ff the cloak under which I
had kept quite warm. In Berlin I was like a blind man in a throng and
was so absent-minded that I could take no interest in anything. I only
longed for a dark place where I shouldn't be disturbed and could think
of the future that was so near at hand. Oh, mother, mother, think of
your son! If you knew you were to see him in a short time, you too would
be like a lightning-rod attracting every flash of lightning. When we
were only a few miles from Weimar, my brother-in-law said he did not
wish to make the detour through Weimar, but would rather take another
road. I remained silent, but Lulu would not hear of it; she said it had
been promised me and he would have to keep his word. Oh, mother, the
sword hung by a hair over my head, but I managed to escape from under
it.

We reached Weimar at twelve o'clock and sat down to dinner, but I
couldn't eat. The other two lay down on the sofa and went to sleep, for
we hadn't slept in three nights. "I advise you," said my brother-in-law,
"to take a rest too; it won't make much difference to Goethe whether you
go to see him or not, and there's nothing remarkable to see in him
anyway." Can you imagine how these words discouraged me? Oh, I didn't
know what to do, all alone in a strange town. I had changed my dress and
stood at the window and looked at the town clock; it was just striking
half-past two. It seemed to me, too, that Goethe wouldn't care
particularly about seeing me; I remembered that people called him proud.
I compresses my heart to quell its yearning. Suddenly the clock struck
three, and then it seemed exactly as though he had called me. I ran down
for the servant, but there was no carriage to be found. "Will a sedan
chair do?" "No," I said, "that's an equipage for the hospital"--and we
went on foot. There was a regular chocolate porridge in the streets and
I had to have myself carried over the worst bogs. In this way I came to
Wieland, not to your son. I had never seen Wieland, but I pretended to
be an old acquaintance. He thought and thought, and finally said, "You
certainly are a dear familiar angel, but I can't seem to remember when
and where I have seen you." I jested with him and said, "Now I know that
you dream of me, for you can't possibly have seen me elsewhere!" I had
him give me a note to your son which I afterwards took with me and kept
as a souvenir. Here's a copy of it: "Bettina Brentano, Sophie's sister,
Maximilian's daughter, Soph