Chapter XIII: 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.