"She has the Goethe fever, Clarchen," he told his wife. "It has spread at times all over Germany."
But on the day when Carl had been lost and the Queen had kissed him, the fault of the whole affair was to be laid on the shoulders of Marianne.
Then the Professor had at last listened to his wife and heard how Marianne would do nothing but read books, keep a foolish, sentimental journal, and write letters to Bettina Brentano.
"And, dear husband," his wife had added, "our Marianne talks of love and hopeless sorrow, our Marianne, who used to be so merry. Her thoughts are never with the coffee-cake, never with her sewing. And tell me, please, how is a girl to get a husband with this nonsense? Her wedding chest, which every German girl, as you know, must have ready, has not a thing to boast of, and Pauline's is entirely ready. She will not stitch, knit, or embroider, only read, read, read."
"It is the Goethe fever, I tell you, dear wife," said the Professor. "It will vanish."
"But, Richard," pleaded the Mother Stork, "consider the candles."
"Candles?"
Ah, that was a different matter.
"Yes, yes, dear husband, the candles. Do not think for an instant that I permit all this nonsense to go on in the daytime. If I see Marianne with a book, I take it away and provide needlework. And what does she do but burn candles!"
"Ah," said the Professor, "that will never do. I will see to the matter."