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.