The hand which but now had clasped the white tapering fingers of the young girl so tenderly, trembled a little, and a shadow flitted over his smiling countenance. Madame von Stein’s name sounded strangely on the young girl’s lips; it seemed like a warning of impending danger. He looked grave, and released her hand, retaining only the petition. “Tell me what it contains,” said he, pointing to the paper. “I would rather read it from your lips than from the paper?”
“Mr. Privy-Councillor, it concerns my poor, dear brother. He is such a brave, good fellow, and so diligent and learned. He lives in Jena, translates books from the Italian and French, and sells them to publishing houses. The office of secretary of the university library, in Jena, is now vacant, and my brother desires it, and would be so happy if he should receive the appointment! He has dared to address you, Mr. Councillor, and to entreat you earnestly to use your influence to secure him the situation. I have undertaken to deliver the petition, and to say a great many fine phrases besides. Ah, Mr. Privy-Councillor, I had written down a whole speech that I intended to make to you.”
“Then let me hear this speech, my fair girl. The nightingales and bullfinches have hushed their songs, and are waiting for you to begin.”
“Sir,” murmured she, blushing, “I do not know why it is, but I cannot.”
He bent forward, closer to her side, so close that the wind blew her golden locks against his cheek. “Why is it that you cannot, my fair child? Why not let me hear your beautiful little speech?”
“Because, because—I have hitherto only seen you at a distance, and then you looked so exalted, and walked with so much stiffness and dignity, that I entertained the most profound respect for the proud old privy-councillor, and now that I am near you I see, well—”
“Well?”
“Well,” cried she, with a joyous peal of laughter, “I see that you are much too young, that my speech is entirely inappropriate.”
“Why so?” asked Goethe, smiling. “Try it, let me hear it, nevertheless.”