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.