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.