Chapter XVI: 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.