Goethe. The beloved daughter-in-law of
the great master of song lives in the poet's house in the utmost
seclusion: few strangers know that she receives visitors. Only on rare
occasions is the classic little _salon_ opened in the evening to
a select few--only now and then, when the health of the aged lady
permits it, a circle of faithful friends gather round her listening
eagerly to her vivid descriptions of long-past days. The grand
duke himself often knocks at this door, and the grand duchess and
princesses take pleasure in coming hither. With deep emotion we
crossed the threshold over which Goethe's coffin was borne, and with
light step ascended the broad, easy staircase of the house that we
had so often heard described. Half-effaced frescoes, which had gleamed
over the head of the king of poesy, looked down upon us, and our eyes
wandered over the bronze figures past which Goethe had walked day
after day.

On reaching the second story, Ottilie von Goethe came forward to greet
us, looking like an apparition from another world. Her figure was
small and fragile, but there was an aristocratic repose in all her
movements. A white lace cap trimmed with dark-red velvet bows rested
on her hair, which was arranged over her temples in thick gray curls,
framing her face, from which a pair of brown eyes greeted us with a
bright, cordial glance. A white knit shawl covered her shoulders and a
black silk dress fell around her in ample folds. At her side stood her
younger sister, a canoness, who was paying her a few days' visit--an
amiable lady with a very cheerful temperament. Ottilie von Goethe
shared the violets with her. An easy conversation commenced. Frau von
Goethe was very much interested in Herr Rohlfs' travels and Edward
Vogel's fate, and said that one of her grandsons also cherished the
same ardent, restless longing to see foreign countries and people.
Then she spoke of her own journeys to Italy, "a long, long time ago,"
and of the charms of Venice and Verona. Underlying the words was a
slight tone of regret that she was now not only bound to the spot, but
also to the house, for invalids cannot venture out of doors to enjoy
the spring until the first of May, and September drives them back into
their quiet cell. "How often one longs for a distant horizon!" she
sighed. My eyes wandered over the wilderness of ancient roofs upon
which the windows of Goethe's house looked out, and discovered a small
spot where the blue mounta