Goethe remained silent for a moment, and then replied, thoughtfully, "Perhaps it was Shakspeare's intention to suggest that. Such a result as you imagine is, unfortunately, one of those events that we never foresee betimes. Yes," he added, brightening again, "I return to what I said first,—that is nature. It would not have been natural if Hamlet could have studied the complications of his destiny with as clear a mind as the poet. It is pleasant to think that Shakspeare was mistaken, that we should have been nobler and truer than Hamlet, but I am afraid he shows us only too plainly how each one of us would have treated that 'Rose of May,' if we had been in Hamlet's position."
To all present, save one, this conversation appeared no more than the most indifferent criticism of an abstract subject. Alide felt her heart like lead in her bosom; her head burned and throbbed, her hands, by turns icy cold and feverishly hot, trembled. She was possessed by the illusion that it was she who was the subject of the cold comments or the galling compassion of all around her. She breathed more freely when the topic of Hamlet was finally dismissed, and when the company dispersed she had gradually regained her outward composure.
Goethe was, as usual, the last to take his leave. While he was bidding good-night to the other members of the family, Alide remained apart, seated by the table where he had read. When he came towards her, the devoted girl forgot her own trouble the moment her eyes fell upon his altered face. The color had faded from his cheeks, his eyes were sunken and haggard, and a strange contraction of the muscles of his forehead gave him a distressed and wearied expression which she had never seen before.
"My darling, what is the matter with you?" whispered she, in alarm, with the tenderness of voice and manner which she was accustomed to receive from him. "You have done too much this evening,—you are over-fatigued,—you are ill. Wolfgang, what is it?" And she took his large, shapely hand caressingly between her two little cold palms.
"Do not be foolish, sweetheart," said he, forcing a smile. "Have you never seen me tired before? A night's sleep will bring me up again. Meanwhile, do you sleep sweetly and dream of other things." He kissed her hurriedly for good-night. "Till to-morrow!" he cried, in a cheerful voice, and in a moment he was out of the house. He, on his part, had not remarked the icy chill of those affectionate hands that pressed his own, the unnatural brilliancy of the dilated eyes, the crimson spot of fever that glowed on either cheek, and the burning heat of the smooth white forehead which his lips had lightly touched. It was Madame Duroc who perceived, with a terrible sensation of oppression and anxiety, the unusual appearance of her child, and yet dared not express her sympathy by the slightest emphasis of affection. She felt that whatever trouble Alide was enduring now must be borne alone, and if it were not to pass away its solace must be left to a later period. All night the pious mother was awake, constantly invoking the blessing of Heaven upon the dear young head. She knew that the child of her heart, ill, helpless, and alone, was for the first time learning to suffer.
When Goethe hurried from the Burkhardts' home, there was a tumult in his brain, a heat and fever in his blood, a lassitude in his limbs, which he did not remember to have experienced before. A night's sleep would restore him, he had assured Alide; but when he issued into the soft night-air he said to himself that this was better than to toss uncomfortably upon his pillow, for in his nervously-excited condition sleep was an impossibility. It was past midnight, and the streets were silent and black with shadows, relieved only by the white splendor of the moon that floated high above the house-tops. He walked at a rapid pace, but not in the direction of his lodging. Contrary to his usual habit, he took no note of the beauty of the night, and the quiet, restful appearance of the sleeping town. Overcome by poignant regrets, gloomy self-reproaches, and morose imaginings of the future, he yielded to the influence of a morbid despair. He saw himself faithless to the highest responsibilities of his life. On one side his fate called out, summoning him to an austere and lofty career, to the noblest achievements and the purest rewards; on the other, a clinging, affectionate child held him to the earth, fettered, cramped, and bound with chains of flowers. What was he doing with his youth? To whom was he about to sacrifice the convictions, the activity, of his richest and strongest years of manhood? And yet, whenever the image of that beautiful young face, ennobled as it was by a pure and deep passion, formed itself upon his brain, he felt his heart beat faster and the old yearning and unrest fill his bosom. At that moment all was dark within him,—whether he truly loved, or whether he yielded to a weak, ephemeral fancy; whether he himself was the Goethe of his imagination, or merely an ordinary foolish and capricious young man, stayed entirely by insane ambition and fantastic illusions. He raised his head, and, with a passionate movement, clasped his hands, extended them wide, and let them drop by his sides, in a mute appeal to the mysterious forces of night. He had unconsciously walked towards the river, and the unexpected sight of the smooth black stream with its glittering reflections, and of the immense reach of star-sprinkled sky above, holding in its pale depths the bright, benign face of the moon, awakened him at once from the sombre unreality of his reverie to the beautiful actual world. The exquisite aspect of the June night seemed almost to give a direct answer to the cry of his agitated soul. Sweet and holy influences appeared to descend from those remote heavens upon his head, which he bared as if in prayer. Like the touch of his mother's hand the fitful yet indescribably gentle whiffs of breeze passed caressingly over his brow. He did not try to account for the sudden serenity which filled his breast after its recent turmoil and fever. This was true rest, he said to himself, this conscious repose, so different from the brutish oblivion of sleep. And yet, as the first streaks of dawn broke over the river, he was aware of an aching weariness in his limbs and a chill throughout his frame. He felt as one who has been scourged; his eyes burned, his hands trembled. With a painful effort he hurried to his lodging, flung himself, sick and shivering, upon his bed, and was immediately possessed by the profound sleep of utter exhaustion.
CHAPTER XIII
THE CLOUDS GATHER
Alide awoke early, after an unrefreshing night disturbed by exaggerated dreams. At the hour that Goethe returned to his room, she rose and watched from her window the break of day. Even over the city streets the slow, majestic approach of morning brought its accustomed encouragement to her soul. Distressing as her sleep had seemed, it had nevertheless sufficed to restore the even flow of her blood. She recalled with astonishment her gloomy presentiments of the preceding evening, and the absurd fancy of identifying herself with Ophelia. "'Till to-morrow!' were his last cheerful words," she thought; "and to-morrow has already come." And a smile of tranquil joy broke upon her face as she raised her eyes and beheld the subdued light and delicate colors of the morning sky. A little breeze from over the river blew softly on her cheeks. At this moment of sacred expectancy just preceding the splendor of a new day, her heart was filled with pious gratitude and adoration.
She was startled from her reverie by the voice of her sister, who turned restlessly in the bed. "Alide, what are you doing so early by the open window?"
"I am at my matins," answered Alide. "Are you sleepy, Rahel?" she asked, advancing towards the bed. "Or do you care to get up with me and look at this beautiful sunrise?"