by his companion's side through the quiet, shining meadows.

"Julius Steck!" exclaimed his comrade, who spoke with a lazy, good-humored drawl, "for the love of sport remember who and what you are. A learned young bachelor of divinity to begin by invoking the heathen gods,—to yearn after a waltz in the open fields, and a heart like flame, forsooth! a pretty thing to carry into a country parsonage to kindle a conflagration among the lasses!"

"Nay, Max," returned the other, "I will be grave enough when occasion requires. How could I so soon forget my last and dearest sweetheart behind us in the city,—the Minster of Strasburg? Is not this the first bright afternoon since early June that we two have not mounted at sunset to that spacious platform high above the dusky streets, and quaffed our Rhenish to the dying day? And you fancy that I will throw away a heart devoted to the loyal service of my Lady of the Cathedral on the first pair of apple-colored cheeks and china-blue eyes that we meet on the wayside? Besides," he added, with a sudden mock gravity, "do I look like a fellow to captivate a pretty damsel?" And he doffed his broad-brimmed clerical hat and looked full and squarely at Max.

Was the lad a consummate actor who could, assume at will whatever countenance he desired, or was this expression of sheepish pedantry natural to the possessor of that resonant voice? It must have been clever pantomime, for as Max saw it he burst into uncontrollable laughter, that resounded with jolly echoes through the responsive air. The outline of the face from brow to throat was delicate and strong as that of a young Greek god, and yet a ludicrous and almost homely effect was given by the sleek brown locks combed smoothly back from the temples and turned behind the ears, by the thickly-framed gold spectacles which obstructed any gleam from the dark eyes behind them, and, above all, by this prim look of mingled shrewdness and timidity. He was taller than his companion, but the proportions of his figure were concealed by the long black gown, which formed the principal part of his costume as a theological student.

"Capital, capital, Dr. Steck!" exclaimed Max, clapping his hand on the young bachelor's shoulder. "But make haste and cover your head, for in a few moments we shall be in sight of the parsonage. And yet I can hardly say whether you are best with or without that hideous plate of a hat. At any rate, I am not responsible for whatever happens while you are in my charge. I warn you beforehand that the girls are pretty and engaging, and as for them, if they can listen to—yes, or look with patience on—such an infernal Jesuitical milksop, I will wash my hands of them all."

They walked on for a few minutes in silence, Max with his hand still resting affectionately on Steck's shoulder, and Steck with his head upraised, eagerly inhaling the honeyed air of the harvest-fields, and, with the eyes of an artist rather than of a boy just turned twenty, gazing at the green and purple masses and sun-bathed outlines of the peaks that stood out against the pale gold sky. There was just enough breeze to make a continuous rustle and murmur in the glistening leaves overhead, and to send long-rolling ripples and waves of motion over the grass of the wide-lying meadows. A clear bird-carol now and then, the incessant all-pervading drone of the crickets, at intervals the merry laughter of voices in a far-away meadow, prolonged by the myriad echoes of the neighborhood,—these sweet out-door sounds were all that broke upon the ears of the two young men; and the gentleness, the peace, the unspeakable beauty of the October landscape seemed to gain upon them, and to overpower with quieting suggestions even the exuberant buoyancy of spirits natural to their age.

Max Waldstein was a genial, open-hearted fellow of two or three and twenty. A square, somewhat receding brow, wide blue eyes, a highly-colored complexion, a round, fair, curly head, set off with coarse and prominent ears, a large mouth, adorned with healthy white teeth, a thick, well-shaped nose, and a projecting jaw, overgrown with a reddish-yellow beard,—all these formed an excellent index to the mind and character of the young law-student, who had attached himself almost as to a girl to the magnetic, myriad-sided nature of his fellow-lodger, the boy-artist. New and unaccountable to plain Max were the mercurial moods, the exaltations and despondencies, the irrepressible, child-like delight occasioned by such simple things as a burst of sunlight on a cloudy day, the sudden, unexpected song of a bird, a glimpse of a fair woman-face, a rhyme of some old poet, a shade of color on some faded canvas, or, above all, the outlines and structure of Strasburg Cathedral. But Waldstein made no attempt to follow or fathom the caprices of his imaginative friend. Like many others in that grave old minster-shadowed city, he was led out of himself into an enthusiasm of admiration and affection for the brilliant, beautiful young favorite of the gods, who, bringing all the gifts, had burst upon Strasburg and taken up his abode there early in the preceding spring. Numberless were the holiday excursions planned by these two youthful heads and enjoyed with a wide circle of boon companions, the spice of such amusements being not unfrequently heightened by an escapade somewhat wilder than usual, an adventure of more than ordinary daring, on the part of the younger of the two. Max's only gift, a shrewd, practical sense, enabled him readily to discern the qualities of those around him, and a loyal, generous nature, unspoiled by affectation or envy, brought him into sympathy with men of far higher capacities than his own. With whimsical self-depreciation, he was forever wishing to display the endless talents and attractions of his comrade, who must be brought forth into the light at all costs, forgiven any mad prank, and allowed to follow his pleasure as he chose, in consideration of the halo about his head and the tenderness of his heart. "Let us make the most of the lad while he is with us," Waldstein would say; "such a youth is not for our little Strasburg circle of good fellows. What can he not do? What does he not adorn in touching? It rests but with himself to be the painter, the poet, the tragedian, the statesman—what do I know?—the genius of the age. Come, comrades, let us up to his room now, and drag him from his jurisprudence, and make a day of it on the river."

We all know that in later years neither the sweetest allurements nor the sharpest trials could swerve this royal nature from its chosen path of serenity and wisdom. But at this early period, with the fulness of so rich a life seething in his veins, in the first fresh wonder and delight, with every wreath of honor awaiting apparently but the reach of his outstretched hand to claim and bind it about his brow, who shall say that the intoxication did not mount to his exalted brain, engendering a boyish vanity and self-consciousness, sending through his frame an occasional thrill of not ignoble pride in the very wealth of his own personality?

For many weeks Waldstein had been trying to prevail upon his friend to accompany him to the parsonage, some six leagues beyond Strasburg, where he was wont to spend much of his leisure time, invariably descanting after his visit upon the hospitality of Pastor Duroc and his wife and the beauty of the country surrounding their home, and occasionally letting slip a significant allusion to the charms of the elder daughter, Rahel. But the boy had always an excuse for declining: he must go study the Cathedral, and work out the unexecuted conception of the architect's brain in leaving incomplete that bold and aerial spire; he must prepare himself for the approaching examination, and devote himself more assiduously to his ponderous volumes of jurisprudence, for which he had originally come to Strasburg; or now was the moment to saunter down to the river-side and add a few strokes to his sketch of the city at sunset. Finally, when Max had ceased to press the point, the capricious lad one morning proposed the visit himself. His delicate fancy had been aroused the previous evening by an exquisite prose idyl which he had read before he slept. It was a translation recently made of a story of English clerical life. The homely pathos, the quaint simplicity, the pleasing variety of natural incidents that enlivened the sprightly flow of the narrative, the healthy atmosphere that breathed of trim, inland, hawthorn-hedged meadows, all these wrought upon his lightly-moved spirit and gave him the desire to transport himself to kindred scenes. Early in the morning he burst into Waldstein's room with the "Vicar of Wakefield" in his hand.

"Read it at once!" he exclaimed; "there is art, there is nature! How many of our dreary German treatises cannot this little book outweigh with its searching insight, its naïf truthfulness! Here is a page of life that I have never studied,—never known. While I have been musing in the grim shadow of the Minster, and trying to animate the iron-handed heroes of a mediæval age, what have I overlooked! The smiling fields, the endless minutiæ of a thousand happy homes, the passions, the joys, the troubles, that surround me on every side. Max, dear Max, may I go with you to the Durocs'?"

Waldstein could scarcely refrain from smiling at the wistful tone in which the question was asked. It was like the lad to crave that as a grace which it was but a pleasure to confer. He had as many coaxing, affectionate tricks of voice and manner as a woman. Max assented with delight, and named that very day for the excursion. And now his comrade, full of odd freaks, begged to be allowed to go, not as the wild boy-artist of Strasburg, but as a serious student of these pious, pastoral lives. Thus was the harmless incognito contrived, and thus it was that Max was escorting his friend, disguised as a theological scholar and bearing the name of Dr. Julius Steck, to the home of the Durocs.

Steck was the first to interrupt the sweet quietness which was not silence. "How beautifully clear is this little mountain-brook alongside of us!" he said. "See, it has followed us all the way from the Drusenheim inn."

"I should rather say," answered Waldstein, "that we have followed it; and in truth it is the surest guide for us: as we keep along this path, bearing its channel always in sight, the first bend in its course will bring us in view of our goal."

A few paces more led them to the curve, and then only a single narrow field lay between them and the parsonage.

CHAPTER II
THE PARSONAGE

It looked more like an ancient farm-house than the home of the parish priest, and was separated by a considerable distance from the village church, whose humble spire and glittering vane peered above the clustered trees beyond. It seemed a very antique and weather-stained homestead, but wore rather the quaint picturesqueness that just precedes decay, than the actual dilapidation of ruin itself. It would have been hard to tell with what color it had originally been decorated, for it was now sunburned and rain-washed into a streaky, sombre gray, to which this gorgeous October light gave a certain mellow warmth of its own; and the walls were so covered with the glossy leaves of the ivy, the porch was so overgrown with the interlocked stems of the honeysuckle, that comparatively little of the dwelling itself was left bare. In front was a small, carefully-tended garden, where the autumn roses were glowing; but nearly all the adjacent grounds were devoted to what would have seemed the interests of a goodly farm; the gray old orchard rich with red and yellow globes twinkling among the branches or lying half buried in the soft turf below; the vine-trellises beyond, with their large, dusky leaves, bearing their splendid blue and golden-green fruitage freely in the open air; and on the other side of the house, the thriving kitchen-garden with its stripes of varied verdure,—all prosperously basking in the radiant sunshine of harvest-tide. Some of the windows were thrown open for the air and light to play through the dwelling; from one of them a white curtain, detached from its fastenings, was blowing. A perky little hen, with her brood close after her, was strutting along the garden-lane and pecking near the walls of the manse, but no other living creature seemed to be stirring about the premises.

"A queer, quiet old place it is," said Steck, taking in all the details at a glance.

"Yes," said Waldstein, dryly; "it is younger inside."

The gate was open, and they walked noiselessly through, frightening the hen and her young ones into a brisk trot towards the barnyard. They had almost reached the doorway before they saw, half reclining on a long wooden bench in the porch, the portly figure of the pastor, his face concealed by a large volume held up before his eyes.

"Good-evening, Father Duroc," cried Max.

Their host started, let fall his book from before him, and disclosed a jovial, weak, handsome face, but little marked by age, whose thick dark eyebrows and rosy coloring contrasted strikingly with the pure white of his unpowdered hair.

"I have taken you by surprise this time," said Waldstein, "and have brought my friend, Dr. Julius Steck, of Frankfort. He is a serious fellow, young as he looks; one after your own heart, an indefatigable student, who wishes thoroughly to examine our parochial customs before he enters upon his active duties."

"Welcome! welcome both!" said the pastor, heartily, giving each a hand. "Any friend of yours, Waldstein, has, you know, a double welcome, and Dr. Steck could not have found a better place to complete his studies than the oldest parsonage in Alsace, though the vicar says it himself."

"I shall be proud to put myself under your guidance," said Steck, with becoming modesty. "Your well-known research, your profound——"

"Tut! tut!" interrupted the pleased pastor. "I have but looked into such scant volumes as strayed across my path. But an apt and ardent scholar is my delight, and such a one is a rarity in these superficial days. Ah, Waldstein, your eyes are wandering after the lasses, I'll be bound. They have strolled off with the Mütterchen toward the brook-side to enjoy this bright afternoon. But we can have a good hour's chat in the library before they return."

"We heard their laughter as we came along from Drusenheim," said Waldstein. "If Otto be not with them, why could not I? Might they not be pleased——"

"I see your drift," exclaimed the pastor. "Well, be off to the meadows, young gallant, and bring them safely home; they will all be glad to see thee. Meantime, this serious youth and I will discuss our graver matters."

Max, with a roguish glance at Steck, ran off like a dismissed schoolboy down the slope behind the house, and was almost immediately out of sight in the dip of the valley below. Steck, however, with his head full of the "Vicar of Wakefield," and possessing in the highest degree the artist's capacity to invest with interest the most commonplace of characters, was delighted at the prospect of a conversation with the Dr. Primrose of Sesenheim.

"I do not wonder, sir," he began, "that you have brought your literature to so attractive a seat. I, too, often make my studies in the open air; not that my eyes will wander from my beloved manuscript, but I fancy that the mind has there a larger scope, a clearer perception, a stronger energy of retention."

"Surely, surely," assented the pastor. "I am fully of your opinion, Dr. Steck. So, since it pleases you, we will take our seats here in the porch. At this genial season, the hospitality of my home extends far beyond the shelter of my roof-tree, over all these shining acres." And he waved his hand with a natural pride towards the smiling landscape.

"You are perhaps surprised," he went on, garrulously, "to find me so miserably quartered in a wealthy village and with a lucrative benefice. Long since, it has been promised me by the parish, and even by those in higher places, that the house shall be rebuilt; many plans have been already drawn, examined, and altered,—none of them altogether rejected, and none carried into execution. This has lasted so long that I scarcely know how to control my impatience."

"Perhaps," suggested Steck, "if you were to display a little impatience, you might sooner succeed in forcing them to pursue the affair more vigorously."

"Ah!" sighed the pastor, with an air of discouragement, "you do not know with what people I have to deal. The duke is away the better part of the year, hunting, traveling, killing time as he best may. Herr Klug, the former intendant, was anxious enough to promote the welfare of the parish. Indeed, it was he who proposed the renovation of the manse; then were the plans drawn and deliberated upon; but before we could come to any decision he was removed, to make way for a French successor, M. Guédin. 'Well, Käthchen,' said I to Mother Duroc, 'we can congratulate ourselves now,—we shall soon have a spruce new parsonage when this active young fellow takes the lead.' 'Wait to whistle till you are out of the wood, Moritz,' said the prudent mother, and she was right. It was only the last new idea that M. Guédin could seize with any interest. When he saw the many difficulties to be overcome, and heard of the many tastes to be consulted, it was too much for the Gallic genius, and he has long betaken himself to more congenial occupations."

"But your people," interposed Steck, highly amused at the old man's naïf confidence, "why should not they co-operate to secure their pastor a more comfortable home? Though for my part, sir, the beauty of this picturesque old farmstead, the thoroughly German character of its construction, please me so much that I should be loth to hear of a change."

"Ay, lad," returned the pastor, "it is well for you, who come and take a glance at the outside, to fall into ecstasies over the woodbine on the porch, the moss on the tiles, the wee diamonds set in the heavy gables that form our windows. But it is an inconvenient picturesqueness for the pastor, where a few stout beams of oak, some moderate-sized panes of glass, and a couple of serviceable chimneys might remedy all. But come in with me, and examine for yourself how we fare."

With these words he rose and led Steck into the house. They passed through a commodious hall, furnished like a room with rugs and seats, into the library, where the late sunshine was streaming. Steck was so delighted with the quaint wooden bookcases, the high mantel-shelf with its painted tiles, and the tokens on every side of the habitual presence of youth and womankind,—the flowers in the windows, the festoons of fresh ivy between the prettily-designed landscapes, the open harpsichord, with the last song still upon it, the charming disorder of the tables, scattered with books, writing-materials, sketching-crayons, and embroidery,—that he did not care to note that the deep-ledged windows were indeed somewhat out of date, the ceilings stained and smoked, and the furniture worn and shabby.

"I cannot help it, sir," he said, turning to the pastor with a deprecating smile, "but I think it all charming. And what a glorious outlook from this westward window!"

"Yes, yes," answered the pastor, a little testily, "the outlook is good enough; it is as fair a site as any in Alsace." And all his good humor returned as he leaned with his guest over the broad sill and looked out at the rich spread of vineyard, stream, and meadow, terminated by the gorgeous boundary of the Vosges, with their aerial outlines and indescribable luxuriance of tint glowing in the last rays of the sunsetting.

"Here be our saunterers coming along the road," said he, shading his eyes with his hand. "But where could they have left Alide?"

Steck looked at the figures advancing through the fields, and recognized Waldstein foremost, in apparently earnest colloquy with his companion, a tall, slender woman attired in sober colors. In his mind he immediately named her the charming Rahel, and could scarcely repress a smile at the staid, demure character of the attractions that had captivated his friend's fancy. A few paces behind them hastened a younger figure, with bright-colored ribbons flying and white skirt gleaming between the bushes and tree-trunks as she came along. She had loitered to gather some field-flowers; and as she almost ran forward to rejoin her companions, she seemed in Steck's eyes a very Ruth, with her blue and red blossoms in her hand, and her wide straw hat dangling from her head and encircling like an aureole the dark-brown locks.

"There she is, sir," said Steck, who thought the pastor must have failed to see this young girl, lingering purposely, as he was pleased to imagine, behind the sweethearts.

"No," said Dr. Duroc, "that is Rahel." Then with a sudden burst of laughter, clapping Steck upon the shoulder, he exclaimed, "I see your mistake! It will make a gallant compliment for Käthchen when she comes in. It is not the first time the mother has been said to look as young as her daughters." Before Steck had time to reply, the couple entered the room.

"Here is a young fellow, Kitty," said the blunt pastor, "who has mistaken you for your own child. Madame Duroc, Dr. Julius Steck."

"I am glad to see you, sir," said madame, shaking his hand cordially.

In spite of her slight figure, he could see now that the beauty of her intelligent countenance was indeed somewhat faded. She scrutinized him narrowly with a woman's alert intuition, very different from the unsuspecting confidence of the pastor; but, turning to her husband, she went on, kindly, "You always have your jest, Moritz; but you will make the young gentleman blush if you expose so freely his mistakes. Has Alide come home yet?"

"No," answered the pastor, with surprise; "I thought she was with you."

"So she was, but she left us a good half-hour since with Goetz."

"In that case she has not returned," said Dr. Duroc, "for I have been sitting with Dr. Steck in the porch, and we could not have missed seeing her."

"In the porch!" cried Madame Duroc, "and Dr. Steck has had nothing to refresh himself after his long walk from the inn!"

"That is the way with her, boys," said the simple pastor, as she left them, "always thoughtful for others."

At this moment Rahel burst rather noisily into the room, bringing the sweet fragrance of the fields along with her.

"Where is Alide?" she asked, without noticing the stranger.

"Rahel," said the pastor, in a tone of reproof, "here is a visitor, Dr. Steck; that is hardly the way to greet him."

"I beg your pardon, papa," said the young girl, with heightened color, "and yours too, sir, whom I am happy to welcome," extending her hand with almost as little embarrassment and as much cordiality as her mother. "But, papa, I am uneasy about Alide; she should have been home long ago. I must go seek her." And she hastened away.

"We are all rather foolish about our Alide," said the pastor, apologetically; "she is the youngest of us,—but I have no fear for her. You will soon see them all, Dr. Steck, and I am particularly anxious for you to know my boy Otto; he is a lad of much promise, though a trifle reserved, and if he can but select such companions as yourself and Waldstein, I shall rest content."

"I shall be proud to know them all," said Steck, with sincerity, "for I do not remember when before I have been so happy in a family circle." And his eyes wandered to the door in search of the youngest daughter, whose prolonged absence created such a stir in the household, and occasioned an agreeable flutter of expectation in his own breast.

As he looked, the door was slowly opened, and Madame Duroc re-entered, bearing a tray with a flask of home-made wine, a china basket filled with the fruits of their orchard and vineyard, and a dish of her own sweet-cakes. Waldstein, who was quite at home in the family, cleared one of the tables and helped Madame Duroc to set the plates and glasses, and they all placed themselves around it.

"Kitty is proud of her Rheinwein," said the pastor, as he filled Steck's goblet, "and the surest way to her heart is to show your appreciation of it." And he clinked his own glass against Steck's and raised it to his lips.

"That she may well be," responded the youth, as he quaffed a long draught. "It is a most delicious vintage."

"You know," said Madame Duroc, with assumed modesty, "the parson's wine is always supposed to have a peculiar flavor."

"Never mind, Käthchen," said the pastor; "we will hold our own opinion still. The last time you tasted it, Max, was the evening young Vogel was here paying his court to Rahel. It seemed rather bitter in your mouth then, eh, Waldstein?"

"It not the wine, sir," answered honest Max, with a girl's blush overspreading his face. Just then Rahel herself returned.

"I cannot imagine what has become of Alide!" she cried. "I have been half-way across the meadow without catching a glimpse of her. None of the servants have seen her, and I have been waiting at the porch ever since. It is really provoking, for I suppose she will come in soon with some ridiculous excuse for having made us all so uneasy."

"Is Goetz with her?" asked the mother, rising and looking anxiously from the window.

"Yes," replied Rahel, "or I should be really worried instead of vexed."

"It is indeed provoking!" said Madame Duroc, nervously. "I cannot understand where the child has gone. She seems to be always either loitering behind us or running out of sight ahead. I shall forbid her to leave us at this hour again; she is far too wild and fearless for her years. She seems to forget she is no longer a child."

"Let her alone," said the father, with great composure; "she has already come back."

All eyes were turned to where he pointed as he spoke, and there, under the low doorway, with the soft light from the western window falling full upon her face, stood Alide.

CHAPTER III
ALIDE

She did not look over sixteen, but it was maidenhood, not childhood, that glanced forth from the gray-blue eyes and sent a rosy flush rippling over the sweet, wistful face as she heard herself so freely criticised before the two young men. Her neck seemed almost too delicate for the large fair braids on her elegant little head. They were twisted loosely like a crown above her brow, and again looped in long thick plaits around either ear. These, indeed, formed her chief beauty, in color no less than in luxuriance and texture, for they had not the lustreless, flaxen hue most frequent in Germany, but a warm, glossy gold, nearer auburn than yellow. It was the indescribable radiance caused by the perfect blending of the divine tints of gold and pink and white, added to the brightness of the large eyes, which made her the lovely vision that she seemed at this moment to Steck; for her features were more irregular than those of either her mother or her sister: the nose was short and slightly upturned, her nationality strongly marked in the breadth of the upper part of the face, and the mouth a trifle large. But then the teeth were brilliant (Steck could see, for she was smiling), and the full chin was cloven by a dimple. Like Rahel, she "wore nothing but German," as they termed it, though the national attire was almost obsolete in Alsace. A full white skirt, with a furbelow, stopped just short of the dainty ankles, disclosing the neatest little feet, and a close-fitting white bodice and coquettish black taffeta apron completed her costume. Her broad-brimmed straw hat was slung over her arm, and its long blue ribbons added the only touch of color that she wore.

"Thus truly a most charming star arose in this rural heaven," Steck wrote many years later, in describing this exquisite apparition of youth and grace as she first stood before him. And such was the substance, if not the form, of his thought as his eyes rested upon her. But the next moment, for the first time since his disguise, the consciousness of his own appearance overpowered him with shame and confusion, and he felt the hot blood tingle in his face. Where were now the glib speech, the insinuating address, the manly assurance and self-confidence that had grown upon him with the knowledge of his gifts and had never before failed him? It was like a disagreeable dream to hear the mention of his assumed name, to see this beautiful creature make him a graceful reverence, and to feel so keenly the ridiculousness of his own position, as he returned with much constraint her salutation. In spite of her costume, she seemed city-bred, for her greeting was quite different from the rustic cordiality of her mother and sister, and he fancied he detected lurking around the corners of her mouth a mischievous smile.

"So you have come back at last," began Rahel, with no little irritation; "I suppose it is nothing to you that we have been watching for you since sunset, and imagining a thousand impossible accidents."

"I am sorry to have made you uneasy, Rahel," answered Alide, quietly.

"What new folly or sentimentalism has kept you out till this hour?" persisted Rahel, her ill humor increased by her sister's imperturbable composure.

It was evident that Alide's intuitive refinement prevented her displaying before a stranger any impatient temper. She loosened her hat from her arm, laid it on the table, and, turning to her mother, kissed her cheek like a child. "Mamma," said she, "I am really sorry that I should have distressed you. Did you not know that Goetz was with me? I only went to the village, and, as Herr Waldstein said papa was engaged with a strange gentleman, I took the road behind the house, without disturbing him to tell him where I had gone. Besides, the days seem to grow short so suddenly."

"Well, my child," replied Madame Duroc, returning her caress, "another time you will try to be more thoughtful: we will say no more about it now." And she glanced significantly at her elder daughter. Rahel shrugged her shoulders, as much as to say, "It is always the same but the mother's calm decision sufficed to disperse at once the little cloud, and the family were soon chatting together in the gayest and most friendly way about uncles, aunts, cousins, gossips, and guests, and Steck learned how much he had to promise himself from so numerous and lively a circle.

Max was entirely at his ease, and added his comments and scraps of news as familiarly as the rest; but Steck felt himself quite apart from the cheerful group, especially as the consciousness of his false position confused him more and more. As he listened, he took occasion to observe them all, and thought with inexpressible astonishment that he was actually in the Wakefield family. To be sure, the pastor had not the earnest gravity and discretion of Dr. Primrose; but it would be difficult to find in real life a single person uniting all the admirable qualities of the English vicar; and, besides, the characters of Goldsmith were only reversed, for Frau Duroc had all the dignity and seriousness that her husband lacked. One could not see her without at once honoring and reverencing her, and the results of high breeding were visible in her manner, which was gentle, unconstrained, pleasant, and attractive. If Rahel had not the celebrated beauty of Olivia, yet she was pretty, lively, and impetuous; her gestures were more animated, her voice had a shriller ring, her laugh was more frequent, her manners more coquettish, than her sister's; and these peculiarities, added to the scarlet ribbons twisted in her brown hair, and the sparkling vivacity of her merry dark eyes, gave a somewhat over-pronounced, provincial tone to her appearance. However, her spirits were so high, and she prattled on with such a sprightly pleasantry, that Waldstein was bewitched, and Steck himself might have been attracted by her picturesque individuality had it not been for Alide. She would answer well, he thought, for another Sophia; for all that is said of Sophia is that she is amiable; and who was ever amiable in the original signification of the word—worthy to be loved—if Alide were not?

"It is a shame to play a joke upon such good people," said Steck to himself, fancying it was his conscience that pricked him, when it was only his vanity that was aroused; and, when all eyes were turned from him, he quickly removed the gold spectacles and passed his hand lightly through his hair. As he did so, Max looked at him and smiled maliciously, but discreetly held his peace.

For some time Alide had taken little part in the conversation, and had answered absently the direct questions addressed to her. "That strange young doctor,"—she was thinking, and it was her conscience, not her vanity, that spoke,—"he is bashful, to be sure, and he blushes like a girl; but is it kind in us to leave him there alone? Papa seems to have forgotten his presence, and mamma is always so quiet. I must try myself to make him feel a little more at home." And she rose from her low chair at the pastor's feet and moved towards Steck. But as she looked at him she drew back and almost lost courage, startled at the transformation which the pseudo-doctor had undergone. The rapid movement of his hand had sufficed to change the whole appearance of his head. His brown hair waved naturally in soft curls, and though the sudden glance of his full, deeply-set eyes was peculiarly keen and penetrating, yet the drooping lids and heavy lashes gave them in repose an indescribably gentle expression. Perhaps she would not have arisen at all if she had known he looked like that. But it was too late to return. He was sitting by the open harpsichord, and had taken up the song that lay upon it.

"Can you play yourself, Dr. Steck?" she asked.

His habitual tact and ease were restored to him by the young girl's expression of surprise, which he had not failed to notice.

"I play after a fashion," he replied; "I cannot pretend to much skill."

"But you will let us judge for ourselves?" pleaded she, with a winning smile.

"Surely, mademoiselle, if it pleases you." And he went to seat himself before the instrument.

"What is this?" interrupted the pastor, turning towards them. "Why, Alide, you certainly will not ask the guest to furnish the entertainment? You must serve him first yourself, with a performance or a song."

"Indeed, I am not in the mood," remonstrated Alide, "but I will do my best." And without affectation she placed herself before the harpischord.

It was a primitive, tinkling little affair, evidently neglected by the schoolmaster, who should have tuned it long since. Alide played a couple of pieces in the ordinary mechanical style of country amateurs, and then sang with rather more sentiment a brief, tender, melancholy song. But Steck had little knowledge of the art, and if the performance had been faultless its merits would have been lost upon him. He scarcely knew how or what the girl was singing; he heard, or rather felt, the fresh clear voice ring through his brain; he watched the dainty white hands resting lightly on the old black keys, he noted the dewy, earnest eyes, the brightly flushed face, the royal little head, and at that moment for him there was nothing else in the world.

"Ah!" she cried, suddenly, "I cannot succeed. I am not in the vein." And she rose with a smile, or rather, as Steck said, "with that touch of serene joy that ever reposed on her countenance." "I cannot play; and yet it is not the fault of the harpsichord or my master. Let us go into the open air, and I will sing you one of my Alsatian songs,—they sound much better there."

He followed her with alacrity. The moist freshness of the twilight breeze, rich with the heavy fragrance of the honeysuckle overhead, blew towards them as Steck opened the door, and they stood out together in the porch. Around the wide gray meadows the mountains loomed huge and sombre against the faded sky, and the moon, still rosy from the vapors of the horizon, was slowly floating upward. Alide raised her head to see if any stars were yet shining, and all the white purity of heaven, which was neither light nor color, but something between the two, descended like a benediction upon the sweet flower-face. In her blithe, child-like voice, that vibrated with infinitely more mellowness in the large air, she began her favorite Alsatian ballad:

"I come from a forest as dark as the night,
And, believe me, I love thee, my only delight"—

caroling forth the refrain with the clear flute-notes of a bird. It had a strange, powerful effect upon the artist's impressionable temperament. When the song was ended he did not speak.

"Why do you not thank me for my performance? I have done my best," she said, innocently, turning quickly around and looking him full in the face. His eyes were quite wet, and his whole frame was trembling with excitement.

"It is too beautiful," he said, in a low voice.

"Let us go in," exclaimed Alide, abruptly. "It is chilly out here."

Lights had been brought, and the family were just preparing to go to supper as they re-entered the room. The first words that Steck heard were sufficient to recall him fully to himself. "Wolfgang Goethe!" Max was saying, as if in answer to a question, while the whole group hung upon his speech. "Of course I know him,—all Strasburg knows him already——" Then, seeing Steck, he laughed, hesitated, and finally added, with some awkwardness, "Well, after all, there is nothing remarkable about him: he is only a jovial young fellow, like the rest of us." Steck looked at him with a startled glance of inquiry, and, being met by a mystifying expression on the part of Max, he resumed his prim student's manner.

At the supper-table Alide sat directly opposite him, and as she noted his demure appearance an unaccountable fear and trouble overcame her. And yet a powerful fascination led her eyes constantly towards his face, until she found herself forgetting the food before her and blushing with shame lest her preoccupation had been remarked. As the wine flowed freely, by imperceptible degrees his countenance became again mobile and eloquent as it had flashed upon her in the porch.

In the midst of supper the door was opened, and a lad of about seventeen sprang into the room, nodded in a half-shy half-familiar way to Steck and Waldstein, and seated himself boldly among them. "What, Moses, too!" exclaimed Steck, involuntarily.

"How do you mean?" asked the pastor, with surprise. "This is my son Otto."

"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon," replied Steck, with a laugh. "It is a foolish habit I have of trying to realize the ideal world. I have lately been reading a charming story of English life,—the description of a country parson's home and family,—and I seem to be among them all since I have been with you. This brave lad was the only one wanting to complete the novelist's group."

"That is a fantastic trick," said Dr. Duroc. "Since you have such romantic tastes, I have no doubt you will be delighted to visit the interesting localities about us here. Not a hill, a grove, nor a waterfall but has its own tradition; my girls can tell you them all."

"I have, indeed, too much pleasure to promise myself here," answered Steck, eagerly. "But when will you allow me to guide you through my beloved Strasburg? There, too, every stone in the streets has its history."

"My girls are not partial to a town-life," said Madame Duroc. "Their city cousins are always begging them to go, yet I cannot prevail on them to leave the parsonage."

"I cannot abide it!" cried Rahel. "It is very well for Cousins Anna and Gretchen; they have adopted all the French modes; but as for poor Alide and myself, we feel like peasants in our German."

"Nevertheless," interposed. Alide, gently, "you are very kind to ask us, Dr. Steck; and if we ever do find ourselves in Strasburg we may call upon you to remember your promise."

"Oh, I am sure you would forget all your prejudices if you would but let me take you through the town!" exclaimed Steck, with enthusiasm. "It is only in a city that one can see the thousandfold life of man fully and worthily developed. There the broad, rich current of our modern industries flows past the stately monuments of an antique world. A single pitiful existence cannot suffice for the soul's insatiable craving after boundless, interminable activity. One must feel one's self in all. These busy comers and goers, these merchants, students, artists, cart be made to serve the single master-mind and carry his thought in ever-widening circles to the ends of the earth. By Jove! when I feel myself so young, so favored, so thoroughly alive, I long to taste the sweets and bitternesses of a hundred existences, to pass through all experiences. It is for me—I please myself by thinking—to study the endless aspects under which our national character reveals itself,—to snatch the secret of the ardent aspirations, the noble discontent, of our German youth. It is for me——"

"Steck," interrupted Max, in a dry, quiet tone, from the opposite side of the table, "don't you think you would like to see the meadows by moonlight? Since we have all finished our supper, what does madame say to a walk in the fields?"

"Oh, charming!" exclaimed Rahel; but Frau Duroc rose silently, and Alide, who had sat with downcast eyes and abated breath, started and looked up with a bewildered sort of disappointment. Again she saw the strange student blush like a girl, and cast, as it were, a mask of dulness over his face. The fire died out from his eyes, a constrained, unpleasant expression replaced the ardent enthusiasm that had ennobled every feature, and once more the shy, awkward Dr. Steck was standing before her.

CHAPTER IV
A MOONLIGHT WALK

There was a little confusion in the hall, of shawl-wrappings and head-coverings, and injunctions from Madame Duroc to her daughters to beware of the wet grass and the dripping leaves.

"I cannot get this hood over my hair," cried Alide, who had thrown a white cloak over her shoulders and was vainly trying to draw the hood over her high braids. "Mamma, it is a mild, soft evening. I will go just as I am." And so the whole party went out into the bright night.

The moon was by this time high in the heavens; the meadows were bathed in a lustrous haze, the brook glittered from unexpected places, the vineyard was full of black shadows, and the trees of the orchard allowed broken rays to fall between their branches, checkering the colorless turf with patches of light and darkness. The sound of the brook stumbling over its pebbles, of the pleasant little gusts of breeze as they went shuddering through the crisp foliage, the sudden soft thump of an apple dropping on the grass, and the incessant song of the crickets, were all that could be heard even in the intense quietness of the autumn night.

For a moment the whole group gazed in silence, but Rahel's voice soon broke forth, chattering to Max as he drew her arm through his and led her towards the orchard. "Look! one can almost see the color of the roses!" she cried. "Wait a minute, and I will pluck this one,—it is quite overblown: how wet it is! Ah, I have run that horrid thorn in my finger! Thanks. It was Alide who had them planted on either side of the gate, where——" And so the girlish voice died away in the distance, and the two figures were lost among the shadows and shrubbery.

"Let us go towards the vineyard," suggested Madame Duroc; "Rahel has taken the other path, but Dr. Steck should see the pretty outlook from the opposite side of the trellises. Otto, give me your arm, so that I may not step upon the grass; the dew is almost like rain. Dr. Steck, if you follow us you will see the prospect to advantage."

"Go," said the pastor. "I will wait here till you come back. I have not much relish for these damp walks." And Steck, with Alide upon his arm, followed Madame Duroc and her son through the moonlit lanes. He looked down at the girl's face beside him, with her hair gleaming like pale gold, and the liquid lustre in her eyes which only the moon can shed. About her form everything was white and shadowy as her thin cloak was lifted and fluttered around her by the cool air. He felt the elastic spring of her gait timed perfectly with his own footsteps, the scarcely perceptible pressure of her arm upon his own, the nearness of the warm, bright head, and a delicious joy possessed him. But Alide had not recovered from the disturbing sense of fear with which this strange young man inspired her, and she was resolved not to allow the sweet influences of the scene and hour to work upon herself or her companion. Almost as volubly as Rahel, and as little subdued by the wonderful charm of the night, she prattled artlessly about all that concerned her daily life. In the perfect stillness, her mother, a few steps in advance, could have heard every word she uttered.

"Of course you will know us all," she said, "for whenever a stranger stops with us he is sure to return often and become familiar with our whole family circle. There are so many of us, uncles, aunts, and cousins included, that we make quite a little world of our own."

"And among them all," said Steck, in a low, earnest tone, "is there not one who attracts you particularly?"

"Yes, indeed," answered Alide, "and many more than one. If you could only know my aunt Christiane! She is fully sixty years old, and beautiful as an angel. She had a strange, tragic story connected with her youth; but the longer she lives the more peaceful life becomes to her, she says. And, indeed, the mutual devotion between herself and her two sons seems enough to compensate for many, many trials of the past."

"And they:—your cousins," interposed Steck, "are they also such romantic characters?"

"Dr. Steck, you must not laugh at my enthusiasm," said she, seriously: "my cousins are—what such a mother must make them." And Steck fancied it was confusion that made her draw her cloak closer about her and quicken her steps.

"Forgive me," he said; "I know I have no claim upon your friendship, your regard, but when I hear you talk of this happily-united circle I cannot overcome a painful regret for all I have lost in only now becoming acquainted with so much that is good. I have been a great deal alone,—that is to say, in thought and feeling; and I might almost say, if it were not presuming upon your kindness, that it is a certain selfish jealousy which I feel in realizing this confiding interchange of sympathies."

"In that case," responded Alide, with great composure, "I can promise you that all our family will extend their friendship and respect to whoever deserves and needs it."

He did not reply; but no silence ensued, for she grew more and more talkative in proportion as his reserve increased.

When they reached the vineyard they found that the thick shadows of the grape-leaves made it too dark for them to enter, and Madame Duroc proposed that they should return at once to the house. Then followed a simple incident, now familiar to the world as the memorable events of history. It is but just to say that Steck at the time did not analyze the tender, sincere emotion which it excited in his breast; but in his artist-mind everything photographed itself with such distinctness that almost a lifetime later it recurred to him, and he transferred it to his Homeric page in the exquisite lines which all of us know. There were some large stones, roughly hewn to serve as steps, at the entrance of the vineyard, and they were descending these, when Alide's foot slipped, and she fell in his arms. For a second he supported her, with her hair close to his lips, her trembling form palpitating in his grasp.

She gently sank on his shoulder,
Breast was placed against breast, and cheek against cheek; thus
he stood there,
Fixed as a marble statue, the force of will keeping him steadfast,
Drew her not to him more closely, but braced himself under her
pressure.

She recovered herself almost immediately, and, suffused with shame at her awkwardness, as she expressed it, she hurried forward by his side.

Rahel and Max were already in the porch with the pastor when they arrived. "Did you find it as pleasant as we did?" asked Rahel. "You must have loitered by the way, for we walked as far as the old pear-tree, and yet we are home first."

"It is a rarely beautiful night," answered her mother. "But come, girls, it is time to go in now; and, Otto, I am sure the gentlemen are quite ready, after their journey from Strasburg to-day, to be shown to their room."

"I congratulate you, Dr. Steck," said Max Waldstein, when Otto had bidden the two young men good-night and closed the door of the guest-chamber, "on the result of these serious studies of yours; on your triumphant success in the praiseworthy attempt to examine these pastoral, idyllic lives with entire freedom from personal emotions. Wine, women, and song? Luther was an infant when he wrote it: it is philosophy, mathematics, jurisprudence, that make the world go round. What do you say, Dr. Steck? Have you brought your Phædon in your valise, and shall I fetch it to lull you to sleep? Tell me, am I not an admirable fellow to have introduced you into the original Primrose family?"

"Do not be hard upon me, Max," answered the other, frankly; "I acknowledge myself vanquished, routed, cut to pieces. But no, I will not yield like a craven; it is not open warfare, it is an ambuscade. Instead of warning me of the danger, you lured me into it. It was Rahel who was bewitching, Rahel who was irresistible; and just as I am pluming myself that I have met the enemy, received the full shock of her charge, and come off conqueror, there enters this baby whom you never thought it worth your while to mention, and before she has spoken I am groveling in the dust."

"And it is only your own villainous taste that brought you there," replied Max. "How could I know that you would prefer one of these pink-and-white lasses that spring up as thick as weeds all over Germany, to the sprightly Mademoiselle Rahel, or Olivia, as you have dubbed her? Truly the story is quite complete: the gentleman in disguise may have the honor of passing for Mr. Burchell; and, since scoundrels are not so necessary in common life as in novels, I will undertake the rôle of the nephew, and behave myself better than he did."

"Oh, Max!" interrupted his companion, "tell me, above all things, on your conscience, have you not betrayed me? What can she think of me? What a cursed fool I have made of myself in this execrable costume! Does she know that I am Goethe? I heard you talking freely about me before supper."

"How the deuce could she know it, when she was out in the porch cooing to you the only time your name passed my lips?"

"But her dignified mother, her kind old father," said Goethe, anxiously,—"have you betrayed me to them? Do they know what a simpleton I have been?"

"I cannot answer for that," responded Waldstein, dryly; "but if they know you are a simpleton they have discovered it through their own mother-wit, for I assure you, comrade, it is not I who would betray you."

"How did you happen to speak of me at all?" asked Goethe.

"Naturally enough," replied Max: "they questioned me about Strasburg, and I found your madcap fame had preceded you as far as Sesenheim. They had heard all sorts of preposterous stuff, and they were just begging me to tell them something about your eccentricities, when you came in with your sweetheart on your arm,—oh, no, I beg your pardon, not the Cathedral, but some heroine of a novel whom you were loftily studying for your first work of fiction."

Goethe made no reply, but paced the floor in an excited manner. Max watched him narrowly with an amused expression, and waited for him to resume the conversation. Finally he stopped, and broke out abruptly, "Is she engaged?"

"No," said Max, shortly.

"Hm! that is a relief," said Goethe, with a sigh. "Is she in love? has she ever been in love?"

"Really, Wolfgang," cried Max, laughing, "I cannot pretend to be familiar with such a mysterious thing as the heart of a woman. As to her being in love now, however, I think I can safely answer—no, unless she was smitten this evening by that pretty gray suit of yours. And for the past,—well, as she is scarcely more than a child, I hardly think it possible that she should have had any serious passion hitherto."

"Strange! strange!" murmured Goethe, absently. "Such a cheerfulness by nature is inconceivable to me. Had she loved and lost and recovered herself, or were she now betrothed, in either case I could account for this deep, earnest serenity." And he relapsed into silence.

"Those two cousins of hers," he began, in a little while, "her aunt Catherine—no, that is not the name—her aunt Christiane's sons: has she not a sentiment for one of them?"

"For both of them, for all I know," answered Max; "but if you could see them, I hardly believe you would suspect it. I think the Durocs have monopolized the beauty of the family. And, besides, one of these cousins is some few months younger than herself, and therefore in her womanly eyes a mere child; the other is already married. Any more catechism to-night, Wolfgang?"

"Yes; who is Goetz?" asked Goethe, with great eagerness.

Max burst into a laugh. "Oh, I forgot Goetz," he cried. "There I acknowledge you have a rival, and a formidable one, too. Why, I have seen your modest, demure Fräulein Alide fling her arms about his neck and caress his black, curly head as though he were a good-looking fellow like one of us. And yet he has beauties of his own, too,—to say nothing of his moral qualities,—a world of courage, a keen scent——" A light broke upon Goethe's face, and he could not repress a smile himself. "Yes," said Waldstein, "you are a rather presumptuous lad,—you have not been in the family a dozen hours, and you are jealous of the house-dog! But come, this may be very interesting for you, but I am tired and quite ready for sleep. I advise you to break off that walk of yours, and exercise your limbs in the morning. It is past midnight; and who knows but that I have my dreams to be dreamed out as well as you?"

A few moments later, honest Max was asleep as his head touched the pillow; but Goethe tossed feverishly about, and it was not till a short time before dawn that he succeeded in calming sufficiently his turbulent imagination to snatch a troubled slumber.

CHAPTER V
GOETHE

With the earliest beams of morning Goethe awoke. "Alide" was his first thought, and he sprang from his bed and began hastily to dress himself, that he might go into the open air and see her in the broad, dewy light of the young day. But now he was indeed horrified at the absurd wardrobe which he had so wantonly selected: the farther he advanced in his toilet, the meaner it seemed in his eyes, for everything had been calculated for just this effect. His hair could easily be managed; but when he forced himself into the shabby gray coat, and saw himself reflected in the little mirror piece by piece, first the short, threadbare sleeves, then the ill-fitting jacket, and then the ridiculous breeches, he fell into despair. He looked at Waldstein's fine clothes as they hung over the chair, and gladly would he have carried them off and left his accursed husk behind, for Max was sufficiently good-humored to have put himself readily into his friend's costume, and so the tale would have found a merry ending early in the morning. But Waldstein was so much shorter and stouter than himself that this attire would give him as ridiculous an appearance as his own. While he was standing with a perplexed, dejected countenance, summoning all his powers of invention, he heard a low, smothered laugh issuing from under the silken bed-quilt. He turned quickly and saw Max peering mischievously out upon him. "No, it is true," exclaimed Max, "you do look most cursedly!"

"And I know what I will do!" cried Goethe, impetuously. "Good-by, and make my excuses."

Waldstein sprang from the bed and tried to detain him. "Are you mad?" he called out. But it was too late, for his friend was already out of the door, down the stairs, out of the house and yard, and off to the tavern.

Now that he felt himself in safety, the cheerful sunlight and the cool breath of morning somewhat restored his quiet. He walked rapidly across the meadows to the Drusenheim inn, mounted his horse, which he had left there the evening before, and rode leisurely towards Strasburg, with the intention, of changing his toilet, taking a fresh horse, and returning to the parsonage in time for dinner, or at the latest for dessert, and making his apologies and explanations. As he recalled the evening which he had spent with the Durocs, the pleasant incidents that had occurred, and the delicious emotions he had experienced, his vexation at his own folly, and his impatience to see again the beloved face of Alide, grew wellnigh intolerable. He was just about to clap spurs into his steed and gallop into the city, when a sudden thought flashed upon him, and, turning the animal about, he rode back towards Drusenheim. He entered the court-yard of the tavern, and inquired for the landlord's son, whom he had remarked as a likely lad yesterday afternoon. Master Fritz, a well-made, good-looking youth, of somewhat the same figure and height as Goethe, soon made his appearance. In a few words Wolfgang proposed that the young man should exchange clothes with him, as he had something merry on foot at the parsonage.

"Capital!" cried Fritz; "you must be a good fellow, to make sport for the mam'selles; they are such excellent people, especially Mam'selle Alide; and the old folks, too, are fond of having everything go on pleasantly." He looked critically at Goethe's shabby costume, evidently taking him for a poor enough starveling, but he was honest-hearted and amiable, and, besides, Wolfgang was to leave his good horse in the stable; so, without any ado, he consented to the bargain, adding, complacently, "If you wish to insinuate yourself, this is the right way."

Goethe soon stood smart enough in the court-yard, and his new friend looked with much satisfaction at the counterpart. "Topp! Mr. Brother," he cried, giving his hand, which Wolfgang grasped heartily, "don't come too near my girl; she might make a mistake."

"Let me go in with you a moment," said Goethe, "that I may dress my hair like yours." "Since my intentions are enigmatical," he thought, "I will make myself an external riddle also." In a short time his soft brown locks were knotted jauntily on top, and with the help of a burnt cork his delicate arched eyebrows were thickened and darkened, and made to meet over his nose like those of the innkeeper's son. Then, taking the gayly-beribboned hat, he said, "Now, have you not something or other to be done at the parsonage, that I might announce myself there in a natural manner?"

"Good," said the lad; "but in that case you must wait a couple of hours yet. There is a woman confined at our house. I will offer to take the cake to the parson's wife, and you may carry it over. Pride must pay its penalty, and so must a joke."

His first device to beguile the tedious time was to order breakfast. He sat at the table familiarly with Fritz, and proposed to loiter an hour or so at the meal; but his exercise in the bracing air had added such zest to his appetite that when he had satisfied his hunger he found, to his surprise, but twenty minutes sped of his two hours' penance. Fritz suggested that Goethe, being an apt and amiable fellow, should go with him to the farmyard and stables and superintend the household arrangements for the day, and perhaps lend here and there a helping hand. Goethe was just the man to have interested himself deeply at any other moment in all the particulars of this active, healthy life, these varied duties, this genial, pleasant occupation which Fritz was to inherit and in which he already performed a large share of the work. Besides, the open-hearted peasant took the stranger into his confidence, and imparted various perplexities of his love-affairs, which just now were in rather an embarrassing condition. It was Lotte who held him to some foolish pledge of his boyhood, and it was Minna of the parsonage who possessed his heart. But Goethe was haunted by the vision of Alide, and burning with impatience to realize his dream: so he lent but an abstracted and unsympathetic ear to the prosy details of crops and marketings and tavern-profits, curiously interspersed with the idyllic complications of the peasant's personal history.

Meanwhile, at the parsonage, Alide also had risen betimes, and, as the events of the past evening recurred to her, her heart beat with unwonted excitement at the thought of meeting again this strange young man and penetrating his mystery. This searching daylight, she said to herself, would reveal all; it was only the dimness of lamplight and moonlight that had made her fancy such sudden, subtle changes in his countenance. Yet it was not his appearance only that had altered. How thoroughly self-possessed she found him when she had advanced, in compassion for his embarrassment, to ask him to touch the harpsichord! And what did Herr Waldstein mean by interrupting that, burst of eloquence at the supper-table? Never before had she heard a man talk like that; she could not raise her eyes while he spoke. Ah! had she seen him at such a moment, she would have divined who and what he was. When she did look, it was too late; the curtain had been again drawn.

Hitherto, when she had been in doubt about a stranger, she had never failed to appeal to her mother's decision, with unquestioning faith in the infallibility of that wise, deliberate judgment. Now, however, she did not dream of turning to any one for counsel; no one suspected the hidden treasure of which she had caught a glimpse. Her mother seemed grave, and even displeased, when Dr. Steck had spoken so eloquently at the table, and Rahel had no eyes for any one else while Max was with her. She would discover everything for herself, and then present to them all her prince in disguise, and he should know that never for an instant had she been deceived by the shabby surface.

She looked more like a child than yesterday, as she sprang down-stairs into the open air, for she had left her plaited hair hanging down her back, and replaced her coronet of braids with a snood of pale-blue ribbon. But the serious eyes held something more suggestive of the perfect flowering of maidenhood than any light they possessed before they had fallen upon Goethe's face.

The family were just seating themselves at the breakfast-table when the door opened, and Alide, who had glanced up eagerly, saw, with a chill of disappointment, Herr Waldstein enter alone. Before the pastor could inquire about his new guest, Max said, with some constraint, "My friend begs me to tell you all, with a great many apologies for his apparent rudeness, and many more thanks for your kindness to him, that he has been obliged to return in haste to Strasburg."

"I am sorry for that," said the pastor; "I flatter myself that I can judge character pretty accurately, and that youth pleased me amazingly: he was a fine, ingenuous fellow. Well, I doubt not but he will turn up again."

"Oh, you may be sure of that!" said Max, who could not refrain from a furtive glance at Alide. "He was delighted with his evening here, and he pulled a wry face at having to return to the city."

"It seems strange that he was obliged to leave so suddenly," said Madame Duroc: "he certainly could not have received news from town so early."

"No, madame," stammered Max; "but last night—no, not last night—in fact, though he is a good fellow, to tell you the truth, he is something of a madcap. Indeed, he is only a boy in years, and he rode over here for a holiday, without remembering an important business engagement for this morning in town. I am quite sure he will return soon and make you his own excuses."

No further attention was paid to the freak so naturally accounted for, while the family conversation flowed on in its ordinary channels. How intolerably flat it was to poor Alide! Her little romance was shattered to bits by this unexpected incident; she was sure he would never come back. Now, more than ever, he was a prince in disguise, and, since he had been with her the greater part of the evening, the modest girl accused herself of a thousand blunders that must have driven him away. How she had bored him with her foolish confidences about her dull village circle! how ungainly he must have found her rustic appearance and manner! She choked a sigh, and tried to interest herself again in the trivial events of her home-life. After breakfast Rahel proposed a walk, and the two sisters fetched their hats and strolled with Waldstein across the meadows. Alide almost forgot to be melancholy in the sunshine of the autumn fields. Ah, how easily at this early period could she have succeeded in what seemed to her the heroic endeavor to banish all recollection of the wonderful stranger! She called Goetz from his kennel, and in a little while she was bounding with the dog, laughing and singing, far ahead of Max and Rahel, or gayly chatting alongside of them.

There are women who especially please us in a room; others who look better in the open air. Alide belonged to the latter. Her whole nature, her form, never appeared more charming than when she moved along an elevated footpath. The grace of her deportment seemed to vie with the flowery earth, and the indestructible cheerfulness of her countenance with the blue sky. In walks she floated about, an animating spirit, and knew how to supply the gaps which might arise here and there. The lightness of her movements we have already commended, and she was most graceful when she ran. As the deer seems just to fulfil its destination when it lightly flies over the sprouting corn, so did her peculiar nature seem most plainly to express itself when she ran with light steps over mead and furrow, to seek something which had been lost, to summon a distant couple, or to order something necessary. On these occasions she was never out of breath, and always kept her equilibrium.

"Who is this coming towards us with a white thing in his hands?" asked Max.

"Oh, that is Fritz, the innkeeper's son," said Rahel, drawing her eyelids together coquettishly. "But what can he be running across the meadows with?"

As he drew near, Alide called out, "Fritz, what are you bringing there?"

He took off his hat in such a manner that it entirely concealed his face, and, without speaking, held up a loaded napkin high in the air.

"A christening-cake!" cried Alide. "How is your sister?"

"Well," replied he, shortly.

"Carry it to the house," said Rahel. "If you do not find my mother, give it to the maid. Rut wait for us; we shall soon be back. Do you hear? That will give him a chance with Minna," she added, kindly, as they continued their walk.

With a joyous feeling of hope, Goethe in his new disguise hastened along the path, and soon reached the parsonage. He found nobody either in the house or the kitchen, and, taking it for granted that the pastor was engaged in the study, he seated himself on a bench in the porch, with his cake beside him, and pressed down his hat over his brows. It was indeed a delightful sensation which he now experienced; to sit again on this threshold over which a short time before he had blundered out in despair, to have seen her already again, to have heard again her dear voice so soon after his chagrin had pictured to him a long separation, and every moment to be expecting herself and a discovery at which his heart throbbed, and yet a discovery without shame, for surely love never prompted a merrier prank.

But the maid came stepping out of the barn. "Did the cakes turn out well?" cried she. "And how is your sister?"

"All right," replied Goethe, and pointed to the cake without looking up.

She raised the napkin and muttered, "Now, what's the matter with you to-day again? Has Lotte been looking at somebody else? Don't let us suffer for that; you will make a happy couple if you carry on so."

As she spoke rather loud, the pastor came to the window and asked what was the matter. She showed him the supposed Fritz, who rose and turned towards him, but kept the hat well over his face.

"Good-morning, Fritz," said the pastor; "I am glad to hear you say your sister is getting along nicely. You may go round to the kitchen and say a word to Minna."

With these friendly words the pastor turned into the room again, and Goethe was moving towards the garden, when he heard the voice of Madame Duroc, who was just entering the court-yard, calling him. He was obliged to meet her with the sun shining full in his face, but he still availed himself of the advantage which his hat afforded him, and greeted her by scraping a leg.

"How are you, Fritz?" said she, kindly. "Go to the kitchen, and be sure not to return home without taking some breakfast." And she re-entered the house.

Goethe walked up and down the garden, congratulating himself on his unexpected luck, and breathing hard at the thought that he should so soon see again the young people. Lost in his reflections, he did not hear a step approach, and, raising his head suddenly, he found Madame Duroc directly in front of him. "Fritz," she began, and then, for the first time looking him full in the face, the words died away upon her lips. He saw that it was useless to try to conceal himself any longer, and, doffing his hat, he stood before her in the sunshine, with his eyes cast to the ground and his face covered with blushes.

After a pause she exclaimed, with displeasure, "I am looking for Fritz, and whom do I find? Is it you, young sir? How many forms have you, then?"

He raised his eyes and looked at her so honestly and respectfully that her anger was appeased. "In earnest, only one," he replied, gravely; and then added, with a merry smile, "but in sport, as many as you like."

"Which sport I will not spoil," said she, graciously, smiling in her turn. "Go out behind the garden into the meadow until it strikes twelve, then come back, and I shall already have contrived the joke."

He obeyed, and, after passing beyond the hedges of the village gardens, he was embarrassed by seeing some country-people advancing towards him along the footpath. By his side was a hill crowned by a small wood, and, springing up the elevation, he plunged into the grove, in order to conceal himself till the appointed time. He found himself at once in a little sylvan paradise. The soft turf was mottled with broken sunlight and strewn with the first fall of leaves; patches of the deep-blue sky were shining between the restless foliage and waving branches, and on every side a heaven-bright picture, set in a bushy frame, opened before him. Below, was the lively village, and at no great distance, as seen from this point, stood the gray parsonage, embosomed in its prosperous fields. Beyond, lay Drusenheim, with its old-fashioned inn, and its glittering tiled roof that caught the sunlight, while far away rose into sight the steeple of Strasburg Minster. He could catch between the trees a glimpse of the flowing shimmer of the Rhine, and could distinguish in the hazy distance its woody islands, with their magical tints of yellow and russet and green. In the opposite direction waved the noble outlines of the Vosges, their purple hollows and dazzling light-green pasture-slopes streaked with shifting shadows.

It was evident that he had not been the first to appreciate this rare combination of lovely vistas, for benches had been placed around, so that one could admire at leisure from every point. Seating himself upon one of these, under a tall elm, he saw fastened on the trunk an oblong little board with the inscription, "Alide's Rest." His heart beat violently at the sudden recollection. A light footstep startled him from his reverie, and, looking around, he saw Alide, who, aglow with youth and beauty, "most highly realized his fair dream."

"Why, Fritz, what are you doing here?" she cried, from below the hill.

"Not Fritz," exclaimed Goethe, running to meet her, "but one who craves forgiveness of you a thousand times."

She looked at him in wonder, almost in alarm, and fetched her breath quickly; but, endeavoring to conceal her emotion with a laugh, she said, "You wicked man! how you frighten me!"

"The first disguise has led me into the second," cried he; "the former would have been unpardonable had I but known, in any degree, to whom I was coming. But this one you will certainly forgive, for it is the shape of persons whom you treat so kindly."

She colored deeply, but walked up the hill with him, and answered, "At any rate, you will not fare worse than Fritz. Let us sit down; for I confess the fright has gone into my limbs."

Goethe was even more agitated than herself as they entered the grove and took their seats. So many conventional necessities come to the aid of a woman that Alide, whose heart was thrilled with joy at finding him thus again, was able to speak with perfect composure. "We know everything already, up to this morning, from your friend," said she; "now do you tell us the rest."

"What! you know that I am Goethe, and you pardon my boldness, my presumption, in deceiving you as I did! But you cannot imagine my horror this morning in thinking that I must again appear before you in such a guise as to excite nothing but ridicule and disgust. I thought of all your genial household, but above all, one face was always before me, hospitable, gentle, even as it is now, but with that terrible smile lurking behind it. Then Max, who was watching me, broke out into a laugh. It was too much. I rushed from the house in despair, to Strasburg, as I intended; but the happy idea occurred to me that I might borrow something presentable of Fritz,—anything to appear human in your sight, to throw myself at your feet and implore your forgiveness for my folly."

She laughed low and graciously at his vehemence, and answered, good-humoredly, "How can I help forgiving one who has suffered so grievously?"

"Ah, mademoiselle," he went on, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, "it seems a light thing to suffer in that way, I know; but it is something deeper than vanity that is wounded when one makes a false step in entering a home like yours. My first glance at you, as you stood under the doorway, told me, There is a woman whose friendship, whose affection, would be worth a lifetime to win. And before I had spoken I had forfeited them forever." He paused, not daring to look her in the face.

"Surely," said she, in her even quiet tones, "the friendship of a woman who would attach a serious construction to so harmless a joke would scarcely be worth striving for."

He looked up with joyful assurance. "Then you forgive me!" he cried. "Ah, you are too generous! But I knew you were like that. Last night, when you sang for me in the porch, when we walked together in that heavenly moonlight, I could find no words to offer you. What could you have thought of me, as I stood dull and taciturn by your side? But no, Fraulein Alide, surely you guessed what was passing within me. And now that you know who I am, I feel as if I must give vent in speech to this great emotion. I must thank you for your incredible goodness to me. Again and again I must ask you to forgive me the alarm I have caused you."

She made no answer, and he took her hand and imprinted a kiss upon its dainty whiteness. She did not withdraw it, but suffered it to remain in his. "And to think," said he, "that this morning I fancied myself eternally separated from you! How little do we repose upon the inexhaustible beneficence of the gods! Now I sit by your side, I look into your eyes, I press to my lips your dear hand,—and an hour ago there was a gulf between us. What does this mean, save that they will bless us, they in whose guidance and support, like little children, we confide?" And he bowed his stately head with simple reverence as he spoke.

It would have been impossible to doubt the sincerity of that appeal. This was not as her father spoke of Heaven, but Alide felt none the less that the words came from the young man's inmost heart. While he talked, he did not seem to have remarked how meditative and silent she had become. She looked at him while his glance was bent away from her, and a sudden glow overspread her face, and her eyes rested upon him with such wonderful tenderness that he might have fancied their liquid depths were filling with tears. He raised his head abruptly, and, noting her agitation, he threw aside his grave air, and once more impetuously craved her pardon.

"Alide! Alide!" It was the voice of her sister calling her. Immediately she recovered her composure, together with her perfect cheerfulness. "That will be a pretty story," said she. "She is coming hither on my side." And she bent forward so as half to conceal Goethe. "Turn yourself away, so that you may not be recognized at once."

As he did so, Rahel and Waldstein entered the grove, and both stood still as if petrified.

"What is this? what is this?" cried Rahel, with the rapidity of one who is frightened. "You hand in hand with Fritz,—how am I to understand this?"

"Dear sister," said Alide, "the poor fellow is begging something of me, and he has something to beg of you too; but you must forgive him beforehand."

"I do not understand," said her sister, shaking her head and looking at Max, who stood by and contemplated the scene without any kind of expression.

Alide arose and drew Goethe after her. "No hesitating," cried she,—"pardon begged and granted."

"Now do," said he, stepping near Rahel. "I have need of pardon."

She drew back, gave a loud shriek, and was covered with blushes. She then threw herself down on the grass and laughed immoderately. Waldstein smiled, and exclaimed, "You are a rare youth!" and he shook Goethe's hand. He was not usually liberal of his caresses, and his shake of the hand was hearty and cordial.

Rahel arose, and they all set out on their return to the parsonage. Mutual explanations ensued, and Goethe learned that Alide had only parted from the promenaders in order to rest in her little nook for a moment before dinner; and when the others returned to the house, the mother had sent them to call her, for dinner was ready.

"This is indeed too delightful!" cried Rahel, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. "So mamma has discovered the secret, you say. Now we have still to deceive papa, and Otto, and Minna, and Hans."

Amid a great deal of merriment, they mystified the servant-man and the maid, and all four in high spirits entered the dining-room. The table was covered, and the pastor was already waiting in the room. Rahel paused on the threshold and called out, "Papa, have you any objection to Fritz dining with us to-day? But you must let him keep his hat on."

"With all my heart," said the old man. "But why such an unusual thing? has he hurt himself?"

"No," replied Rahel, leading Goethe forward, "but he has a bird-cage under it, and the birds will fly out and make a terrible fuss, for they are nothing but wild ones." So saying, she pulled off Goethe's hat and bade him make his curtsy.

The pastor looked at him, but did not lose his priestly self-possession. "Ay, ay, Mr. Candidate!" he exclaimed, raising a threatening finger, "you have changed saddles very quickly, and in the night I have lost an assistant who yesterday promised me so faithfully that he would often mount my pulpit on week-days. Well, you are welcome in any guise." And they all seated themselves at the table.

During the meal Otto came in, and, slapping Goethe on the shoulder, said, "Good dinner to you, Fritz."

"Many thanks, squire," cried Goethe. The strange voice and the strange face startled him.

"What do you say," asked Rahel,—"does he not look like his brother?"

"Yes, from behind, like all folks," said Otto, who would not acknowledge himself surprised; and he did not look at Goethe again, but busied himself with zealously devouring the dishes to make up for lost time. At dessert the real Fritz came in; they began to banter him, but he was modest and clever enough, and in a half-confused manner mixed up himself, his sweetheart, his counterpart, and the mam'selles to such a degree that no one could tell about whom he was talking, and they were only too glad to let him consume in peace a glass of wine and a bit of his own cake.

After dinner the young people assembled in the porch to decide how best to take advantage of the serene afternoon. Their spirits were subdued by a deep and tranquil happiness, and only quiet amusements were proposed. A walk was objected to, as it would have been awkward for Goethe to meet any of the neighboring country-folk in his borrowed clothes, and finally Max suggested that as Wolfgang was the obstacle to their ordinary pastimes, the entertainment of the company should devolve upon him.

"The fellow has any quantity of rhymes and fairy-tales in his valise," said Waldstein, "and he can fetch some of them now and read to us in the open air. What is the use of having a poet among us if we must divert ourselves in as commonplace a way as other people?"

The proposition was hailed with delight, and Goethe was dispatched to his room for his manuscripts. "How I wish all the family could enjoy such a treat!" said Rahel; "but what is the use of calling them? I know papa has gone for his nap, and mamma is always busy. Where shall we go for our entertainment?"

"Why not to Fräulein Alide's 'Rest'?" asked Goethe, who had rejoined them.

"No," said Alide, hurriedly, "that is too far; we will go into the summer-house by the orchard."

"Excellent!" cried Max; "that is the very place. Wolf must pose as a mediæval minnesinger, improvising his verses amidst beautiful damsels in the open air."

"No," modestly replied Goethe, with a laugh; "no more poses for me. After my misadventure yesterday, I am content to be simply Wolfgang Goethe with these young ladies,—neither meistersinger, nor doctor, nor peasant,—and if I can but redeem that name in their sight I shall be grateful. Besides, I am not going to inflict any rhymes upon you; it will be plain prose, and no very lofty flight of imagination, either."

They took their seats in the arbor, with the sunlight flickering down on them through the red vine-leaves; Goethe in the centre, and Alide directly in front of him, with her chin resting on her hand, reflecting in her upturned face the inspiration and excitement of the countenance upon which her eyes were riveted. Rahel busied her restless fingers with a piece of scarlet needlework, and Max as usual took a low seat near her feet, whence he could admire the little downcast chestnut head. For more than two hours the young magician held his circle enchanted, not so much by the charm of the story, though that also exercised a powerful attraction, as by the masterly modulations of his voice, the grace of his unstudied attitude and occasional gestures, the infinite play of expression upon his face,—in a word, by the irresistible influence of his personality.

He succeeded in awakening curiosity, in fixing the attention, in provoking over-hasty solutions of impenetrable riddles, in deceiving expectations, in confusing by the more wonderful which came into the place of the wonderful, in arousing sympathy and fear, in causing anxiety, in moving, and at last, by the change of what was apparently earnest into an ingenious and cheerful jest, in satisfying, the mind, and leaving the imagination materials for new images, and the understanding, materials for further reflection.

When it was over, there was a short pause. Then Max broke out, "Bravo, bravo! it is beyond expectation!"

"How singular, how wonderful, it is!" echoed Rahel. "But you must let us have a copy of it, that we may read it often among ourselves and show it to our friends."

"To think that it is over now!" said Alide, wistfully, with a little sigh. "Yes, Herr Goethe, you will promise what my sister asks, will you not? It is not very long, and I am sure you could easily make a fair copy of the whole, and leave it with us as a memento of this happy afternoon."

"Most willingly," replied Goethe; "I will bring it to you from the city as soon as I can transcribe it. But such a day as this has been for me should indeed, as you say, leave something substantial in our possession. Have I compensated sufficiently as Goethe for the follies of Dr. Steck, to ask something from you, Fräulein Alide?"

"Is it in my power to grant?" asked she.

"It is the rose in your hair."

"Oh, is that all?" said she, simply. "I had forgotten it was there,—it can scarcely be fresh now." And she untwisted the stem of the white flower from her snood and threw it playfully into his hands.

"The day has already come to a close for us," said Waldstein, with a significant glance at his friend. "You know, Wolfgang, I must be back in Strasburg to-morrow morning."

"Well, then, our holiday is over," assented Goethe, with a sigh. "We will go to the house and take leave of all our kind entertainers."

As they were returning to the parsonage, he found occasion to whisper to Alide, "Your wonderful goodness to me prompts me to one question more: May I interpret as I please your generosity about the rose?"

"It means only one thing," said Alide, in a tremulous and almost inaudible voice, while her face grew deadly pale, and she laid her hand upon his arm. He seized it in his own, and kissed it passionately without speaking.

Two hours later, he and his friend, after a silent walk across the meadows, entered their quarters for the night, at the Drusenheim inn.

CHAPTER VI
FIRST LOVE

Far different had it been from the sunny stroll which they had enjoyed the previous day. The seemingly harmless clouds that had overhung the mountains since morning had now accumulated in threatening masses, and rolled in huge gray vapors over all the heavens. A wet, penetrating mist overspread the earth, and a chill wind that smelt already of the rain blew drearily, now and then shaking down showers of condensed moisture from the faded trees. As the two friends advanced, night came on so suddenly that more than once they strayed from the path and were obliged to retrace their footsteps. Goethe felt a grapple at his heart which led his thoughts incessantly backward. At the last moment, when he was taking leave in the porch, Alide had been sent by her father to fetch the plans for the rebuilding of the manse, which Goethe had offered to take with him to Strasburg.

"I am glad you are not going as far as the city to-night," said Rahel, looking up at the clouds: "what a gloomy ending for such a bright day!"

"And yet," replied Goethe, "I shall always think of the parsonage as an enchanted castle associated with perpetual sunshine."

"Well, if the storm should overtake you," answered Rahel, laughing, "my sister and myself will be the powerful princesses to protect you till you get beyond our dominions. Will we not, Alide?" And she turned to her sister, who reappeared with the scroll.

"That we will," said Alide, with spirit; "and here is my talisman to shield you from the dangers of the road."

When he looked back at her, he saw her smiling still upon him, until her fresh rose-face and white-clad form were lost in the folds of mist, and she vanished as weirdly and gradually as a spirit maiden.

"Well, I am not sorry to get under shelter after the infernal cold darkness of this night," cried Max, as they entered their room at the inn.

"We are fortunate to have escaped a storm," replied Goethe, and relapsed into silence.

"It is strange," resumed Waldstein, "that you should have hit upon that story to read to the girls. Did you not notice what a peculiar impression it made?"

"How do you mean? I could not help observing that the elder laughed more than was appropriate at certain passages, that Fräulein Alide shook her head, that you all looked significantly at each other, and you yourself were nearly put out of countenance. I do not deny that I almost felt embarrassed myself, for it struck me that it was perhaps improper to tell the dear girls a parcel of stuff of which they had better been ignorant, and to give them such a bad opinion of the male sex as they must have formed from the principal character."

"You have not hit it at all," said Max. "The 'dear girls' are not so unacquainted with such matters as you imagine, for the society around them gives occasion for many reflections; and there happens to be on the other side of the Rhine exactly such a couple as you describe, allowing a little for fancy and exaggeration; the husband just So tall and sturdy and heavy, the wife so pretty and dainty that he could easily hold her in his hand. Their mutual position in other respects, their history altogether, so exactly accords with your tale, that the girls seriously asked me whether you knew the persons and described them in jest. I assured them you did not; and if you follow my advice you will let the story remain uncopied. With the assistance of delays and pretexts you may easily find an excuse."

It was only this night that Alide experienced the vague trouble of a new passion. The ominous threats of a storm, so unexpected after the resplendent brightness of the day, the wild, melancholy howling of the rising wind, added to the turmoil of her own breast, held her eyes from sleep during the long, slow hours; and, though she could assign no cause, at intervals great tears would slowly gather under her lids and trickle down her cheeks. When she recalled her own avowal to Goethe, she felt her whole frame tremble and the blood mount to her face in the darkness. Just as she was about to soothe herself to sleep with the sweet thought that she loved and was beloved by one who was worthy, the storm broke without. The rain streamed in floods on roof and pane and gable, and startled her into hopeless wakefulness. She rose and looked out into the blurred blackness of the night, while a thousand fantastic terrors possessed her brain. The simple girl clasped her hands together, and, kneeling by her bedside, implored the blessing and protection of Heaven upon this stranger so suddenly endeared to her. This solemn communion finally succeeded in quieting her, and she was able to gain a few hours of profound and dreamless repose.

When she awoke, the clear sunlight was slanting through the lattice; she could catch glimpses without of the brightness of the rain-washed blue and green. Her heart was uplifted within her by the inspiriting sight. How shadowy, how childish, seemed all the distorted fears of the night before this dazzling reality! Goethe's words came back to her: "how little do we repose in the inexhaustible beneficence of the gods!" and from that moment a sense of perfect peace took entire possession of her. All day it was as though she walked upon the clouds; the earth seemed elastic beneath her footsteps; the air was a palpable tissue of color and radiance; the heavens were filled with saints and angels, who watched over him with the same universal eyes with which they shed all blessed influences upon her. Her own thoughts sufficed her for perpetual delight: every moment she recalled another expression, another gesture, another word that she had remarked the previous day. She lived over and over those magical hours. The toss of his head, the music of his laughter, the characteristic movement of his hand over his brow, the trick of his voice, the glimpse which she had caught of tears in his eyes as she looked at him after her song in the porch, and reminiscences more sacred than these which she scarcely dared put in words even in her mind, set the poor child's head in a whirl of happiness from morning till night.

The next day brought her a letter; there was no need to tell her who had traced the bold and graceful characters of the superscription. It was Fritz who carried it to her from the inn, and she had much ado to conceal from him the extravagant delight which it occasioned her. She succeeded, however, in receiving it with composure, even lingering a moment to question him about his sister and her new baby. Then she walked quietly away with her treasure in her hand. When she felt herself out of his sight, she paused with a fluttering heart to decide where she could enjoy it with the least danger of disturbance, and finally ran off in the direction of the little grove where she had found Goethe the morning after his arrival. She took her seat under the elm-tree, and fora few moments contented herself with gazing at her own name in these shapely Roman letters: "Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle Alide Duroc. The Parsonage, Sesenheim." She was in no haste to possess and secure her happiness; she liked to dally with it, that she might taste the sweetness of its every phase. At last she broke the seal, and read so slowly and deliberately that after a single reading she could have repeated it from beginning to end, for every word had burned itself upon her heart.

"STRASBURG, OCTOBER 15, 1770.

"MY DEAR NEW FRIEND,—I dare to call you so, for if I can trust the language of eyes, then did mine in the first glance read the hope of this new friendship in yours,—and for our hearts I will answer. You, good and gentle as I know you, will you not show some favor to one who loves you so? Dear, dear friend, that I have something to say to you there can be no question, but it is quite another matter whether I exactly know wherefore I now write and what I may write. Thus much I am conscious of by a certain inward unrest, that I would gladly be by your side, and that a scrap of paper is as true a consolation and as winged a steed for me here in noisy Strasburg as it can be to you in your quiet, if you truly feel the separation from your friend. The circumstances of our journey home you can easily imagine, if you marked my pain at parting, and how I longed to remain behind. Waldstein's thoughts went forward, mine backward; so you can understand how our conversation was neither interesting nor copious. At the end of the Wanzenau we thought to shorten our route, and found ourselves in the midst of a morass. Night came on, and we only needed the storm, which threatened to overtake us, to have had every reason for being fully convinced of the love and constancy of our princesses. Meanwhile, the scroll which I held constantly in my hand—fearful of losing it—was a talisman which charmed away all the perils of the journey. And now—oh, I dare not utter it!—either you can guess it, or you will not believe it! At last we arrived, and our first thought, which had been our joy on the road, was the project soon to see you again. How delicious a sensation is the hope of seeing again those we love! And we, when our coddled heart is a little sorrowful, at once bring it medicine, and say: Dear little heart, be quiet, you will not long be away from her you love; be quiet, dear little heart! Meanwhile we give it a chimera to play with, and then is it good and still as a child to whom the mother gives a doll, instead of the apple which it must not eat.

"You would not believe that the noisy gayety of Strasburg is disagreeable to me after the sweet country pleasures enjoyed with you. Never, mademoiselle, did Strasburg seem so empty to me as now. I hope, indeed, it will be better when the remembrance of those charming hours is a little dimmed,—when I no longer feel so vividly how good, how amiable, my friend is. Yet ought I to forget that, or to wash it? No, I will rather retain a little sorrow, and write to you frequently. And now many, many thanks and many sincere remembrances to your dear parents. To your dear sister, many hundred—what I would so willingly give you again.

J. W. G."

When she closed it, with a simple gesture she raised it to her lips and kissed it tenderly; her face wore an expression of celestial calm, and for a moment she sat with dreamy eyes, motionless, like one in a trance. Then, rousing herself abruptly, and breaking forth into a song half music and half laughter, she ran down the hill and home to the parsonage, for a walk with Rahel or a romp with Goetz.

Every day this joy was repeated, and nearly every day with the letter came such unostentatious gifts as he dared send her. The girl grew singularly meek and gentle under the softening influence of her happiness. She was continually asking herself what she had done to merit such a beautiful destiny, and her sole aim in his absence was to render herself in some degree worthy of his love.

Her parents could not find it in their hearts to endeavor to make her look with more circumspection at the total transformation of her life. Indeed, it was far from the honest pastor's wish to see her otherwise. The mother could not repress many a gloomy foreboding in reflecting upon the suddenness of the affection on either side, the youthfulness of both, the inexperience and simplicity of her daughter, and the premature worldly knowledge of the brilliant young man. But her husband had an answer for every objection.

"We must not forget, Kitty, in our zeal for our children's happiness, the feelings of our own youth. How much longer had I known you before we stole a march upon our elders? And, indeed, I cannot wonder at her fancy; I never saw myself a likelier lad. He has a better idea to-day of all that our house needs than Klug and Guédin together. Besides, though he did change his character the second day he was with us, I have not a doubt that he could fulfil his promise, and deliver a fair enough sermon for me on week-days."

"But it is not the assistance of a curate, Moritz, that you must put into the scale with our darling's happiness."

"Nay, wife; it is only as it influences my opinion of his abilities that I speak. And where could you find a more creditable match for her? His family is among the most respectable in Frankfort, and Waldstein bears testimony enough to the soundness of his heart. No, Kitty, let things run their own course. It has ever been my opinion that we elders interfere something too much in these matters. We cannot make our bleared old vision serve for these young people,—we see much that they may be happily blind to all their lives, and I warrant they have a world of wonderful sights around them that is closed to us. It is a miracle that two young hearts should know each other at sight, and make each other's sunshine for a lifetime, and yet it is a miracle that often comes to pass; there is a wiser One than we who watches over all. And do you know, Käthchen, when I look at our baby Alide's face now, I feel as young myself as though I were once again wooing thee." And he smiled with tears in his eyes, and kissed his wife's forehead.

Many a time Alide tried to express to Goethe her joy and gratitude, but nothing that she wrote could satisfy her, and it was with many misgivings that she finally dispatched to him a letter. Even this, as soon as it was fairly off, she would have recalled had it been possible. She had not read it over, and had written it so rapidly that she had no recollection of a single word it contained. The next morning, however, all her fears were lost in the glad thought with which she awoke. "He receives it to-day! How near we are together! It is almost as if I could stretch out my hand and press his own there in Strasburg. Perhaps he will come to me when he has read it!" And all day this idea gained in strength upon her, until she had firmly convinced herself that she would see him before night. She even told her sister that Goethe would be with them that evening.

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Rahel. "And the Stockmars and the Hellers coming to-morrow! But how do you know? Will Max be with him?"

"One question at a time," said Alide, gently, who was a little startled out of her visionary faith by her sister's eagerness. "I cannot answer for Max, and Herr Goethe has not told me he would come; but I think he will be here."

"Oh, pshaw!" said Rahel. "It is one of your ridiculous fancies, Alide. I do not believe a word of it."

CHAPTER VII
IN STRASBOURG

Never before had Goethe found his varied occupations in the city so wearisome as when he resumed them after his brief holiday at the parsonage. Not long before, he had written to a friend that "for the first time he knew what it was to be happy without his heart being engaged. Pleasant people and manifold studies left him no time for feeling. His life was like a sledge-journey, splendid and sounding, but with just as little for the heart as it had much for eyes and ears." But now all was different; he had hone of his previous animation to impart to anything that he attempted. Perhaps had he been able to remain by Alide's side, the fancy so suddenly enkindled would have burnt itself out; but now that he was separated from her, it developed into an absorbing passion which deprived him of all spirit for his ordinary pursuits. Her every charm was infinitely magnified by distance and by the most powerful of imaginations. He found himself forever contrasting the tedium of this enforced absence with the blissful consciousness of life and youth, and "that highest grace of love," which he had known in her presence. He was obliged to renounce his sketching, for it gave his mind too much scope to lose itself in idle reverie as he sat listlessly before his canvas. At any other period of his life, his restlessness, his longing, his depression, and his feverish excitement would have found their surest and safest vent in composition,—in the production of those inimitable songs, each one of which has crystallized a subtle, and what had hitherto appeared an indescribable, condition or emotion of the heart. But just now he had become the disciple of the cynical Herder, who "had so spoiled his hopes and fancies respecting himself that he began to doubt his own capabilities." This master "had torn down the curtain which concealed from Goethe the poverty of German literature, and had, ruthlessly destroyed many of his prejudices; in the sky of his fatherland were but few stars of importance left, and the rest he was now taught to regard as so many transient candle-snuffs." Thus there was nothing left him but to pursue with diligence his serious studies. He devoted himself to jurisprudence as assiduously as was required to take his degree with credit, and he was able finally to interest himself in medicine, because it "disclosed glimpses of Nature, if it did not reveal her on every side." Moreover, he was attached to this science by intercourse and habit.

His appearance changed as conspicuously as his feelings. No one would have recognized this pale, moping youth, as he pored over his books or roused himself to attend a medical lecture or to study every form of disease in the city hospitals, as the wild, buoyant lad who had illustrated with his inspiriting presence and his inexhaustible gifts a day of sunshine at the Duroc parsonage. In society he became so reserved and indifferent that he acquired the nicknames of the "wolf" and the "bear." It was no feeble sentiment that such a man could entertain, for he threw the whole force of his passionate nature into all that attracted and possessed him. He was literally consumed by this hidden fire. One consolation indeed was his,—he could write to her daily, and he could transport himself in imagination to her presence while thus holding communication with her, or even while studying the sketches for the alteration of her home. He busied himself with a thousand plans for the improvement and embellishment of that beloved dwelling, with a thousand fantastic decorations for her own room, and meantime he sent her constantly a new book, a curious ornament, a rare engraving with which to adorn it when all was completed.

Once, and once only, did he receive a letter from her. He had never seen her handwriting, and, coming as it did with half a dozen letters from his family, the modest little missive was thrown carelessly aside until he had read all the details of his home in Frankfort. Then he took it up, vaguely wondering whence it could have come; but he had no sooner broken the seal than the blood rushed into his face, and with a little cry of joy he pressed it to his lips, and read it over and over long after he could repeat it by heart.

"My dear Herr Goethe," wrote Alide, "I have tried many times to write you my thanks for all your goodness to me, for the precious tokens of your affectionate remembrance which you have so constantly sent me, since that happy day, now nearly a month ago, that you passed with us. But everything looks so cold, almost curt, on paper, that I have not dared to send you such poor scraps as I have written. Now, however, I will not let you any longer think me so ungrateful, and I will not read my letter over, so that I may find courage to send it. Besides, when I remember how indulgent you are to me, how you seem to see clearly only that which is genuine in one's heart, I am greatly reassured. Indeed, you are already more like an old friend than many with whom I have been all my life familiar. Do you know, Herr Goethe, that ever since that day I have been as happy as one in a dream? In the morning I awake with a light heart, and think, 'What, then, do I possess which I never knew before?' and then with a great rush of joy it all comes upon me, and with it the hopeful feeling that I shall see you soon again. I do not grow impatient,—it seems to me that I could wait for centuries, knowing that in the end my friend will surely come. Formerly I was hasty, petulant, sometimes even rude; but now nothing vexes me, nothing can come between me and this wonderful new happiness. But I did not mean to write so much when I began. I only wished to thank you for all your gifts, especially the 'Book of Songs,' and, above all, your letters. I must not write again; but do not think of me as sad or impatient, or any other than the happiest girl in the world.

Alide Duroc."

"November 5, 1770."

This cheerful letter imparted somewhat of its own joyousness to Goethe. All day the words kept ringing in his ears with the sweet persistence of some familiar melody. In the afternoon he went, according to his custom, to the hospital, and with his respected instructor visited bed after bed. His original disgust at the invalids had gradually subsided, for he had learned to regard their various conditions as abstract ideas, through which recovery and the restoration of the human form and nature appeared possible. It was a singular anomaly for so young a man, and especially one of his reputation, to devote himself so earnestly to such a subject as this. To-day he seemed unusually pale and excited, and there was a strange longing expression in his bright eyes. The professor could not help regarding him with peculiar interest; he did not conclude his lecture, as he was in the habit of doing, with some doctrine that might have reference to some particular case of illness, but said, cheerfully, "Gentlemen, there are some holidays before us; make use of them to enliven your spirits. Studies must not only be pursued with seriousness and diligence, but also with cheerfulness and freedom of mind. Give movement to your bodies, and traverse the beautiful country on horse and foot. He who is at home will take delight in that to which he has been accustomed, while for the stranger there will be new impressions and pleasant reminiscences for the future."

Goethe thought he heard a voice from heaven. He knew very well that the admonition was principally intended for himself, and he could have embraced with gratitude his worthy old friend. He made all the haste he could to order a horse and dress himself for his visit. He sent for Max, who was nowhere to be found; but this did not detain him. However, the necessary preparations went on slowly, and he could not depart so soon as he wished. Fast as he rode, darkness overtook him. It was a wild, windy night; only at intervals would the clear round face of the moon break forth in transparent brilliancy between the jagged white clouds. He dashed on like a madman, resolved not to wait until the morning to see her. The exhilaration of the night wind, the large expanse of the open meadows, the weird effects of light and darkness caused by the constant interchange of cloud and moonshine, added to his relief at finding himself once more outside the city-barriers and on the road to his beloved, made his heart swell with a feeling of reckless delight almost amounting to intoxication. He breathed freely, he took off his hat to let the wild breeze blow full upon his face; he longed to shout aloud as he careered along the familiar path. The clock was striking ten as he entered the Drusenheim inn; he inquired of the landlord whether there was yet a light in the parsonage, and was answered that the ladies had only just gone home,—they had said they were expecting a stranger. Goethe's heart fell; he had wished to be the only one; still, he might hasten forward and, at any rate, be the first; and with this thought he started upon his walk to the manse.

As he passed through the gate he recognized the figures of the two girls with their brother in the porch, just about to enter the house. They turned at the sound of his footsteps in the garden-lane, and he fancied he heard Alide whisper to Rahel, "Did I not say so? Here he is!"

"Am I too late to bid you good-evening?" he called out, as he hastened towards them.

"No, indeed," answered the girls, eagerly; "we are just going in to supper." And they both let him kiss their hands for welcome. Goethe followed them at once into the house, only pausing in the hall to throw off his heavy riding-cloak. They led him into the supper-room, where the pastor and Madame Duroc were seated and a table was spread. As Rahel looked at him in the light, she burst into a loud laugh, for she had little command over herself. He wore a complete costume of black velvet garnished with silver lace; the wind had reddened his cheeks, and blown some of the powder out of his brown hair, giving it a soft gray color that contrasted more conspicuously than pure white with his youthful face. He was somewhat disconcerted by this odd reception, but the pastor and his wife rose and greeted him like an old acquaintance; and then Rahel, without the least embarrassment, said,—

"You must really pardon my laughing, Herr Goethe, but it is so comical, when I think of Fritz's double and Dr. Julius Steck, to see you decked out so finely this evening."

He answered good-humoredly, and in a short time the conversation flowed as freely as though he were already one of their family.

As for Alide, she was perfectly content. It was enough to have him once more in their midst; to feel that he made, if only for this one night, part of their home-circle; to know that she had but to raise her eyes to behold, in living reality, this face which for so long had been a shadowy vision perpetually before her. She was like a child, delighting to play little tricks with her happiness. While one of her family talked, she would avert her head at times, and imagine that he was not there, just for the thrill it gave her to hear his vibrant young voice respond, or to turn suddenly and assure herself of his actual presence. But her joyous fancies did not make her pensive or abstracted; she entered with unwonted spirit into the conversation; her soft laughter rippled gayly forth, the color mounted to her cheeks, her blue eyes sparkled brilliantly. Her own family looked on in surprise at the magical transformation of their quiet, reserved Alide.

Finally they separated for the night. Goethe was disappointed at not having been able to find a moment's opportunity to whisper a word in her ear; but he soon fell asleep, with a feeling of profound satisfaction at knowing himself once more under this beloved roof.