d the good old man "what sort of weather it was." "It was very
cloudy," he replied; "no air stirring; very still and sultry."

I asked if he at once believed there was an earthquake on Goethe's word.

"Yes," said he, "I believed it, for things always happened as he said
they would. Next day he related his observations at court, when a lady
whispered to her neighbor, 'Only listen, Goethe is dreaming.' But the
duke, and all the men present, believed Goethe, and the correctness of
his observations was soon confirmed; for, in a few weeks, the news came
that a part of Messina, on that night, had been destroyed by an
earthquake."

_Friday, November_ 14.--Towards evening Goethe sent me an invitation to
call upon him. Humboldt, he said, was at court, and therefore I should
be all the more welcome. I found him, as I did some days ago, sitting in
his armchair; he gave me a friendly shake of the hand, and spoke to me
with heavenly mildness. The chancellor soon joined us. We sat near
Goethe, and carried on a light conversation, that he might only have to
listen. The physician, Counsellor Rehbein, soon came also. To use his
own expression, he found Goethe's pulse quite lively and easy. At this
we were highly pleased, and joked with Goethe on the subject. "If I
could only get rid of the pain in my left side!" he said. Rehbein
prescribed a plaster there; we talked on the good effect of such a
remedy, and Goethe consented to it. Rehbein turned the conversation to
Marienbad, and this appeared to awaken pleasant reminiscences in Goethe.
Arrangements were made to go there again, it was said that the great
duke would join the party, and these prospects put Goethe in the most
cheerful mood. They also talked about Madame Szymanowska, and mentioned
the time when she was here, and all the men were solicitous for her
favor.

When Rehbein was gone, the chancellor read the Indian poems, and Goethe,
in the meanwhile, talked to me about the Marienbad Elegy.

At eight o'clock, the chancellor went, and I was going, too, but Goethe
bade me stop a little, and I sat down. The conversation turned on the
stage, and the fact that _Wallenstein_ was to be done tomorrow. This
gave occasion to talk about Schiller.

"I have," said I, "a peculiar feeling towards Schiller. Some scenes of
his great dramas I read with genuine love and admiration; but presently
I meet with something which violates the truth of nature, and I can go
no further. I feel this even