CHAPTER IX.
LEONORA.
Goethe stood for a long time on the steps in front of the house, following with his gaze the departing stage, and listening to the jingling of the little bells with which the horses were adorned. When this also had finally become inaudible, Goethe turned slowly, a deep sigh escaping his lips, and reëntered the house.
But his apartments seemed bare and solitary, and even the drawings and paintings which had usually afforded him so much pleasure, were now distasteful.
He impatiently threw brush and palette aside and arose. “This solitude is unendurable,” he murmured to himself, “I must seek company. I wish I knew where my merry friends have gone, I would like to follow them and take part in their merrymakings. But they will all have gone, not one of them will have been misanthropical enough to remain at home. I shall probably have to content myself with the society of Signora Abazza and her cat.”
With rapid strides he passed down the broad marble steps and out into the garden. Here all was still and solitary. No human forms could be seen in the long avenues, bordered on either side with dense evergreen. No laughter or merry conversation resounded from the myrtle arbors. In vain the wind shook down the ripe fruit from the orange trees, the merry artists were not there who were in the habit of playing ball with the golden fruit. In great dejection Goethe moved leisurely down the avenue which led to the large pavilion, built on a little hill at the end of the garden, and commanding a magnificent view of Lake Albano and its wooded shores. Goethe walked slowly toward this point, regardless of his surroundings of the marble statues that stood here and there in niches hewn out of the dense evergreen, and of the murmuring of the neighboring cascades. The study of Nature in all its details usually afforded him great enjoyment. He sought out its mysteries as well in mosses, flowers, and insects, as in the tall cypress, the eagle, and the clouds. But to-day, Nature with all its beauties was unheeded by the poet, he was thinking of his absent friend; the words of separation still resounded in his ear. His mind was burdened with an anxious feeling like a presentiment of coming evil.
But Goethe was not the man to allow himself to be weighed down by sadness. He suddenly stood still, threw back the brown locks from his brow with a violent movement of the head, and looked around defiantly.
“What misery do you wish to inflict on me, hollow-eyed Melancholy,” cried he, angrily. “Where do you lie concealed? from behind which hedge have you fastened your stony gaze on me? Away with you! I will have nothing to do with you; you shall not lay your cold, damp hand on my warm human heart. I will—”