[EPILOGUE]
Late in the afternoon of the 24th of September, 1779, two young men alighted from the diligence in the court-yard of one of the principal inns in Strasburg. There was enough resemblance between them for a stranger to have supposed them to be brothers, though one seemed not less than thirty, and the other scarcely past his majority. Both had the same type of face,—handsome in outline, open, joyous, and animated in expression; but that of the elder had the advantage of exquisite refinement and extraordinary intellect. He was not remarkably tall, but the proportions of his figure were remarkable, and there was something majestic in the pose of his head. His companion, shorter, stouter, and more commonplace in appearance, was, nevertheless, a noble-looking fellow. Though by so much the younger of the two, he seemed to receive from his companion the trifling kindnesses which one traveler can render another, with the unconscious grace and dignity of one who is accustomed to be served. A frank equality of friendship must have existed between them, for they used the brotherly Thou in conversation; but at times a just-perceptible tone of deference in the voice of the elder implied some inferiority of station. The elder of these two young men was Geheimrath Goethe, the author of "Götz von Berlichingen," "Werther," and "Iphigenia;" and his fellow-traveler was Prince Karl August, Duke of Saxe-Weimar.
The Prince had violated all regulations of court etiquette by starting incognito on a pleasure-excursion to Switzerland with his inseparable friend. They had already stopped at Frankfort, and visited Goethe's home, and from thence had come by short and easy stages to Strasburg. Having shaken off the dust of their journey and refreshed themselves at the inn, they set out for a walk through the city after sunset. Goethe had not been here since he had bidden farewell to Alide, eight years ago: everything recalled vividly to his mind her beautiful personality and that brief and happy episode of his life. He began by narrating to the Duke some pleasant incidents of his residence and studies here, but gradually, as the twilight deepened, the two friends fell into a serious conversation on the subjects which they most enjoyed discussing together,—philosophy, religion, art, and even love. The image of Alide, an insubstantial, mocking vision, floated continually before Goethe: he could not banish the recollection of all the joy, passion, and misery crowded into one year for that poor little generous soul.
The two young men mounted to the platform of the Cathedral after the moon had risen; and there, softened by so many sweet and sad reminiscences, Goethe opened his heart to his friend, and confided the story of his love for Alide,—pointing out in the wide-lying country, illuminated by that silver light, the spot, far beyond the city, where, shadowed by its mountains, lay the village of Sesenheim. He would go to-morrow and satisfy himself as to how that kindly family fared, and whether they still held a friendly remembrance of him; and he begged Karl August to accompany him on his day's jaunt. But the Prince said it was not fitting that he should be present at the reunion of such old acquaintances. Goethe must go, but he must go alone: if he were coldly received, he would not be mortified before his friend; and if he met with a cordial greeting, he would be sure that it was owing to a sincere regard for himself, "and not," added the Duke, modestly, "to the obligation of extending hospitality to a stranger."
The next day, at noon, Goethe started on his ride to Drusenheim. He left his horse at the inn, and approached the parsonage, just as he had done years before, in the glow of an autumn afternoon. It might have been yesterday that he was here, for all the changes that had taken place in the house or its surroundings. The roses bloomed in the garden, the woodbine flourished over the porch, the same air of serene prosperity enveloped orchard and vineyard and shining meadow; the immortal purple light streamed again on the luxuriant slopes of the far-away mountains.
A little girl, some five or six years old, was playing with her doll in the garden. As Goethe entered the gate, she was about to run into the house; but he called her back gently.
"Do not be afraid, my little friend. Does the Pastor Duroc live here still?"
Reassured by his winning voice, she turned towards him, but, without advancing, waited until he reached her. He patted her on the head, and, looking into the wondering, upturned face, he saw a curious blending of the faces he so well remembered. The child had the golden hair, Saxon mouth, and broad cheeks of Waldstein, and the dark, brilliant eyes and rich complexion of Rahel. Goethe had never seen a more dainty, exquisite little creature.
"Will you take me into the house?" said he. "I am an old friend of your grandpapa's, and I should love dearly to see him again. And your mamma,—is she at home?"
"I have no mamma," answered the child, quietly, without taking her eyes from the stranger's face. "How funny his hair is,—all in rings!" she was saying to herself.