In returning to the Burkhardts' house, Alide felt herself under the influence of a powerful excitement. Her interview with Lucinda had entirely overshadowed her personal trouble, and had revealed to her an abyss of suffering and sin hitherto inconceivable to her joyous, innocent temperament. After a glimpse of such desolation and self-abasement, the recollection of her own happy home, and of the love which encompassed and cherished her, was refreshing as the clear air and sunlight to one who issues from a dungeon. She reproached herself with humility for her recent bitter thoughts; in everything Wolfgang had done she saw now an additional tenderness and consideration. He had not written to her until he could tell her he was well, and then it was only to speak lightly of past suffering; and, instead of understanding and rejoicing, what unjust suspicions had she harbored against him! She longed to see him, to confess her wrong, and ask forgiveness, and to hear him talk once more, in his own wise, generous way, of the duties and compensations of life, in order to reconcile her to her new knowledge of evil. Her whole heart was softened and agitated, and needed to expand in affection and to be quieted by the voice of love.
When she reached the house, Goethe had already arrived. He had come earlier than usual, and was seated in the drawing-room with Madame Burkhardt and her daughter. Alide's accustomed delight at his presence was mingled with disappointment, for she must meet him with forced composure, and continue to repress the emotions which swelled her heart. She found him in high spirits, recounting to her aunt and cousin some droll reminiscences of his student-life at Leipsic, recalled, no doubt, by the visit he had received the previous evening. The old lady and Anna had apparently been enjoying the heartiest laughter, and he himself was beyond measure gay and animated.
"Good-morning, dear friend," he cried, as he rose to greet Alide, taking one of her hands between his own and kissing it lightly. "You ran away from us early; but you have come in time to join us in the pleasantest conversation."
His merry tone jarred harshly upon Alide's mood, but, forcing herself to respond, she answered, with her natural cheerfulness, "I am glad I am not too late. I have stayed longer than I intended at the Cathedral. But tell me first, Wolfgang, are you well to-day?"
"Do I look like an invalid?" said he, turning towards her his laughing face flushed with brilliant color. "I think it must have been a disagreeable dream that I was ill for a half-dozen hours or so," he added, hurriedly; "I cannot believe it to-day. I have been telling Madame Burkhardt and Fraulein Anna of my visitor last evening,—an old fellow-student, Alide,—and it has led me back into I know not what foolish recollections of boyhood."
"Hear the lad! how he talks of his boyhood, as if he were a grandfather!" cried Madame Burkhardt; "and I do not believe it is five years back."
"You are not far wrong," he replied, with a laugh: "my Leipsic days were just six years ago. But I do not parcel out my life in years; I know that I have lived fast and developed quickly, and I know, too, how young I am by the great world-clock, and how much I have to do. No, Madame Burkhardt," he continued, with his former lightness, "indulgent as you are, you would not have tolerated the volatile, overbearing, untamed boor that I was then." And he began again to narrate an incident of that period. He was in his liveliest vein to-day, affording so much entertainment to his listeners that Alide saw little chance of a quiet interview with him. And indeed she almost ceased to desire it as the hour passed by: she could not have uttered to him in his present mood the grave words that had been upon her lips. At last, however, Madame Burkhardt withdrew, after making him promise to dine with them, that she might see him again; and shortly after, Anna discreetly followed her.
"You little runaway!" cried he, as soon as he found himself alone with Alide. "You were cruel enough to punish me for my misfortune yesterday,—was I not punished enough?"
She looked at him in mute reproach. How was it possible to imagine an act of coquetry between herself and him? He saw that he had wounded her, and tried to repair his mistake.
"If I had but known in time that you cared to go so early to the Cathedral, I should have loved to ramble over it again with you. I believe, Alide, if you were to dwell any length of time in Strasburg, the constant presence of that noble monument would gradually bring you into sympathy with the infinite world that opens to the artist's mind. Do you know that some of the grandest of those colossal statues set in the walls are the work of a woman,—Sabina von Steinbach, the daughter of Erwin?"