"Why not to Fräulein Alide's 'Rest'?" asked Goethe, who had rejoined them.
"No," said Alide, hurriedly, "that is too far; we will go into the summer-house by the orchard."
"Excellent!" cried Max; "that is the very place. Wolf must pose as a mediæval minnesinger, improvising his verses amidst beautiful damsels in the open air."
"No," modestly replied Goethe, with a laugh; "no more poses for me. After my misadventure yesterday, I am content to be simply Wolfgang Goethe with these young ladies,—neither meistersinger, nor doctor, nor peasant,—and if I can but redeem that name in their sight I shall be grateful. Besides, I am not going to inflict any rhymes upon you; it will be plain prose, and no very lofty flight of imagination, either."
They took their seats in the arbor, with the sunlight flickering down on them through the red vine-leaves; Goethe in the centre, and Alide directly in front of him, with her chin resting on her hand, reflecting in her upturned face the inspiration and excitement of the countenance upon which her eyes were riveted. Rahel busied her restless fingers with a piece of scarlet needlework, and Max as usual took a low seat near her feet, whence he could admire the little downcast chestnut head. For more than two hours the young magician held his circle enchanted, not so much by the charm of the story, though that also exercised a powerful attraction, as by the masterly modulations of his voice, the grace of his unstudied attitude and occasional gestures, the infinite play of expression upon his face,—in a word, by the irresistible influence of his personality.
He succeeded in awakening curiosity, in fixing the attention, in provoking over-hasty solutions of impenetrable riddles, in deceiving expectations, in confusing by the more wonderful which came into the place of the wonderful, in arousing sympathy and fear, in causing anxiety, in moving, and at last, by the change of what was apparently earnest into an ingenious and cheerful jest, in satisfying, the mind, and leaving the imagination materials for new images, and the understanding, materials for further reflection.
When it was over, there was a short pause. Then Max broke out, "Bravo, bravo! it is beyond expectation!"
"How singular, how wonderful, it is!" echoed Rahel. "But you must let us have a copy of it, that we may read it often among ourselves and show it to our friends."
"To think that it is over now!" said Alide, wistfully, with a little sigh. "Yes, Herr Goethe, you will promise what my sister asks, will you not? It is not very long, and I am sure you could easily make a fair copy of the whole, and leave it with us as a memento of this happy afternoon."
"Most willingly," replied Goethe; "I will bring it to you from the city as soon as I can transcribe it. But such a day as this has been for me should indeed, as you say, leave something substantial in our possession. Have I compensated sufficiently as Goethe for the follies of Dr. Steck, to ask something from you, Fräulein Alide?"