"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.