Chapter XI: In the Shadow of the Cathedral

It was a foggy day in early June, with occasional heavy showers of rain, when Madame Duroc and her daughters set out on their journey to Strasburg. The pastor could not leave his parish-duties to accompany them, so he drove with them over to the Drusenheim inn, and, after seeing them comfortably seated in the diligence, with many an affectionate embrace and injunction to take care of themselves and each other, he bade them Godspeed. It seemed like a flat, level country across which the diligence was painfully dragged by the steaming horses, for the majestic shapes of the mountains were lost in the fog which clung to their summits and sides. Rahel was nervous and excited at the thought of all that would be expected of her in the city, and irritated, moreover, by the unpleasantness and tedium of the drive through the rain, when a little sunshine would have made it a charming excursion. But Alide was satisfied with a glimpse now and then through the torn cloud-curtain of meadow, hill, or leafy wood: she had learned every curve and landmark of the road since Wolfgang had been going constantly back and forth. There was even an agreeable mystery about the dense vapor which encompassed them, and she felt as though she were traveling to an enchanted city that would gradually shape itself out of the mist.

There were no passengers besides themselves in the coach, and their mother entertained them with descriptions of the city as she remembered it in her youth, before the Alsatian customs had given way to French innovations. "Well, we are nearing it now," cried Alide. "See, there are the gardens and the public walks. Ah! one can hardly hear one's own voice over these rough stones." And she was forced to keep silence as the lumbering vehicle rattled through the noisy lanes. They passed long rows of irregular houses, squares, shops, markets, and churches, with at intervals a glimpse, from the most unexpected corners, of the solemn Minster, until finally the diligence was brought up in the court-yard of a hotel.

"I do not see the Burkhardts anywhere," said Rahel, peering anxiously from the window.

"I will take you to your cousins. Welcome, welcome to Strasburg, dear friends!" cried a well-known voice at the door, and Goethe stood ready to help them alight.

"I hope you have not been wearied, Frau Mamma, by your drive through this dismal weather. Your girls bring the sunshine along with them. Ah, if you knew how I have looked forward to this day!" And he gazed frankly and ardently into Alide's eyes.

He carried their cloaks and valises across the hotel-yard as he led them to the carriage which was awaiting them. Fräulein Burkhardt sprang from within as she saw them approach; she welcomed her kinswomen gracefully and affectionately, apologizing for the absence of her mother, whose uncertain health had forbidden her venturing out in this wet weather. "I am a thousand times obliged to you, Herr Goethe!" she cried, in her shrill, thin voice, as the carriage rolled away. "We shall expect you this evening."

Anna Burkhardt was a short, slim girl, whose narrow peaked face, with its almost imperceptible lips, long, sharp nose, and prominent chin, might have belonged to an old woman had it not been relieved by a fresh, young complexion, more delicately colored than those of her cousins, young, brown, inexpressive eyes, and a profusion of soft brown hair. Her feet were small, but it was only owing to the skill of her bootmaker that they appeared well shaped; and her thin, veiny hands had no beauty when ungloved, save that of numerous sparkling rings. And yet few people considered her either plain or unattractive: her manners were so suave, so graceful, so exquisitely refined, that they formed a charm and a beauty in themselves. Small in stature and insignificant in appearance as she was, these gave her presence a peculiar dignity and importance. Beneath this polished surface there was no generous warmth in the blood; a naturally envious and even spiteful disposition was concealed under the bland exterior of a precocious woman of the world, and an unerring tact served for all her purposes as a substitute for culture and intelligence. Perhaps it was owing to the fact that her mother had long been an invalid and had intrusted to Anna the entire direction of the household, that the girl had lost all the simplicity of her age; but, be this as it might, her graceful, high-bred, worldly-wise personality found more admirers than many a fresher and prettier girl. Poor, blundering little Rahel, with her delicately-chiseled face and picturesque coloring, found it difficult to shine beside this almost homely cousin of hers; and yet if any one could have put her at her ease, by covering her mistakes, ignoring her confusion, and endeavoring to make her appear to advantage, it would have been Anna Burkhardt. But Rahel was beyond the reach of help: she persisted in seeing only an additional discouragement in the easy grace and tact of Anna's bearing, and in the end her friendliest well-wishers found that the kindest mode of treatment with her was to leave her alone and let her stumble along as well as she was able.

The second daughter, Margaret, was strikingly contrasted with her sister: she was entirely without Anna's winning courtesy, and indeed was condemned by most of the matrons of her society as having "no manners." She was scarcely prettier than Anna, and yet she was still more admired. She had a charming little blonde head and a transparent, colorless complexion; but there her beauties ended: her face was distinctly German in its contour, her mouth large, her nose broad and upturned, and in figure she was nearly as short as Anna, though fuller and better proportioned. She was bright, amusing, and if not precisely witty, yet an unabashed candor and naïveté lent her conversation a certain piquancy of its own. At the first glance it would have been almost impossible to believe that she was not a pretty girl: she looked as if she had stepped out of a picture. Unlike Anna, she wore the simplest things; there were no jewels upon her pretty, plump hands, and her small, fine ears remained unpierced; and yet every detail of her costume, more than coquettish, was actually artistic. With such natural advantages as either Alide or Rahel possessed, how would these shrewd city-girls, who knew how to turn everything to account, have distinguished themselves in the circle to which they were born! And nevertheless, beside them, their beautiful country cousins seemed almost devoid of attractions.

Now was Goethe to find his fair friends whom he had been accustomed to see only in a rural scene, and whose image had appeared to him hitherto only before a background of waving boughs, flowing brooks, nodding wild-flowers, and a horizon open for miles,--now was he to find them for the first time in town rooms, which indeed were spacious in themselves, but narrowed by furniture, carpets, curtains, glasses, and porcelain figures. It had a singular effect upon him when he entered the Burkhardt drawing-room early in the evening of the Durocs' arrival. Alide, whom his eyes first sought and found, seemed unfamiliar, almost strange, in this uncongenial atmosphere; her surroundings appeared to render commonplace everything about her which had before struck him as eminently becoming and poetical. Something incongruous offended his artistic sense as he beheld this simply-clad country-girl, with her one long golden braid falling down her back like the bourgeoises in the street, and her high-heeled little boots and silver-clocked red stockings plainly to be seen under her scant furbelow, while around her were grouped the pale, delicate, elegant town-ladies in their flowing, silky French gowns, harmonizing perfectly with the luxurious appointments of the room itself. With his lively feeling for everything present, he could not at once adapt himself to the contradiction of the moment. All this, however, was but a flash through his mind when he first caught sight of her; for when she rose with graceful, unconcealed pleasure to receive him, as composedly as she would have done in her own house, she was again his sweetheart and his pride. As he bent and kissed her ungloved hand, she did not see, and she would not have understood, the burning blush that tingled in his cheeks. "Dear friend," she murmured, innocently, "what a joy it is to be once more together!" He did not speak, but as he raised his head his loving eyes gave sincere and eloquent response.

Several guests were expected besides himself, though he was the first to arrive: they were to have a dance and a supper, and in the interval were to entertain themselves, after the approved city fashion, with conversation alone. Rural games and the myriad resources of country life were of course quite out of the question, and Rahel for one knew not how to fill up the gaps. The poor girl looked almost as she said she felt, "like a maid-servant," with her short petticoat and her high, tight waist, and by her awkward self-consciousness she rendered the disparity between herself and her cousins still more conspicuous. As she gave her hand to Goethe, she muttered, in an almost audible whisper, "It is like a breath from the country to see your face here. Did I not tell you I would never feel at home in Strasburg?"

When the visitors arrived, he had an opportunity to contrast the appearance and behavior of the Duroc family with those of the society which formed his own circle. The dignified and calmly noble demeanor of the mother was perfectly adapted to the situation; she was in no wise different from the other ladies. But Rahel was painfully ill at ease, fancying that the eyes of the whole company were riveted upon her. When she was spoken to, she either answered in monosyllables, or plunged into random assertions on subjects of which she was totally ignorant. She seemed to look to Goethe for support and assistance, and frequently succeeded in embarrassing him also by her unconventional familiarity, and her untimely allusions to incidents and jests that were not understood outside of the Duroc parsonage. As she had formerly called to him in the gardens or beckoned him aside in the fields if she had anything particular to say to him, she did also the same here, when she drew him into the recess of a window. She had the most unimportant things to say to him,--nothing but what he knew already, that she wished herself by the Rhine, over the Rhine, or even in Turkey. He did his best to appease her, but without success.

Alide, on the contrary, was highly remarkable in this position. Properly speaking, she also did not suit it; but it bore witness to her character that, instead of finding herself adapted to this condition, she unconsciously moulded the condition according to herself. She acted here as she had acted with the society in the country: she knew how to animate every moment, and, without creating any disturbance, she put all in motion. She spoke of the wardrobe, the ornaments, the personal graces of her cousins, without affectation, and considered and admired them without envy; yet all the time she seemed perfectly content with her individual customs and appearance. Goethe she treated the same as ever: she seemed to give him no preference, but that of communicating her desires and wishes to him rather than to another, and thus recognizing him as her servant.

He had received permission from Frau Duroc to come early the next morning to drive with herself and her daughters through the town and take them over the Cathedral. A soft, clear sky and balmy air made a paradise of the quaint old narrow streets, through which they rambled at will, while Goethe's inexhaustible information and eloquence illustrated every object of interest that they visited. He explained to them the very curious effect given to the city just at this period by the half-executed plans to beautify it. If a crooked side of a street was to be straightened, one man would move forward to the appointed line, while his neighbors remained in their old positions; and thus the oddest projections and recesses were left. Rahel's awakened curiosity, gratified at every turn, and yet continually and artfully excited by Goethe with the promise of some fresh wonder, made her in some degree forget the mortifications of the previous evening and her desire to be once more at home. However, even here her restlessness was apparent, and he was forced to exert his utmost ingenuity to amuse and entertain her.

Alide was quiet and subdued; she looked with wondering eyes at these unfamiliar scenes, and tried to realize the various lives and interests that encompassed her. By his side she was happy; in looking on his beloved and beautiful face, all other thoughts and emotions were absorbed in a flood of joy. But, as the hours slipped by, a sense of unrest and vague trouble gained upon her. When he spoke, though she was inspired and excited by his enthusiasms, she did not share them, often she could scarcely understand them. Her nature did not expand, like his, to embrace these various activities; it rather shrank within itself, suffocated for want of stimulus amidst this seething world of life, as the fish gasps for air in the midst of the rare element itself. She felt cramped, choked, belittled, in these noisy thoroughfares, these crowded lanes, beneath these towering edifices.

They alighted at the Cathedral, and entered the solemn sanctuary. The sudden transition from the brightness of the noonday streets to this tender twilight, the vast space of the inclosure, the exquisite beauty of the slender reed-like pillars supporting the lofty vault above, the awe-inspiring associations connected with the venerable Minster, caused a deep religious adoration to take entire possession of the simple girl's breast. She bowed her head and murmured to herself a child-like prayer. He divined her emotions, though she could not guess his own, and he refrained from interrupting her silent communion. Rahel was chattering to the sacristan, who led her and Madame Duroc away from the others, down the long aisle.

"Alide," said Goethe, in a low voice, as she raised her eyes towards him, "I love you dearly when I see you thus, and yet you are not mine at such a time: you seem rapt away from me in some beautiful vision where I cannot follow. The gates of heaven are open for an instant, and then all is dark to me, until you return to earth, bringing upon your brow a reflection of the very glory of Paradise."

"Ah, Wolfgang!" she murmured, passionately, clasping her hands with the gesture that was habitual to her when deeply moved, "why is all dark to you? Why cannot you, who are so wise and so good, follow me into this celestial world, where simplicity and faith are all that are required to open wide the gates? Why shall not we twain, so closely united by sympathy and love, draw from the same sublime source our courage and our consolation? This is a subject that I have never before dared to mention, and yet now I am bold to speak. What more fitting time, what more sacred place, could we find than now and here to fall upon our knees together and unite in adoration of that blessed Lamb of God who died on Calvary for man?"

A hot flush mantled Goethe's face, and an expression of weariness almost amounting to pain clouded his brow, as he listened to Alide's enthusiasm. When she ceased, he took her clasped hands in both his own, and answered, very gently, "My dear little girl, you must not ask me to do this, you must not speak to me again in this way, for it can only give pain to both, showing between us a gulf that cannot be bridged. I love you; that must be enough. Upon these questions I have thought much, I have suffered much, I have undergone much that you can never understand; but now I am at peace. Do not be distressed for my sake; in the eyes of the beneficent Disposer of events our souls are at one."

She answered him with a bewildered, frightened glance. The solemn emphasis with which he had spoken forbade her continuing her impassioned appeal. Her eyes filled with tears. "A gulf between us!" she repeated, slowly. "Ah! that was my terror, and it has come. What will it grow to be when we are man and wife?"

"Alide! Alide!" interposed the shrill voice of Rahel, who now hastened to her sister's side, "come and see these beautiful holy relics the sacristan has been showing us. And then we are going to mount to the platform and see the view from the gallery."

How often these trivial intrusions occur at moments that seem like the crises of our lives! and yet perhaps all had been said that either just then was able or ready to speak, and it may have been well for both that the peremptory demands of the hour forced them back to the actual world.

The panorama from the gallery above the Cathedral fully answered their expectations. The romantic city, the level-stretching meadows, the golden river with the noontide sunshine flashing upon it, the far-away mountains, but, above all, a just perceptible glimpse of Sesenheim, set Rahel fairly wild with delight, and struck them all with wondering admiration. This was the crowning pleasure of the day, and, after so much enjoyment and novelty, all were ready to return home and take some rest before they met again at dinner.

Alide was unusually pale, and confessed to feeling somewhat wearied, but the equable cheerfulness of her mind had already been restored to her by the unwonted tenderness and caressing attentions with which Goethe sought to make her forget their painful conversation in the Minster.