PARTING
Both Goethe and Alide looked forward with dread to the separation on the
morrow; but when it came it was no tragic farewell. At the last moment
they found themselves in the midst of the family, where cheerful and
affectionate embraces were exchanged, as befitted friends who were
separating for a brief term and who would still be but a short distance
apart. There was even much merriment among them in the confusion of
good-byes. They were all to meet in the autumn at latest for Rahel's
wedding, and in the meantime frequent visits to the parsonage were
promised by the younger Burkhardts. As for Goethe, he said he would be
with them, in a week, if he could snatch a day; and Rahel, who was in
high spirits, refused to bid him good-by, in order to insure his coming.
Alide was calm and quiet, and preserved her ordinary appearance and
demeanor. All the cheerfulness around her did not deceive her unerring
intuitions. "This is the end," she kept repeating mechanically to
herself. She was in one of those moods when the necessity of a supreme
effort strings the nerves to their utmost tension. She could have
laughed as naturally as the rest; she could utter careless words to her
kinsfolk, yes, to Wolfgang himself; she could think with a curious
accuracy of every detail of their departure and journey; she observed
with more than her usual keenness everything around her, whether
ludicrous or serious. And all the time there was a leaden weight upon
her brain, and she felt as if her heart and soul had been eaten out of
her.
The first sensation which Goethe experienced when the diligence rolled
away was one of relief, as if of restored freedom; but the next moment
he was horrified at his own cowardice. The veil was torn from before
him, and he saw clearly the position into which he had drifted. It was
not the first time that his susceptible, undisciplined nature had led
him into a hasty attachment which could occasion only discord and
misery. To his shame he confessed it, but in this case he had bound
himself to one so pure and so lovely that to free himself would be
dishonor. And yet this affectionate child did not respond in any degree
to the demands of his insatiable spirit: his fancy and his sense had
been attracted, but the depths of his being had not been stirred. As she
herself had said, "If there were a gulf between them now, what would it
grow to be when they were man and wife!" His imagination pictured to him
in the most forcible colors the hideous dreariness and the
ever-increasing unhappiness of a marriage of disparity, where neither
the convictions nor the sentiments of man and wife were in harmony. And
this was what he must awaken to,--too late, too late! for he could not
but acknowledge that now, at whatever sacrifice, he must stand firm.
There could no longer be any self-delusion with regard to a higher duty
to his art, to the responsibilities of a vocation for which ordinary men
were not fitted: his duty to himself had become one with his duty to
her.
The more he reflected upon his situation, the more inevitable did this
necessity appear to him, and the more hopelessly entangled became the
various threads of his life. He plunged into gayety to drown his
tormenting thoughts; he devoted himself feverishly to work. After a
day's uninterrupted study he would pass the better part of the night in
dissipation or dancing. "If you could but see me," he wrote to a friend;
"my whole being was sunk in dancing. And yet could I but say I am
happy,--that would be better than all. 'Who is it can say, I am at the
worst?' says Edgar. That is some comfort, dear friend. My heart is like
a weathercock when a storm is rising and the gusts are changeable. All
is not clear in my soul. I am too curiously awake not to feel that I
grasp at shadows. And yet--to-morrow at seven my horse is saddled, and
then adieu!"
The next morning he was on the road to Sesenheim. It was two weeks later
than the date of his promised visit, but he had previously lost so much
time, and he was so soon to take his degree, that it had been impossible
for him to leave the city. He had formed his resolution, and he was
about to put an end to all vacillations, and to the torture of
self-reproach and unmanly regrets, by confronting and accepting his
fate. He galloped along the familiar road in the early sunshine with a
concentrated bitterness at heart. This lover who rode at such a wild
pace to rejoin his betrothed and to bid her name the day of their union
was saying farewell to his freedom at every moment as he advanced.
When he neared the parsonage, he saw in the garden a girl's figure
bending to prop up the falling stem of a rose-bush. Her back was towards
him, and her head was covered with her large, flat garden-hat. The noise
of his horse's hoofs startled her, and she turned quickly: it was Rahel.
Her face, which had regained its former child-like vivacity, beamed with
delight as she recognized him. "At last!" she cried, and she rose and
hastened towards him, dropping with a clatter on the gravel her
garden-scissors and spool. "How glad I am to see you! but you are a
naughty man to have made us wait so long. Oh, how happy they will all be
to know you have come! Will you dismount here? Wait, and I will call
Hans." And with a shrill little cry she summoned the servant to lead the
horse to the stable; then, shaking Goethe warmly by the hand, she went
with him into the house, exclaiming, as she entered, "Papa! Alide!
Mamma! Goethe has arrived!"
He followed her as one in a dream: yes, this was his family; here was
his home; from to-day henceforward all this little circle was his own.
In the library they found the pastor, who welcomed him with the same
enthusiastic cordiality that Rahel had shown; and shortly after appeared
Frau Duroc. Her manner, less demonstrative than theirs, was unchanged in
its matronly dignity and kindness.
"And Alide?" asked Goethe, as soon as he had greeted them all and
explained briefly the delay of his own visit.
"She has not been quite herself of late," answered the mother; "though
she does not complain. She will be with us directly."
As she spoke, Alide entered the room. Seeing her thus after a
separation, Goethe was for the first time conscious of the change that
had taken place in her appearance since he had known her. She had
developed into a beautiful, serious woman; her expression, no longer
that of joyous unconsciousness, was almost melancholy in its thoughtful
gravity. She must have been ill during the last three weeks, for her
face had grown noticeably thinner, and had lost entirely its glowing
bloom of color, while her large, brilliant eyes were hollow and sunken
in their orbits and encircled by ominous lines. At this moment, however,
a tranquil cheerfulness animated her countenance as she advanced towards
Goethe with her usual serene smile. She gave him her hand to kiss, and
welcomed him kindly, but with a certain reserve in her manner. She
questioned him about himself, his health, his vocations, his approaching
examination, everything that interested him, but shrank from all
allusion to herself. She denied emphatically that she had been suffering
or ill since her return home, and even in doing so a natural little
laugh and a momentary flush of color tended to confirm her words.
In a short time the thread of Goethe's intercourse with the family
seemed resumed where it had last been dropped. The pastor, who
entertained an extravagant admiration and affection for him, found no
end of subjects on which to converse, and even to consult, with his
young friend. Rahel was once more lively and talkative, and Alide,
though unusually taciturn, seemed as cheerful as ever in Goethe's
presence. It was not till after dinner that he found himself alone with
her.
"Alide, I must say a word to you before I return to Strasburg," he
began, hurriedly. "Had we not better go to your arbor?"
An almost imperceptible shudder ran through her frame. "As you please,
Goethe," she answered; "though I scarcely think we should be interrupted
here."
She had not yet called him Wolfgang in her old child-like, affectionate
tone. She went to fetch her hat, and in a few moments they were out of
the house together, walking through the fields.
"Before we part again, Alide," said Goethe, in a dry, husky voice, "we
must put an end to this unsettled life, which places us both in a false
position and creates an unrest for the spirit that precludes all useful
activity. We are both very young to marry, I know, and perhaps your
parents will not find it fitting that you should leave them so early;
but I have reflected, and I think it best that we should be together as
soon as possible."
What a poor little stiff speech it was, contrasted with the ardor and
fluency of his first passionate declaration! She listened quietly,
retaining to the end the same steadfast, unmoved expression. They had
reached the arbor, and they entered in silence and seated themselves
side by side. It was greener and shadier than when they had first met
there in the autumn; the golden lights that fell upon their two youthful
figures were rarer, but not less brilliant. A blue July haze hung over
the landscape.
"I have a confession to make to you, dear friend," said Alide. Her voice
was low, even, and natural, save for a somewhat monotonous ring. "It
will give you pain, you will think me heartless and weak and foolish,
but some day you will thank me that I have spoken in season. A curious
change has taken place in me since I returned from Strasburg. I was able
to conceal from you, yes, even from myself, how difficult that
restricted conventional town-life was to me, but I was as happy as Rahel
when it was brought to an end. To see papa once more, the dear old
manse, the open meadows,--all this made my heart stir and leap as
nothing had since I left them. I had not been at peace with myself in
the city. Everything I had been accustomed to cherish seemed there of so
little account. And even you, Goethe, your enthusiasms were not mine,
your convictions were far different. Whenever you spoke of the
Cathedral, I felt a shock and a pang. All the sacred mysteries of our
faith, so inestimably precious to me, were naught to you. I was
distressed by a thousand conflicting ideas and emotions, I who had been
used to see all things simply and clearly. No, I was not happy there;
but here I have regained my former contentment and tranquillity. You,
dear friend, will advance on a brilliant, an unexampled career; but if I
be drawn from my proper element I shall suffocate and die. Is it not
better to part at the beginning of the roads, before they diverge too
widely? I also have seen something of unhappy marriages. You are not the
man, Goethe, to whom a woman should give herself with reserve and
restrictions. If I cannot say, 'Wherever you go, I will follow; for you
I will sacrifice my parents, my home, my pursuits, my life,--and it will
be no sacrifice, but a free and joyous gift,'--if I cannot say that, I
know that I have no right to call myself your wife."
She paused, but Goethe was so amazed and bewildered that he made no
reply. He had listened to her in a sort of stupor, with his eyes fixed
upon the prospect below him, of which he saw nothing. Alide had made her
"confession" with as little sentiment as if she were reciting a studied
part: her face was unnaturally white, her hands rested listlessly upon
her straw hat, which she had taken off and laid upon her lap. But after
she had finished speaking, in the moment of silence that ensued, the
blood rushed into her cheeks, and a smile, as of the dawning of a new
hope, kindled her whole countenance. Still, he neither spoke nor turned
towards where she sat. The light died from her face, and a violent
shudder ran through her frame; she raised her hand, passed it twice
quickly over her brow and eyes, and then, almost involuntarily
outstretching it towards Goethe, clasped his own, and, with a
supplicating note in her voice strangely at variance with her cold
words, she cried, "But, oh, Goethe! surely you will not withdraw from me
your friendship?"
He started, and looked at her for the first time during their interview:
her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes glittered with a peculiar light
which he had never seen in them before. Something of his old tenderness
of manner returned as he beheld the beautiful, agitated little face.
"You foolish child," he began, and kissed the icy hand that rested upon
his own. "But no: I have not the right to speak to you in this way. You
are no child, but a noble, true-hearted woman. To speak the truth as you
have done, Alide, simply and fearlessly, requires something heroic. But
I will not abide by what you have said: perhaps you have not considered
deeply enough your own feelings, perhaps you have judged hastily our
mutual position. It is quite natural that you should experience pleasure
in seeing your father and your home again, even after so short a
separation. Your ideas are somewhat exalted, my child: it is not
expected of any woman that she should give up the instincts of her
heart, the tender associations of her childhood, even for the man she is
to wed. But take time, and reflect again, Alide. I shall not be present
to disturb your choice. At the end of a fortnight I will return, and
then, if your feelings have changed, you will know that I am still and
always your own."
"But they will not change," she answered, with a quiet smile, as she
rose to her feet.
They left the arbor in silence, as they had entered, and returned to the
house. On the way, however, she began to talk composedly of other
things. She made him pluck for her a wild flower that grew on the edge
of the brook, saying she had never remarked it before, and asking him
its botanical name and genus. He, on his part, was so excited and
confounded by what had taken place between them that he could not speak
naturally of anything. A burden had been lifted from his heart and his
brain, but nevertheless he could not repress a feeling of indignation at
seeing her so cold and indifferent. "To think that I was about to
sacrifice myself for one so volatile as that!" he said to himself. Then,
repeating unwittingly the very words that had occurred to her when they
parted at Strasburg, he thought, "This is the end. Can it be that she
really does not care?" And he looked at her keenly and scrutinizingly.
No, there was not a trace of passion or grief on that pale, serene face.
The fortnight passed for Goethe in a whirl of activity. A day or two
after his visit to Sesenheim he took his degree, gaining his doctorate,
and carrying the victory with honor over his worthy opponent. He made
preparations at once for leaving Strasburg and returning to his father's
home in Frankfort. But, much as the presence of Alide had troubled him
of late, in her absence he could not cease to recall her myriad
attractions and lovable qualities: at every turn he missed her gentle,
affectionate companionship, her equable serenity, her tender,
unobtrusive kindness for himself. He wrote to her several times, but,
receiving no reply, he waited impatiently for the day of his return to
the parsonage, when he was to bid farewell to her for months or forever,
according to her own wish. Her silence, however, left him little doubt
as to her final decision. "Those were painful days," he wrote later, "of
which I remember nothing. When I held out my hand to her from my horse,
the tears were in her eyes, and I felt sad at heart."
All was over: she would never cease to think of him with grateful
affection and esteem, but she could never be his.