IN THE SHADOW OF THE CATHEDRAL
It was a foggy day in early June, with occasional heavy showers of rain,
when Madame Duroc and her daughters set out on their journey to
Strasburg. The pastor could not leave his parish-duties to accompany
them, so he drove with them over to the Drusenheim inn, and, after
seeing them comfortably seated in the diligence, with many an
affectionate embrace and injunction to take care of themselves and each
other, he bade them Godspeed. It seemed like a flat, level country
across which the diligence was painfully dragged by the steaming horses,
for the majestic shapes of the mountains were lost in the fog which
clung to their summits and sides. Rahel was nervous and excited at the
thought of all that would be expected of her in the city, and irritated,
moreover, by the unpleasantness and tedium of the drive through the
rain, when a little sunshine would have made it a charming excursion.
But Alide was satisfied with a glimpse now and then through the torn
cloud-curtain of meadow, hill, or leafy wood: she had learned every
curve and landmark of the road since Wolfgang had been going constantly
back and forth. There was even an agreeable mystery about the dense
vapor which encompassed them, and she felt as though she were traveling
to an enchanted city that would gradually shape itself out of the mist.
There were no passengers besides themselves in the coach, and their
mother entertained them with descriptions of the city as she remembered
it in her youth, before the Alsatian customs had given way to French
innovations. "Well, we are nearing it now," cried Alide. "See, there are
the gardens and the public walks. Ah! one can hardly hear one's own
voice over these rough stones." And she was forced to keep silence as
the lumbering vehicle rattled through the noisy lanes. They passed long
rows of irregular houses, squares, shops, markets, and churches, with at
intervals a glimpse, from the most unexpected corners, of the solemn
Minster, until finally the diligence was brought up in the court-yard of
a hotel.
"I do not see the Burkhardts anywhere," said Rahel, peering anxiously
from the window.
"I will take you to your cousins. Welcome, welcome to Strasburg, dear
friends!" cried a well-known voice at the door, and Goethe stood ready
to help them alight.
"I hope you have not been wearied, Frau Mamma, by your drive through
this dismal weather. Your girls bring the sunshine along with them. Ah,
if you knew how I have looked forward to this day!" And he gazed frankly
and ardently into Alide's eyes.
He carried their cloaks and valises across the hotel-yard as he led them
to the carriage which was awaiting them. Fräulein Burkhardt sprang from
within as she saw them approach; she welcomed her kinswomen gracefully
and affectionately, apologizing for the absence of her mother, whose
uncertain health had forbidden her venturing out in this wet weather. "I
am a thousand times obliged to you, Herr Goethe!" she cried, in her
shrill, thin voice, as the carriage rolled away. "We shall expect you
this evening."
Anna Burkhardt was a short, slim girl, whose narrow peaked face, with
its almost imperceptible lips, long, sharp nose, and prominent chin,
might have belonged to an old woman had it not been relieved by a fresh,
young complexion, more delicately colored than those of her cousins,
young, brown, inexpressive eyes, and a profusion of soft brown hair. Her
feet were small, but it was only owing to the skill of her bootmaker
that they appeared well shaped; and her thin, veiny hands had no beauty
when ungloved, save that of numerous sparkling rings. And yet few people
considered her either plain or unattractive: her manners were so suave,
so graceful, so exquisitely refined, that they formed a charm and a
beauty in themselves. Small in stature and insignificant in appearance
as she was, these gave her presence a peculiar dignity and importance.
Beneath this polished surface there was no generous warmth in the blood;
a naturally envious and even spiteful disposition was concealed under
the bland exterior of a precocious woman of the world, and an unerring
tact served for all her purposes as a substitute for culture and
intelligence. Perhaps it was owing to the fact that her mother had long
been an invalid and had intrusted to Anna the entire direction of the
household, that the girl had lost all the simplicity of her age; but, be
this as it might, her graceful, high-bred, worldly-wise personality found
more admirers than many a fresher and prettier girl. Poor, blundering
little Rahel, with her delicately-chiseled face and picturesque
coloring, found it difficult to shine beside this almost homely cousin
of hers; and yet if any one could have put her at her ease, by covering
her mistakes, ignoring her confusion, and endeavoring to make her appear
to advantage, it would have been Anna Burkhardt. But Rahel was beyond
the reach of help: she persisted in seeing only an additional
discouragement in the easy grace and tact of Anna's bearing, and in the
end her friendliest well-wishers found that the kindest mode of
treatment with her was to leave her alone and let her stumble along as
well as she was able.
The second daughter, Margaret, was strikingly contrasted with her
sister: she was entirely without Anna's winning courtesy, and indeed was
condemned by most of the matrons of her society as having "no manners."
She was scarcely prettier than Anna, and yet she was still more admired.
She had a charming little blonde head and a transparent, colorless
complexion; but there her beauties ended: her face was distinctly German
in its contour, her mouth large, her nose broad and upturned, and in
figure she was nearly as short as Anna, though fuller and better
proportioned. She was bright, amusing, and if not precisely witty, yet
an unabashed candor and naïveté lent her conversation a certain
piquancy of its own. At the first glance it would have been almost
impossible to believe that she was not a pretty girl: she looked as if
she had stepped out of a picture. Unlike Anna, she wore the simplest
things; there were no jewels upon her pretty, plump hands, and her
small, fine ears remained unpierced; and yet every detail of her
costume, more than coquettish, was actually artistic. With such natural
advantages as either Alide or Rahel possessed, how would these shrewd
city-girls, who knew how to turn everything to account, have
distinguished themselves in the circle to which they were born! And
nevertheless, beside them, their beautiful country cousins seemed almost
devoid of attractions.
Now was Goethe to find his fair friends whom he had been accustomed to
see only in a rural scene, and whose image had appeared to him hitherto
only before a background of waving boughs, flowing brooks, nodding
wild-flowers, and a horizon open for miles,--now was he to find them for
the first time in town rooms, which indeed were spacious in themselves,
but narrowed by furniture, carpets, curtains, glasses, and porcelain
figures. It had a singular effect upon him when he entered the Burkhardt
drawing-room early in the evening of the Durocs' arrival. Alide, whom
his eyes first sought and found, seemed unfamiliar, almost strange, in
this uncongenial atmosphere; her surroundings appeared to render
commonplace everything about her which had before struck him as
eminently becoming and poetical. Something incongruous offended his
artistic sense as he beheld this simply-clad country-girl, with her one
long golden braid falling down her back like the bourgeoises in the
street, and her high-heeled little boots and silver-clocked red
stockings plainly to be seen under her scant furbelow, while around her
were grouped the pale, delicate, elegant town-ladies in their flowing,
silky French gowns, harmonizing perfectly with the luxurious
appointments of the room itself. With his lively feeling for everything
present, he could not at once adapt himself to the contradiction of the
moment. All this, however, was but a flash through his mind when he
first caught sight of her; for when she rose with graceful, unconcealed
pleasure to receive him, as composedly as she would have done in her own
house, she was again his sweetheart and his pride. As he bent and kissed
her ungloved hand, she did not see, and she would not have understood,
the burning blush that tingled in his cheeks. "Dear friend," she
murmured, innocently, "what a joy it is to be once more together!" He
did not speak, but as he raised his head his loving eyes gave sincere
and eloquent response.
Several guests were expected besides himself, though he was the first to
arrive: they were to have a dance and a supper, and in the interval were
to entertain themselves, after the approved city fashion, with
conversation alone. Rural games and the myriad resources of country life
were of course quite out of the question, and Rahel for one knew not how
to fill up the gaps. The poor girl looked almost as she said she felt,
"like a maid-servant," with her short petticoat and her high, tight
waist, and by her awkward self-consciousness she rendered the disparity
between herself and her cousins still more conspicuous. As she gave her
hand to Goethe, she muttered, in an almost audible whisper, "It is like
a breath from the country to see your face here. Did I not tell you I
would never feel at home in Strasburg?"
When the visitors arrived, he had an opportunity to contrast the
appearance and behavior of the Duroc family with those of the society
which formed his own circle. The dignified and calmly noble demeanor of
the mother was perfectly adapted to the situation; she was in no wise
different from the other ladies. But Rahel was painfully ill at ease,
fancying that the eyes of the whole company were riveted upon her. When
she was spoken to, she either answered in monosyllables, or plunged into
random assertions on subjects of which she was totally ignorant. She
seemed to look to Goethe for support and assistance, and frequently
succeeded in embarrassing him also by her unconventional familiarity,
and her untimely allusions to incidents and jests that were not
understood outside of the Duroc parsonage. As she had formerly called to
him in the gardens or beckoned him aside in the fields if she had
anything particular to say to him, she did also the same here, when she
drew him into the recess of a window. She had the most unimportant
things to say to him,--nothing but what he knew already, that she wished
herself by the Rhine, over the Rhine, or even in Turkey. He did his best
to appease her, but without success.
Alide, on the contrary, was highly remarkable in this position. Properly
speaking, she also did not suit it; but it bore witness to her character
that, instead of finding herself adapted to this condition, she
unconsciously moulded the condition according to herself. She acted here
as she had acted with the society in the country: she knew how to
animate every moment, and, without creating any disturbance, she put all
in motion. She spoke of the wardrobe, the ornaments, the personal graces
of her cousins, without affectation, and considered and admired them
without envy; yet all the time she seemed perfectly content with her
individual customs and appearance. Goethe she treated the same as ever:
she seemed to give him no preference, but that of communicating her
desires and wishes to him rather than to another, and thus recognizing
him as her servant.
He had received permission from Frau Duroc to come early the next
morning to drive with herself and her daughters through the town and
take them over the Cathedral. A soft, clear sky and balmy air made a
paradise of the quaint old narrow streets, through which they rambled at
will, while Goethe's inexhaustible information and eloquence illustrated
every object of interest that they visited. He explained to them the
very curious effect given to the city just at this period by the
half-executed plans to beautify it. If a crooked side of a street was to
be straightened, one man would move forward to the appointed line, while
his neighbors remained in their old positions; and thus the oddest
projections and recesses were left. Rahel's awakened curiosity,
gratified at every turn, and yet continually and artfully excited by
Goethe with the promise of some fresh wonder, made her in some degree
forget the mortifications of the previous evening and her desire to be
once more at home. However, even here her restlessness was apparent, and
he was forced to exert his utmost ingenuity to amuse and entertain her.
Alide was quiet and subdued; she looked with wondering eyes at these
unfamiliar scenes, and tried to realize the various lives and interests
that encompassed her. By his side she was happy; in looking on his
beloved and beautiful face, all other thoughts and emotions were
absorbed in a flood of joy. But, as the hours slipped by, a sense of
unrest and vague trouble gained upon her. When he spoke, though she was
inspired and excited by his enthusiasms, she did not share them, often
she could scarcely understand them. Her nature did not expand, like his,
to embrace these various activities; it rather shrank within itself,
suffocated for want of stimulus amidst this seething world of life, as
the fish gasps for air in the midst of the rare element itself. She felt
cramped, choked, belittled, in these noisy thoroughfares, these crowded
lanes, beneath these towering edifices.
They alighted at the Cathedral, and entered the solemn sanctuary. The
sudden transition from the brightness of the noonday streets to this
tender twilight, the vast space of the inclosure, the exquisite beauty
of the slender reed-like pillars supporting the lofty vault above, the
awe-inspiring associations connected with the venerable Minster, caused
a deep religious adoration to take entire possession of the simple
girl's breast. She bowed her head and murmured to herself a child-like
prayer. He divined her emotions, though she could not guess his own, and
he refrained from interrupting her silent communion. Rahel was
chattering to the sacristan, who led her and Madame Duroc away from the
others, down the long aisle.
"Alide," said Goethe, in a low voice, as she raised her eyes towards
him, "I love you dearly when I see you thus, and yet you are not mine at
such a time: you seem rapt away from me in some beautiful vision where I
cannot follow. The gates of heaven are open for an instant, and then all
is dark to me, until you return to earth, bringing upon your brow a
reflection of the very glory of Paradise."
"Ah, Wolfgang!" she murmured, passionately, clasping her hands with the
gesture that was habitual to her when deeply moved, "why is all dark to
you? Why cannot you, who are so wise and so good, follow me into this
celestial world, where simplicity and faith are all that are required to
open wide the gates? Why shall not we twain, so closely united by
sympathy and love, draw from the same sublime source our courage and our
consolation? This is a subject that I have never before dared to
mention, and yet now I am bold to speak. What more fitting time, what
more sacred place, could we find than now and here to fall upon our
knees together and unite in adoration of that blessed Lamb of God who
died on Calvary for man?"
A hot flush mantled Goethe's face, and an expression of weariness almost
amounting to pain clouded his brow, as he listened to Alide's
enthusiasm. When she ceased, he took her clasped hands in both his own,
and answered, very gently, "My dear little girl, you must not ask me to
do this, you must not speak to me again in this way, for it can only
give pain to both, showing between us a gulf that cannot be bridged. I
love you; that must be enough. Upon these questions I have thought much,
I have suffered much, I have undergone much that you can never
understand; but now I am at peace. Do not be distressed for my sake; in
the eyes of the beneficent Disposer of events our souls are at one."
She answered him with a bewildered, frightened glance. The solemn
emphasis with which he had spoken forbade her continuing her impassioned
appeal. Her eyes filled with tears. "A gulf between us!" she repeated,
slowly. "Ah! that was my terror, and it has come. What will it grow to
be when we are man and wife?"
"Alide! Alide!" interposed the shrill voice of Rahel, who now hastened
to her sister's side, "come and see these beautiful holy relics the
sacristan has been showing us. And then we are going to mount to the
platform and see the view from the gallery."
How often these trivial intrusions occur at moments that seem like the
crises of our lives! and yet perhaps all had been said that either just
then was able or ready to speak, and it may have been well for both that
the peremptory demands of the hour forced them back to the actual world.
The panorama from the gallery above the Cathedral fully answered their
expectations. The romantic city, the level-stretching meadows, the
golden river with the noontide sunshine flashing upon it, the far-away
mountains, but, above all, a just perceptible glimpse of Sesenheim, set
Rahel fairly wild with delight, and struck them all with wondering
admiration. This was the crowning pleasure of the day, and, after so
much enjoyment and novelty, all were ready to return home and take some
rest before they met again at dinner.
Alide was unusually pale, and confessed to feeling somewhat wearied, but
the equable cheerfulness of her mind had already been restored to her by
the unwonted tenderness and caressing attentions with which Goethe
sought to make her forget their painful conversation in the Minster.