"But, Richard," his wife laid her hands on his arm, "you must pay heed to Marianne." The gentlemen nodded. "She is more trouble to me than all my other children. Even the twins and Carl are more useful. Reading, talking, dreaming, that is Marianne. She is good for nothing else. It is Bettina Brentano who has ruined her. I have never approved of that friendship. But, O Heavens, why worry over anything when my Franz is a prisoner, and my Wolfgang, I know not where!" and she burst into tearful sobbing. Herr Brandt and Dr. Hufeland arose in haste, and, kissing her hand and saying good-night to the Professor and Major, they fled.
There was little sleep for anyone that night, for dreadful pictures of Wolfgang, or Rudolph, frozen, or dead in the snow, arose before every eye, and drove away all slumbers.
On the morning, when the courier brought the truth to Memel, Marianne was writing a letter to her friend Brentano.
She had met this famous friend of Goethe when she was a year younger, and on a visit to her aunt in Frankfort-on-Main.
Never had Marianne seen anyone who had seemed to her so clever.
Both of them adored the poet Goethe, it being the fashion in those days for young girls to worship some poet.
Bettina Brentano knew Goethe's mother, a fine old lady whom everyone called "Frau Rat," and often she and Marianne went to see her.
When Marianne returned to Berlin she was changed entirely.
From a merry, jolly, little girl she had become a mournful maiden who convulsed her family with the most melancholy speeches. She spoke of the gloom of living, of the joy of dying while one was still beautiful, and if anyone talked of Goethe, or even so much as mentioned his name, Marianne clasped her hands and rolled her eyes and behaved, her brother said, "like an idiot."
The Professor only laughed.