“What does this document contain?” asked Goethe, in tender tones.
“It is a petition from my brother in Jena,” murmured her clear, silvery voice. “I promised him to give it to the privy-councillor myself, and to entreat him right earnestly to grant my dear brother’s request. Dear privy-councillor, please do so. We are such a poor and unhappy family; we are compelled to work so hard, and we earn so little. We have to study such close economy, and there are so few holidays in our life! But it would be a glorious fête-day for us all if the privy-councillor would grant what my dear brother so ardently desires.”
Goethe’s eyes were still fastened on the lovely apparition that stood before him like an embodied Psyche. In her rich, youthful beauty she seemed to him like some myrtle-blossom wafted over from sunny Italy. “What is your name, my dear girl?” asked he.
“My name is Christiane Vulpius, Mr. Privy-Councillor,” murmured she, casting her eyes down.
“Not the daughter of that good-for-nothing drunkard, who—”
“Sir, he is my father,” said she, interrupting him in such sad, reproachful tones, that Goethe felt heartily ashamed of his inconsiderate words, and took off his hat as he would have done to a lady of rank. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, I did wrong. Excuse my thoughtless words. But now I can readily comprehend that your family must be poor and unhappy. It seems to me that misfortune has, however, not dared to touch these rosy cheeks and lustrous eyes with its rude fingers.”
She smiled. “I am still so young, sir; youth is light-hearted and hopes for better times. And then, when I grow weary of our dark little room, I run here to the park. The park is every one’s garden, and a great delight for us poor people. Here I skip about, seek flowers in the grass, and sing with the birds. Is not this enough to make me happy, although hard work, poor fare, and much abuse, await me at home?”
“But it seems to me,” said Goethe, taking the hand, which still held the petition, gently in his own, “it seems to me that this fair hand has no right to complain of hard work. It is as white as a lily.”
“And this hand has made a great many lilies,” rejoined she, smiling. “My work consists in making flowers. I love flowers, and roam through the woods all day long on Sundays, seeking beautiful flowers to copy from. My field-flower bouquets are great favorites, and the milliners pay me well for them. They are very fashionable, and the high-born ladies at court all desire to wear field-flower bouquets on their hats. Day before yesterday I furnished a field-flower bouquet, which the milliner sold to Madame the Baroness von Stein, on the same day, and yesterday I saw it on her hat.”