Chapter VII: In Strasbourg

Never before had Goethe found his varied occupations in the city so wearisome as when he resumed them after his brief holiday at the parsonage. Not long before, he had written to a friend that "for the first time he knew what it was to be happy without his heart being engaged. Pleasant people and manifold studies left him no time for feeling. His life was like a sledge-journey, splendid and sounding, but with just as little for the heart as it had much for eyes and ears." But now all was different; he had hone of his previous animation to impart to anything that he attempted. Perhaps had he been able to remain by Alide's side, the fancy so suddenly enkindled would have burnt itself out; but now that he was separated from her, it developed into an absorbing passion which deprived him of all spirit for his ordinary pursuits. Her every charm was infinitely magnified by distance and by the most powerful of imaginations. He found himself forever contrasting the tedium of this enforced absence with the blissful consciousness of life and youth, and "that highest grace of love," which he had known in her presence. He was obliged to renounce his sketching, for it gave his mind too much scope to lose itself in idle reverie as he sat listlessly before his canvas. At any other period of his life, his restlessness, his longing, his depression, and his feverish excitement would have found their surest and safest vent in composition,--in the production of those inimitable songs, each one of which has crystallized a subtle, and what had hitherto appeared an indescribable, condition or emotion of the heart. But just now he had become the disciple of the cynical Herder, who "had so spoiled his hopes and fancies respecting himself that he began to doubt his own capabilities." This master "had torn down the curtain which concealed from Goethe the poverty of German literature, and had, ruthlessly destroyed many of his prejudices; in the sky of his fatherland were but few stars of importance left, and the rest he was now taught to regard as so many transient candle-snuffs." Thus there was nothing left him but to pursue with diligence his serious studies. He devoted himself to jurisprudence as assiduously as was required to take his degree with credit, and he was able finally to interest himself in medicine, because it "disclosed glimpses of Nature, if it did not reveal her on every side." Moreover, he was attached to this science by intercourse and habit.

His appearance changed as conspicuously as his feelings. No one would have recognized this pale, moping youth, as he pored over his books or roused himself to attend a medical lecture or to study every form of disease in the city hospitals, as the wild, buoyant lad who had illustrated with his inspiriting presence and his inexhaustible gifts a day of sunshine at the Duroc parsonage. In society he became so reserved and indifferent that he acquired the nicknames of the "wolf" and the "bear." It was no feeble sentiment that such a man could entertain, for he threw the whole force of his passionate nature into all that attracted and possessed him. He was literally consumed by this hidden fire. One consolation indeed was his,--he could write to her daily, and he could transport himself in imagination to her presence while thus holding communication with her, or even while studying the sketches for the alteration of her home. He busied himself with a thousand plans for the improvement and embellishment of that beloved dwelling, with a thousand fantastic decorations for her own room, and meantime he sent her constantly a new book, a curious ornament, a rare engraving with which to adorn it when all was completed.

Once, and once only, did he receive a letter from her. He had never seen her handwriting, and, coming as it did with half a dozen letters from his family, the modest little missive was thrown carelessly aside until he had read all the details of his home in Frankfort. Then he took it up, vaguely wondering whence it could have come; but he had no sooner broken the seal than the blood rushed into his face, and with a little cry of joy he pressed it to his lips, and read it over and over long after he could repeat it by heart.

"My dear Herr Goethe," wrote Alide, "I have tried many times to write you my thanks for all your goodness to me, for the precious tokens of your affectionate remembrance which you have so constantly sent me, since that happy day, now nearly a month ago, that you passed with us. But everything looks so cold, almost curt, on paper, that I have not dared to send you such poor scraps as I have written. Now, however, I will not let you any longer think me so ungrateful, and I will not read my letter over, so that I may find courage to send it. Besides, when I remember how indulgent you are to me, how you seem to see clearly only that which is genuine in one's heart, I am greatly reassured. Indeed, you are already more like an old friend than many with whom I have been all my life familiar. Do you know, Herr Goethe, that ever since that day I have been as happy as one in a dream? In the morning I awake with a light heart, and think, 'What, then, do I possess which I never knew before?' and then with a great rush of joy it all comes upon me, and with it the hopeful feeling that I shall see you soon again. I do not grow impatient,--it seems to me that I could wait for centuries, knowing that in the end my friend will surely come. Formerly I was hasty, petulant, sometimes even rude; but now nothing vexes me, nothing can come between me and this wonderful new happiness. But I did not mean to write so much when I began. I only wished to thank you for all your gifts, especially the 'Book of Songs,' and, above all, your letters. I must not write again; but do not think of me as sad or impatient, or any other than the happiest girl in the world.

Alide Duroc."

"November 5, 1770."

This cheerful letter imparted somewhat of its own joyousness to Goethe. All day the words kept ringing in his ears with the sweet persistence of some familiar melody. In the afternoon he went, according to his custom, to the hospital, and with his respected instructor visited bed after bed. His original disgust at the invalids had gradually subsided, for he had learned to regard their various conditions as abstract ideas, through which recovery and the restoration of the human form and nature appeared possible. It was a singular anomaly for so young a man, and especially one of his reputation, to devote himself so earnestly to such a subject as this. To-day he seemed unusually pale and excited, and there was a strange longing expression in his bright eyes. The professor could not help regarding him with peculiar interest; he did not conclude his lecture, as he was in the habit of doing, with some doctrine that might have reference to some particular case of illness, but said, cheerfully, "Gentlemen, there are some holidays before us; make use of them to enliven your spirits. Studies must not only be pursued with seriousness and diligence, but also with cheerfulness and freedom of mind. Give movement to your bodies, and traverse the beautiful country on horse and foot. He who is at home will take delight in that to which he has been accustomed, while for the stranger there will be new impressions and pleasant reminiscences for the future."

Goethe thought he heard a voice from heaven. He knew very well that the admonition was principally intended for himself, and he could have embraced with gratitude his worthy old friend. He made all the haste he could to order a horse and dress himself for his visit. He sent for Max, who was nowhere to be found; but this did not detain him. However, the necessary preparations went on slowly, and he could not depart so soon as he wished. Fast as he rode, darkness overtook him. It was a wild, windy night; only at intervals would the clear round face of the moon break forth in transparent brilliancy between the jagged white clouds. He dashed on like a madman, resolved not to wait until the morning to see her. The exhilaration of the night wind, the large expanse of the open meadows, the weird effects of light and darkness caused by the constant interchange of cloud and moonshine, added to his relief at finding himself once more outside the city-barriers and on the road to his beloved, made his heart swell with a feeling of reckless delight almost amounting to intoxication. He breathed freely, he took off his hat to let the wild breeze blow full upon his face; he longed to shout aloud as he careered along the familiar path. The clock was striking ten as he entered the Drusenheim inn; he inquired of the landlord whether there was yet a light in the parsonage, and was answered that the ladies had only just gone home,--they had said they were expecting a stranger. Goethe's heart fell; he had wished to be the only one; still, he might hasten forward and, at any rate, be the first; and with this thought he started upon his walk to the manse.

As he passed through the gate he recognized the figures of the two girls with their brother in the porch, just about to enter the house. They turned at the sound of his footsteps in the garden-lane, and he fancied he heard Alide whisper to Rahel, "Did I not say so? Here he is!"

"Am I too late to bid you good-evening?" he called out, as he hastened towards them.

"No, indeed," answered the girls, eagerly; "we are just going in to supper." And they both let him kiss their hands for welcome. Goethe followed them at once into the house, only pausing in the hall to throw off his heavy riding-cloak. They led him into the supper-room, where the pastor and Madame Duroc were seated and a table was spread. As Rahel looked at him in the light, she burst into a loud laugh, for she had little command over herself. He wore a complete costume of black velvet garnished with silver lace; the wind had reddened his cheeks, and blown some of the powder out of his brown hair, giving it a soft gray color that contrasted more conspicuously than pure white with his youthful face. He was somewhat disconcerted by this odd reception, but the pastor and his wife rose and greeted him like an old acquaintance; and then Rahel, without the least embarrassment, said,--

"You must really pardon my laughing, Herr Goethe, but it is so comical, when I think of Fritz's double and Dr. Julius Steck, to see you decked out so finely this evening."

He answered good-humoredly, and in a short time the conversation flowed as freely as though he were already one of their family.

As for Alide, she was perfectly content. It was enough to have him once more in their midst; to feel that he made, if only for this one night, part of their home-circle; to know that she had but to raise her eyes to behold, in living reality, this face which for so long had been a shadowy vision perpetually before her. She was like a child, delighting to play little tricks with her happiness. While one of her family talked, she would avert her head at times, and imagine that he was not there, just for the thrill it gave her to hear his vibrant young voice respond, or to turn suddenly and assure herself of his actual presence. But her joyous fancies did not make her pensive or abstracted; she entered with unwonted spirit into the conversation; her soft laughter rippled gayly forth, the color mounted to her cheeks, her blue eyes sparkled brilliantly. Her own family looked on in surprise at the magical transformation of their quiet, reserved Alide.

Finally they separated for the night. Goethe was disappointed at not having been able to find a moment's opportunity to whisper a word in her ear; but he soon fell asleep, with a feeling of profound satisfaction at knowing himself once more under this beloved roof.