‘“Sit down,” said I, taking her hand and pressing it to my lips—“sit down, and you shall.” With that I began my tale. I suppose,’ continued the Hofrath, ‘you don’t wish to have the story?’
‘Gott bewahre (Heaven forbid)!’ broke in the whole company in a breath. ‘Leave the Mug and the Meerschaum, and go on with Caroline!’
‘Well, from that hour her heart was mine. Ludwig might call all the reptiles that ever crawled, every vegetable that ever grew, to his aid—the victory was with me. He saw it, and, irritated by defeat, returned to Berlin without bidding us even farewell; and we never heard of him till we saw his new novel of Fortunio. But to go on. The day after Tieck left us was my birthday, and they all arranged to give me a little fête; and truly nothing could be prettier. The garden of the inn was a sweet spot, and there was a large linden like this, where the table was spread; and there was a chair all decked with roses and myrtle for me—Caroline herself had done it; and they had composed a little hymn in honour of me, wherein were sundry compliments to my distinction in science and poesy, the gifts of my mind and the graces of my person. Ach, ja! I was handsome then.
‘Well, well, I must close my tale—I cannot bear to think of it even now. Caroline came forward, dressed in white, with a crown of roses and laurel leaves intertwined, and approached me gracefully, as I sat waiting to receive her—all the rest ranged on either side of me.
‘Auf seine Stirne, wo das Licht——-’
(Upon that brow where shines the light)
said Caroline, raising the chaplet.
‘“Ach, Du Heiliger!” screamed Martha, who only that instant saw I was bareheaded, “the dear man will catch his death of cold!” and with that she snatched this confounded nightcap from her pocket, and rushing forward clapped it on my head before I could know it was done. I struggled and kicked like one possessed, but it was of no use; she had tied the strings in a black knot, and they could neither be loosened nor broken. “Be still there!” said she; “thou knowest well that at fifty-three——” You can conceive,’ said the Hofrath in a parenthesis, ‘that her passion obliterated her memory. At fifty-three one can’t play the fool like at twenty.’
‘Ach, ja! it was over with me for ever. Caroline screamed at the cap, first laughing, then crying, and then both; the rest nearly died of it, and so did I. Caroline would never look at me after, and I came back home, disappointed in my love—and all because of a woollen nightcap.’