CHAPTER VIII
HAPPINESS
The wind had subsided in the night, and one of those rare soft days that belong to the golden weather called St. Martin's summer, shone from the cloudless skies. A pale, blue-green haze overhung the earth; the breath of the air had something indescribably caressing. If one had looked only at the fresh verdure of the pasture-slopes, the dusky foliage of the vineyards, or the brilliant bloom of the garden, it would not have been difficult to fancy that the glory of the year was just developing; but along the woodland paths, and in the despoiled orchard, the bare branches and the crumpled brown leaves underfoot told a different tale, and lent the pathetic grace of evanescence to the exquisite scene. Clear and musical through the still atmosphere pealed the village church bells; but after the noise of Strasburg every sound made music to Goethe, as he walked by the side of Alide along the sweet fading fields, with the Sabbath quiet in the air. They had much to tell each other, for they now lived over together the days they had passed apart; now did Alide confess that her heart had prophesied his coming, and now she imparted to him her own serenity. The more familiar he became with this white maiden-soul, the more was he astonished at the circumspect cheerfulness, the naïveté combined with self-consciousness, the good and lovable qualities which at every word revealed themselves. He could discern, from the friendly greetings of the peasants whom they met, that she was benevolent and promoted their comfort. How many hours of such unalloyed happiness dare one promise one's self from life? And yet these two filled this perfect moment by looking forward and backward. They arranged their plans for the day, and decided how, among all the guests and the various amusements, they would keep together in the dance and the game.
Though they walked slowly, with many loiterings by the road, they reached the church all too soon for Goethe. The open joyousness of Alide's face gave way to a decorous expression of seriousness as she passed from the sunshine into the twilight of the sacred building. Goethe, young as he was, had long since dissociated the sentiment of religion from outward ceremony, and his thoughts and feelings underwent no change when he found himself in the place of worship. They sat alone, for Rahel and the mother were busied at home with preparations for their other guests. The young man dreamed away in a strange trance the hours of service; he was vaguely conscious of occasional bursts of music and of the monotonous voice of the pastor, and after all was over he knew that he had sat through a long sermon, of which he did not recollect a single word. Now and then he gave a sudden furtive glance at his companion. She did not seem to remember that he was beside her; her long golden lashes rested upon her fresh cheek as she bent her eyes constantly upon her prayer-book; her face was irradiated by a pure, spiritual calm. Once only did she turn and look upon him, before the sermon began, with an ineffable expression of tranquil joy beaming from her eyes, and then again she was rapt in her own world of simple devotion, with a dim fancy that he was following her, and that the pious platitudes of her father were inspiring Goethe with the same celestial satisfaction with which they nourished her. The pastor spoke of death and suffering, but to her nothing was sad in this exalted hour: death itself did not mean separation, but only closer and eternal union; and what was suffering on earth with such a one to comfort and to be comforted?
But he was far from her world at this moment: his piercing intellect, that had so early discerned the paradoxes of men's beliefs and broken loose from the shackles of creed and dogma, was haunted by, a childish superstition. He was overcome by the painful memory of the last time a woman's lips had pressed his own, and had cursed him while they kissed. He was no longer in the village church, where the pastor's voice went droning on, and the country sounds of bird and insect came sleepily through the open window that let in the blue sunbeams and the warm, summer-like air. He was in the close, small room of his dancing-master, where a few months ago the passionate, sibyl-like French girl had wound her arms about his neck, thrust her long white fingers in his hair, pressed her own black locks against his cheek, and, kissing him repeatedly on the mouth, in a mad paroxysm of jealousy, cried out, "Woe upon woe for ever and ever to her who kisses these lips for the first time after me!"
It all came back to him now; indeed, he had not forgotten it heretofore, but he had without difficulty held himself aloof from women, for he was pleased to imagine that such a consecration sanctified no less than cursed his lips. It had even flattered his vanity to think that he had some subtle power to injure, in an unheard-of spiritual manner, any woman from whom he courted this favor, that may mean so much or so little. But now he paused to free himself from the spell; he knew that in the rural games that would be indulged in during the day he should in all probability be required to claim the forfeit of a kiss from his beloved, and he shuddered at the consequences of the harmless pastime, and taxed his utmost ingenuity to devise some means of evasion.
When the service was over, Alide rose with a visible benediction upon her face; but Goethe remained anxious and subdued. An unutterable pity and tenderness overcame him when he looked at her and thought that over and above his own will, nay, in opposition to the most sacred instincts of his heart, Fate working through him might injure, crush, or ruin this exquisite creature. However, when they were once more in the fragrant air of the open meadows, all morbid fears and presentiments passed from his mind. With an impatient toss of his head he shook them from him, as one might disperse a swarm of troublesome insects, and gave himself up wholly to the enjoyment of the present.
As they neared the parsonage, they saw the various guests enlivening with their bright-colored costumes the garden and porch. "Ah, there is dear Rosa Stockmar!" cried Alide. "I was so afraid she would not be with us,—I am sure you will like her, Herr Goethe. That is she in blue, standing under the apple-tree, with Rahel and Cousin Wilhelm. And there are Joachim Heller and his sister Margaret, and in the porch stands Dr. Braun. How pleasant that they should already have arrived!"
With the charming self-possession of a simple nature, she entered the gate with the stranger by her side, and welcomed them all heartily with such frank interchanges of affection between cousins and old acquaintances, as would have aroused her new friend's jealousy had they not been given and taken with such innocent freedom. Then with equal ease and grace she presented Herr Wolfgang Goethe, and in a few moments the conversation was as lively and unrestrained as though they were a bevy of life-long friends.
"Let us go to my arbor," said Alide. "We shall be sheltered from the sun, which is quite too warm for November; and, besides, I have ordered my fairies to prepare a surprise for you there."
They set out in high spirits for the arbor, Alide foremost with her cousin Wilhelm, and Goethe with the merry Rosa Stockmar by his side. Now he could contrast his sweetheart's refinement of beauty, breeding, and nature with the provincial tone of her circle. Rosa was a gay, bright-eyed little creature, of thoroughly plebeian type, and, though there was nothing indecorous or even imprudent in her remarks and jests, still, their unabashed freedom and familiarity wellnigh amounted to coarseness. Almost immediately she began to rally her companion on his interest in their young hostess.