AFTER-THOUGHTS
Throughout the evening the extravagant gayety of the merry party
continued. At supper, people did not return to their sober senses;
dancing went on far into the night, and there was as little want of
healths and other incitements to drinking as at noon. Amid a great deal
of boisterous mirth, the last good-nights were exchanged after midnight,
and the guests conducted to their various apartments. Alide was tripping
through the silent hall, when she heard her name uttered in a suppressed
voice, and, turning round, she saw her mother standing at her own door,
beckoning to her to come in. She obeyed swiftly and noiselessly:
preoccupied with joyous thoughts, she did not remark the serious, almost
sad, expression of her mother's face.
"I have a word to say to you before you sleep," said Madame Duroc,
seating herself on a couch and motioning Alide to a low bench at her
feet. "I am afraid I must give you pain," she went on, gently caressing
the golden little head at her knees. "I had thought to keep you still a
child for awhile yet with me; but no, to-night I must speak to you as a
woman, and let you know the grave significance of a life that has
already begun in earnest. Alide, your conduct to-day has been very
displeasing to me: beyond the limits of decorum and of courtesy to your
old friends, you have evinced your preference for this young man Goethe,
who has ingratiated himself so suddenly into your father's heart and
into our family circle. It is now only a little over a month that you
have known him; you are not giddy or thoughtless like some of your
companions, but you are infatuated by the charm of his appearance and
address. A word is sufficient, my child, for one so sensible and docile
as you. Let this day be the last that you distinguish this stranger by
so much kindness. Your fancy has been kindled, your imagination excited;
but go to your room, examine yourself duly, pray to your heavenly Father
for guidance and discretion, and try to stifle at once so vain a
sentiment before it develops into something that may occasion a
life-trouble."
She paused, but Alide did not stir or speak: she was conscious of a
strange sort of double existence as she sat with her head buried in her
mother's lap; she was the happy, fortunate Alide, Goethe's beloved, and
she was the wayward child to be reproved and guided by the warning words
of her elders. Seeing her so still, Madame Duroc was alarmed lest the
effect of a reprimand had been too harsh upon such a sensitive
temperament.
"Alide," she whispered, tenderly, "do not be so much overcome. I have
only spoken now because I did not wish to leave it too late; nothing is
lost as yet."
"Oh, mamma," said Alide, upturning suddenly a face neither blushing nor
tearful, but smiling, trustful, and composed, "you are very, very good
to me, but you do not understand: it is not shame that I feel, it is
pride and joy and happiness. I love him!"
"My child, you do not know what you are saying!" cried Madame Duroc;
"you do not know what those words mean. You cannot realize what disgrace
it is for one of our sex to take the initiative in such a matter as
this. You have not recognized his power, my poor, confiding child; the
whole world is open to one of his force and genius. He will despise the
choicest gifts your simple heart can proffer him; he will----"
"Oh, mamma, hush!" interrupted Alide, springing to her feet. "It is you
who do not know him, who do not know me: we are already betrothed."
"Betrothed!" exclaimed Madame Duroc, sinking back in her seat.
"Do not be angry, dear, good mamma," said Alide, kneeling before her and
taking both her hands affectionately. "He was to tell you himself
to-morrow. We had arranged it all, and I should not have spoken now, but
I could not help it. It is much better to avoid from the beginning all
misunderstandings and mistakes, is it not?"
Madame Duroc made no answer, but silently folded her daughter to her
breast, and kissed repeatedly the soft white brow. "Since it is thus,"
she said, at last, "may you be blessed!" And Alide felt a scalding tear
drop upon her cheek.
"Ah, you are harassed after a tiresome day, dear mamma," said she,
caressingly. "It is late now; I wish I could have waited till to-morrow
to tell you; it is not possible in this dim room, at this melancholy
hour, to realize so much light and joy cast on one's whole life. Oh,
mamma, what a noble son you will see in him to-morrow, in the cheerful
daylight! and how you will rejoice with me in my beautiful destiny!"
An hour later, Alide was sleeping profoundly and dreamlessly after the
excitements of this wonderful white day. But Frau Duroc's pillow was
stained with tears pressed painfully from wakeful eyes. Her mind was
possessed with gloomy forebodings: the mother-heart was yearning in the
darkness after the darling of the nest, so suddenly and irrevocably
flown.
As for Goethe, he, like Alide, outwearied by such strong emotions, had
fallen at once into a deep, refreshing slumber; but scarcely had he
slept thus for a few hours when he was awakened by a heat and tumult in
his blood. Stretched out, defenseless as he was, his imagination now
presented to him the liveliest forms. Excited by love and passion, wine
and dancing, his thoughts raged in confusion, and his feelings were
tortured into a state of despair. He was thoroughly, keenly awake,--what
apparition was this standing by his bedside? The French girl, Lucinda,
clad in black, with night-black hair, glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes,
and passionate gestures, slowly receding from him. His lips were still
afire from her ardent kiss, her shrill imprecation rang painfully in his
ears, "Woe upon woe for ever and ever!" as she pointed with her long
thin finger opposite to her, where stood Alide, pale, motionless, with
her fair, disheveled locks waving about her white-robed form,
outstretching her arms towards him in piteous supplication, feeling the
consequences of the curse, and yet ignorant of their cause. Between
these two, he lay trembling in every limb, as little able to ward off
the spiritual effects of the adventure as to avoid the evil-boding kiss.
Yes, he had harmed irretrievably the dearest of beings,--the spell had
not been broken; far from having freed himself from the curse, it was
flung back from his lips into his heart. He sprang up in bed, and looked
wildly about him. The illusion vanished, but he could not calm the fever
of his blood, that boiled and throbbed in his veins. The myriad possible
results of his passion presented themselves to him in such sombre colors
as utterly to preclude the chance of sleep or repose for the remainder
of the night. He saw this exquisite maiden whom he loved so tenderly,
ruined, deflowered, dead. Could it be possible, he mused, that despite
the energy of will, the passionate vitality, the comprehensive intellect
with which Fate had endowed him, she nevertheless had made him her
creature, her football, to such a degree as to impel him along to this
preordained end, notwithstanding his most resolute efforts towards the
opposite direction? And why had this innocent, beautiful girl, formed so
perfectly for happiness, been selected as the victim? Or again, what
purpose was he destined to accomplish so lofty and so necessary that
such elements as these, the life, the love, the happiness of human souls
like his own, should be cast into his hands, to mould as he pleased?
Bah! that was the privilege of the gods: to what blasphemy were his
reckless thoughts leading him?
Fortunately, daylight peeping in through a chink of the shutter, and the
sun stepping forth and vanquishing all the powers of night, put an end
to his mad fancies. He was soon in the open air, and refreshed if not
restored. The sight of Alide, the feeling of her love, the cheerfulness
of everything around him, all reproved him, that in the midst of the
happiest days he could harbor such dismal night-birds in his bosom.