LETTERS
A few weeks after Goethe's arrival in Frankfort he wrote the following
letter to Alide:
"FRANKFORT-ON-THE-MAIN, Sept. 25, 1771.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--I have only an hour ago, and in a quite accidental
manner, heard of your recent illness. I can think of nothing else until
I have expressed the sympathy and concern which I feel for you, and
begged you to send me, as soon as you are able, a reassuring word of
your convalescence, or, still better, your complete restoration.
Fortunately for me, the tidings that you were already on the road to
recovery came at the same time with those of your attack: so I have been
spared the anxiety and suspense of thinking that a life which is so dear
to me is actually endangered. Nevertheless, a strange, superstitious
dread still haunts my heart, and my spirit is unaccountably oppressed. I
cannot help associating this illness, which comes so soon after my
departure, with the rupture of our affectionate, intimate relations. Can
it be that you have suffered through me,--you whom I retain in my memory
as an ideal of all that is precious and lovely in woman? I torment
myself with a thousand questions, a thousand useless surmises. Can it be
I who was to blame? I, who would not wittingly injure a hair of that
golden little head which I have so often pressed to my lips? Surely, my
friend, this may not be. And yet why does the thought constantly recur
to my mind? Was it not yourself who saw that our union was incongruous,
impossible? And since my return to Frankfort I am more than ever
convinced that all your views were just and correct. I feel ceaselessly
impelled to a larger and wider circle of activity; all is restless and
at boiling heat within me, everything seethes and ferments in my mind
and spirit. What I shall accomplish I scarcely know as yet, but I feel
that I shall accomplish much. I cannot sufficiently admire your courage
in confronting the necessity of our situation and daring to utter the
truth for the sake of our future welfare at the risk of so much present
pain. Meantime, dear friend, to whom I owe so many memorable hours of
tranquil happiness, do we not clasp hands in closest, warmest friendship
still? I long to hear from you the reassuring word, and am, with
heartfelt wishes for your speedy restoration to health,
Your true
"Goethe."
"Please present my sincere regards to your dear parents, and recall me
to the recollection of my good Fräulein Rahel."
In due time he received the following reply:
"SESENHEIM, October 8, 1771.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--It is true that I have been ill; but I am already fast
regaining my former health and spirits, and I cannot be grateful enough
that my strength held out to the end. It was not till all was over that
I succumbed. I feel as one who has been dead, and I seem to have won the
right to speak to you from my heart without reserve or timidity, for the
last time. No, you are not to blame for the rupture of our relations:
reassure yourself on that point, dear friend. I have not to reproach you
with a harsh word, an unkind look, throughout the course of our year's
intimacy. Always gentle, generous, and noble, I will hold you in my
memory as I knew you. But when you praised me, Goethe, in the arbor, for
my 'heroism in speaking the truth fearlessly and simply,' every word I
had uttered was a lie. God pardon me! but never for a moment, since I
had first learned to love you, had I felt that I could not for your sake
sacrifice parents, home, and life itself to follow and to serve you. A
word, a gesture, a single impulse of the old tenderness, would have
brought me to your side again, and made me deny every word I had that
minute spoken. But it was not to be, and I knew it before I began. It
was not there that I renounced you. I could easily then assume
indifference, for the blow had long since been struck. It was in
Strasburg, the day after your visit from Herr Breitkopf, that I said
farewell to you in my heart. From that morning I knew that all was at an
end between us. I watched you closely, jealously, and everything
confirmed my fears. As soon as I was assured of the truth, I took my
resolution. Dearly as I loved you, I could not have borne from you the
cold neglect, the daily slights and wounds, which I foresaw from a
continuation of our existing relations. I wronged you, Goethe: you were
generous and upright to the last; but I knew that to ask me in marriage
was a sacrifice of your dearest hopes and aspirations. Could I accept a
union without love or sympathy? Not only for your sake, but selfishly
for my own, I knew that I must reject it absolutely then and there. I
thank God again and again that my purpose held firm, my strength endured
till the end. Cease to reproach yourself, dear friend: these are events
that could not have been foreseen. How could we choose but love each
other? But you were destined for a lofty career, and God will chasten me
for my foolish weakness.
"I have indeed been very ill, and caused my poor mother and all around
me much anxiety. I am glad to be well again, for their sake and for my
own. I could not have died with that lie upon my lips. I have not
suffered much: it was nothing but a great weariness and exhaustion; and
it has now passed away entirely.
"Rahel is to be married in a fortnight. Poor papa and mamma will be so
lonely without her that it is a comfort to me to be with them. As long
as I feel that my life is useful and almost necessary to these who are
so dear to me, I cannot be quite unhappy. But I shall always be alone.
The heart that has once loved Goethe can never love again.
"Pray do not write to me; it is best that we should remain apart. Only
believe in the friendship of
"ALIDE DUROC."
"Alide's answer," says Goethe, "to the letter in which I had bidden her
adieu tore my heart. I now for the first time became aware of her
bereavement, and saw no possibility of alleviating it. She was ever in
my thoughts; I felt that she was wanting to me, and, worst of all, I
could not forgive myself. Gretchen had been taken from me, Annette had
left me; but now for the first time I was guilty: I had wounded to its
very depths one of the most beautiful and tender of hearts. And that
period of gloomy repentance, bereft of the love which had so invigorated
me, was agonizing, insupportable. But man will live. Under the broad,
open sky, on the heights or in the valleys, in the fields and through
the woods, my mind regained some of its calmness. I almost lived on the
road, wandering between the mountains and the plains. Often I went
alone, or in company, right through my native city, as though I were a
stranger in it, dining at one of the great inns in the High Street, and
after dinner pursuing my way. I turned more than ever to the open world
and to nature; there alone I found comfort."
EPILOGUE
Late in the afternoon of the 24th of September, 1779, two young men
alighted from the diligence in the court-yard of one of the principal
inns in Strasburg. There was enough resemblance between them for a
stranger to have supposed them to be brothers, though one seemed not
less than thirty, and the other scarcely past his majority. Both had the
same type of face,--handsome in outline, open, joyous, and animated in
expression; but that of the elder had the advantage of exquisite
refinement and extraordinary intellect. He was not remarkably tall, but
the proportions of his figure were remarkable, and there was something
majestic in the pose of his head. His companion, shorter, stouter, and
more commonplace in appearance, was, nevertheless, a noble-looking
fellow. Though by so much the younger of the two, he seemed to receive
from his companion the trifling kindnesses which one traveler can render
another, with the unconscious grace and dignity of one who is accustomed
to be served. A frank equality of friendship must have existed between
them, for they used the brotherly _Thou_ in conversation; but at times a
just-perceptible tone of deference in the voice of the elder implied
some inferiority of station. The elder of these two young men was
Geheimrath Goethe, the author of "Götz von Berlichingen," "Werther,"
and "Iphigenia;" and his fellow-traveler was Prince Karl August, Duke of
Saxe-Weimar.
The Prince had violated all regulations of court etiquette by starting
incognito on a pleasure-excursion to Switzerland with his inseparable
friend. They had already stopped at Frankfort, and visited Goethe's
home, and from thence had come by short and easy stages to Strasburg.
Having shaken off the dust of their journey and refreshed themselves at
the inn, they set out for a walk through the city after sunset. Goethe
had not been here since he had bidden farewell to Alide, eight years
ago: everything recalled vividly to his mind her beautiful personality
and that brief and happy episode of his life. He began by narrating to
the Duke some pleasant incidents of his residence and studies here, but
gradually, as the twilight deepened, the two friends fell into a serious
conversation on the subjects which they most enjoyed discussing
together,--philosophy, religion, art, and even love. The image of Alide,
an insubstantial, mocking vision, floated continually before Goethe: he
could not banish the recollection of all the joy, passion, and misery
crowded into one year for that poor little generous soul.
The two young men mounted to the platform of the Cathedral after the
moon had risen; and there, softened by so many sweet and sad
reminiscences, Goethe opened his heart to his friend, and confided the
story of his love for Alide,--pointing out in the wide-lying country,
illuminated by that silver light, the spot, far beyond the city, where,
shadowed by its mountains, lay the village of Sesenheim. He would go
to-morrow and satisfy himself as to how that kindly family fared, and
whether they still held a friendly remembrance of him; and he begged
Karl August to accompany him on his day's jaunt. But the Prince said it
was not fitting that he should be present at the reunion of such old
acquaintances. Goethe must go, but he must go alone: if he were coldly
received, he would not be mortified before his friend; and if he met
with a cordial greeting, he would be sure that it was owing to a sincere
regard for himself, "and not," added the Duke, modestly, "to the
obligation of extending hospitality to a stranger."
The next day, at noon, Goethe started on his ride to Drusenheim. He left
his horse at the inn, and approached the parsonage, just as he had done
years before, in the glow of an autumn afternoon. It might have been
yesterday that he was here, for all the changes that had taken place in
the house or its surroundings. The roses bloomed in the garden, the
woodbine flourished over the porch, the same air of serene prosperity
enveloped orchard and vineyard and shining meadow; the immortal purple
light streamed again on the luxuriant slopes of the far-away mountains.
A little girl, some five or six years old, was playing with her doll in
the garden. As Goethe entered the gate, she was about to run into the
house; but he called her back gently.
"Do not be afraid, my little friend. Does the Pastor Duroc live here
still?"
Reassured by his winning voice, she turned towards him, but, without
advancing, waited until he reached her. He patted her on the head, and,
looking into the wondering, upturned face, he saw a curious blending of
the faces he so well remembered. The child had the golden hair, Saxon
mouth, and broad cheeks of Waldstein, and the dark, brilliant eyes and
rich complexion of Rahel. Goethe had never seen a more dainty, exquisite
little creature.
"Will you take me into the house?" said he. "I am an old friend of your
grandpapa's, and I should love dearly to see him again. And your
mamma,--is she at home?"
"I have no mamma," answered the child, quietly, without taking her eyes
from the stranger's face. "How funny his hair is,--all in rings!" she
was saying to herself.
The shock of her words was so great to Goethe, as he stood in the bright
sunshine, expecting momently to see the laughing face of Rahel beam out
upon him from the door or the window, that the sudden tears started in
his eyes. All that exuberant life and spirit already passed from earth!
He was afraid to ask the child any more questions; but she had taken
such a fancy to his appearance that she was bold enough to begin
prattling herself. "Papa is away; but all the rest are at
home,--grandpapa, and grandmamma, and Aunt Alide." And, with a charming
confidence that made Goethe smile again, she put her tiny hand in his.
"Come, and I will take you to the house," she said: "if you knew mamma,
I am sure they will be glad to see you; you must be a very, very old
friend. I never knew her myself, and I am nearly seven years old. But
who shall I tell them is here?"
"I am Herr Goethe," answered he. "Shall you remember that name, my
clever little girl? Tell your grandmamma that Goethe is here."
He entered the library with his heart beating high in his breast. What
changes he must expect to find in this household where already a breach
had been made! He could not realize that Rahel was dead: it seemed
impossible that she should not enter this room, where everything
reminded him so vividly of her picturesque presence. A cheerful cry of
welcome startled him from the gloomy reflections into which he had
fallen, and the pastor stood before him with outstretched hands. He was
much moved to see again Goethe, who could not fail to remark the traces
of age and trouble in the old man's demeanor and appearance. The
greeting of Madame Duroc was not less friendly and hearty than that of
her husband, though her manner was quieter and more composed.
Immediately after her came Alide. She was still beautiful, though she
had matured and suffered so much since he had seen her. Her face was
paler and more delicate, but the large gray eyes had lost none of their
soft, tender radiance; her form was slender, and seemed to have gained
height and graceful stateliness, owing to the difference in her costume,
for she wore a long French gown. The little girl was with her, hand in
hand, and Alide advanced to meet her old lover with as much dignity and
frank pleasure as if she were a young mother. After she had welcomed him
she brought forth the child, saying, with a smile, "I believe you have
already made friends with Fräulein Clara;" and then added, in a low
voice, "We think she looks like her dear mother: do you find it so?
Come, Clärchen, you must shake hands with this gentleman, and when you
grow to be an old, old woman like grandmamma, you can boast that you
have shaken hands with the great Goethe."
"Why do you put such foolish ideas in the young one's head?" said
Goethe, laughing, but with visible embarrassment. "We are already good
friends, as you say, and you must not make her afraid of me. It is your
aunt who is great," he said to the child, as he bent and kissed her
forehead to conceal his agitation; "and may you grow to be as true and
noble a woman as she is!"
Goethe's own words will best describe the remainder of the day which he
passed at the parsonage: "On the 25th I rode towards Sesenheim, and
there found the family which I had left eight years ago. I was welcomed
in the most friendly manner. The second daughter loved me in those days
better than I deserved, and more than others to whom I have given so
much passion and faith. I was forced to leave her at a moment when it
nearly cost her her life: she passed lightly over that episode, to tell
me what traces still remained of the old illness, and behaved with such
exquisite delicacy and generosity from the moment I stood before her
unexpected on the threshold, that I felt quite relieved. I must do her
the justice to say that she made not the slightest attempt to rekindle
in my bosom the cinders of love. She led me into the arbor, and there we
sat down. It was a lovely moonlight, and I inquired after every one and
everything. Neighbors had spoken of me not a week ago. I found old songs
which I had composed, and a carriage which I had painted. We recalled
many a pastime of those happy days, and I found myself as vividly
conscious of all as if I had been away only six months. The old people
were frank and hearty, and thought me looking younger. I stayed the
night there, and departed at dawn, leaving behind me friendly faces, so
that I can now think once more of this corner of the world with comfort,
and know that they are at peace with me."
THE END