“Hush, Goechhausen—hush, sweet Philomel,” interrupted the duke, “or the Delphic riddle of this costume will be apparent.”
“It is easily explained,” said the duchess. “No other conveyance was to be had, and my good Wieland gave me his green overcoat to protect me from the pouring rain.” [Footnote: True anecdote.—See Lewes’ “Goethe’s Life and Writings,” vol. 1., p. 406.]
“And from to-day forth it will be a precious palladium,” cried the little man with a mild, happy face on the straw by the duchess.
“And there is Knebel too,” shouted the duke to the gentleman who just then pulled the wet hood of his cloak over his powdered hair.
“Our treasurer Bertuch, Count Werther, and Baron von Einsiedel also.”
“Does not your highness ask after our bewitching countess?” asked Goechhausen, in her fine, sharp voice. “The countess is quite ill—is she not, Count Werther?”
“I believe so, they say so,” answered the count, rather absent-minded. “I have not seen her for some days.”
“What is the matter?” asked the duke, as Goethe was engaged in a lively conversation with the duchess. “Is the dear countess dangerously ill?”
“Oh, no,” answered Goechhausen, “not very ill, only in love with genius, a malady which has attacked us all more or less since that mad fellow Wolfgang Goethe has raged in Weimar, and made it a place of torment to honorable people. Oh, Goethe—oh, Wolf! with what lamb-like innocence we wandered in comfortable sheep’s clothing until you came and fleeced us, and infected us with your ‘Sturm und Dranger’ malady, and made us fall in love with your works!”
“Goechhausen, hold your malicious tongue, and do not hide your own joy beneath jest and mockery,” cried the duchess. “Acknowledge that you are rejoiced to see your favorite, and that you will hasten to write to Madam Aja, ‘Our dear duke has returned, and my angel, my idol, Wolfgang, also.’ I assure you, Goethe, Thusnelda loves you, and was exceedingly melancholy during your absence. If asked the cause of her sadness, she wept like—”