THE CLOUDS GATHER
Alide awoke early, after an unrefreshing night disturbed by exaggerated
dreams. At the hour that Goethe returned to his room, she rose and
watched from her window the break of day. Even over the city streets the
slow, majestic approach of morning brought its accustomed encouragement
to her soul. Distressing as her sleep had seemed, it had nevertheless
sufficed to restore the even flow of her blood. She recalled with
astonishment her gloomy presentiments of the preceding evening, and the
absurd fancy of identifying herself with Ophelia. "'Till to-morrow!'
were his last cheerful words," she thought; "and to-morrow has already
come." And a smile of tranquil joy broke upon her face as she raised her
eyes and beheld the subdued light and delicate colors of the morning
sky. A little breeze from over the river blew softly on her cheeks. At
this moment of sacred expectancy just preceding the splendor of a new
day, her heart was filled with pious gratitude and adoration.
She was startled from her reverie by the voice of her sister, who turned
restlessly in the bed. "Alide, what are you doing so early by the open
window?"
"I am at my matins," answered Alide. "Are you sleepy, Rahel?" she asked,
advancing towards the bed. "Or do you care to get up with me and look at
this beautiful sunrise?"
"No, I am not sleepy," replied Rahel, rising, with flushed cheeks and
bright wide eyes. "I have been watching you a long time. You seemed so
happy, I wondered what you could be thinking about. I had something to
tell you, but I would not interrupt you. Were you really at your
prayers?--you were not on your knees."
"I scarcely know myself, sister," answered Alide, with a laugh and a
slight blush. "I was very peaceful and happy just then, and yet I could
hardly tell you what I was thinking about. Come, put a shawl about your
shoulders, and you can tell me in the window all you have to say."
"Well, I am tired enough of these hot pillows," said Rahel, who had
slept like a tired child all night. And, drawing about her her little,
loose white gown, she followed her sister to the window.
The city was still wrapped in a tender shadow, and the sky full of
color, but without a gleam of radiance. In a moment, and as if
unexpectedly, the clear sunbeams darted above the horizon, glistening
over roofs and steeples, and as suddenly sprang into relief against the
blue background the illuminated spire of Strasburg Cathedral. Rahel gave
a little sigh. The sunlight fell into the room and dazzled their eyes.
She closed the jalousies with an impatient movement, and shut out the
bright picture of morning. "Yes, it is beautiful," said she; "but it
only makes me think the more of morning over the meadows and mountains
at home. Oh, Alide, I am so unhappy here!" And, covering her face with
her hands, she burst into tears.
Alide looked at her in surprise, and tried to calm her. "Yes," continued
Rahel, when she had recovered sufficient composure to speak; "I have
fought against it long enough. I can endure it no longer. Everything I
do turns out to be a blunder. I sit among these fine ladies dumb and
awkward as a peasant. I do not dress nor talk like them, nor belong to
their world. When I am with Anna, I ask myself a hundred times a day
what it is that puts her above me, that makes me feel like an ignorant
child in her presence. She is no older than I am, she is not pretty, she
is not clever, and I do not think she is kind. She is so sweet and
gracious to every one's face, and yet she is spiteful enough behind
their back sometimes. No, I could never be like her. And yet Gretchen is
worse, for she mortifies me, and laughs at my mistakes, and makes them
seem so droll to everybody else. Oh, Alide, are you not ready to go
home?"
"Surely our going home does not depend upon me," said Alide.
"I never suspected you were so unhappy. I will go whenever you
please,--to-morrow, or Thursday. What day shall we say?"
"Do you really promise to go so soon?" cried Rahel, eagerly. "Of course
it depends upon you. Mamma told me in advance that she wished to wait,
for it could not be long, until you and Wolfgang had made some definite
arrangement, had settled the day of your marriage at least. What will
she say when she knows I have forced you home so soon? Am I not selfish
and vain and--"
"Hush, Rahel," interposed Alide, gently; "you are nothing of the kind.
You and mamma and all the rest are only too good to me. But no one need
think that it is you who persuade me to leave: I am quite ready myself
to go."
"But is it indeed too soon?" asked Rahel, remorsefully. "Have you
decided upon anything? When shall you be married, Alide?"
"Oh, as to that, never mind," said Alide, with confusion. "We can
arrange that at the parsonage as well as we could here, where there is
always a certain constraint. But you, at any rate, need not suffer any
longer."
Rahel kissed her sister impetuously, and cried, "Dear little Baby, you
have grown older and wiser than I." And then, with a free heart once
more, she confided to Alide her hopes and plans for her own wedding,
which was to take place early in the following autumn.
She was quite like the Rahel of Sesenheim again, cheerful, merry, and
talkative, when she appeared among the Burkhardt family. But Alide was
thoughtful and abstracted: her sister's confession as to the real object
of their visit awoke her somewhat roughly to a sense of the actual
demands of her position. She could not but acknowledge to herself that
she was no nearer a definite agreement with Goethe, concerning their
mutual prospects, than the day she had first seen him; and in the eyes
of the world they were betrothed. But nothing was to be gained by
remaining in Strasburg; she felt a sincere compassion for her sister's
vexations and homesickness, and was glad for her sake to leave. She did
not dare to ask whether she herself were happy here; she would not have
confessed in her inmost thoughts that the presence of Goethe was not
all-sufficing for her; but she was conscious of an unrest and oppression
ever since she had been in the city, which she attributed to the novelty
and uncongeniality of town-life.
She was more impatient than usual for the hour of Goethe's accustomed
visit. Punctually at one o'clock he was in the habit of presenting
himself daily at the Burkhardts' house, and they generally passed the
remainder of the day together. Perhaps when she told him so unexpectedly
that she must leave Strasburg, he would come to some decision.
The morning passed slowly and quietly. At noon some visitors were
announced, and the Duroc girls were called to receive them with their
cousins. Alide's picturesque white skirt and, bodice displayed to
perfection the grace and symmetry of her form; a silver comb fastened
above her stately little head the loose twists of her auburn braids. Her
face was transparently pale, and her eyes had the languid, drooping
expression produced by a night of insufficient sleep. The strangers were
charmed with her, and when the clock struck one they showed no intention
of taking their leave. Her answers became more and more brief and
abstracted; her eyes wandered continually to the door, which did not
open; she grew restless and alarmed.
"Will you not, my dear?" were the words, uttered in a coaxing tone,
that startled her from her reverie, and she found that she was expected
to sing.
"One of the genuine Volkslieder, cousin," said Anna.
It was such a relief to Alide to know what they were talking about, that
she rose willingly to go to the harpsichord. Who does not know the
rapidly-succeeding emotions of vexation, uneasiness, anxiety, and fear
in waiting beyond the appointed time for one who is dear to us? She had
sufficient control over her voice to intone some of her Alsatian
ballads; the words came mechanically to her lips, but all the time she
was repeating to herself, "Why has he not let me know? If anything
should happen to him! My darling, how harassed he looked last evening!"
Before she had finished, the clock struck two; her heart beat high and
loud in her breast. They pressed her for more, but she answered, in her
simple, child-like way, "Please forgive me; I cannot sing any more just
now."
"We are afraid it affects her chest, sometimes," said her mother; "she
is so easily tired."
At last, to Alide's indescribable relief, the visit was brought to an
end. It was nearly three o'clock: the one thought uppermost in her mind,
that Wolfgang was ill, gained strength until it became a terrible
certainty. All day her suspense was prolonged, and she was obliged to
take part in the accustomed occupations and conversations of the
household, and, moreover, to keep constantly on her guard, lest her
agitation should be remarked. How could she wait until to-morrow? how
could she lie motionless by her sister's side through the interminable
hours of the night, and endure this intolerable distress and
uncertainty?
Early in the evening a note was handed to her: she hurried to her room,
dreading lest she should lose control over herself by a confirmation of
her fears or a too sudden reaction of joy. With trembling fingers she
broke the seal, and read:
"MY DARLING,--I cannot be with you till to-morrow. I laughed at your
fears last evening, but nevertheless my little girl was right, as she
always is. This morning I found myself suffering, and only a day in the
open air and a wild ride on horseback have made me myself again. I
looked forward to seeing you this evening, but an old fellow-student of
Leipsic, who is passing through Strasburg to-day, has unexpectedly
turned up at my lodgings, and, of course, is with me for the night I
must find patience till to-morrow. Shall we not meet to-night in our
dreams? I believe it, for my heart is always with you. Sleep well, and
believe in the love of your own
"Goethe."
The reaction came, but it was not one of joy. She let the note slip from
her fingers, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into tears.