And we carried in our hands bouquets of violets when we stood before Goethe’s house to pay our respects to the lady who in these bustling days remains a revered memento of the times of Carl Augustus and his poet-friend—­Ottilie von Goethe.  The beloved daughter-in-law of the great master of song lives in the poet’s house in the utmost seclusion:  few strangers know that she receives visitors.  Only on rare occasions is the classic little salon opened in the evening to a select few—­only now and then, when the health of the aged lady permits it, a circle of faithful friends gather round her listening eagerly to her vivid descriptions of long-past days.  The grand duke himself often knocks at this door, and the grand duchess and princesses take pleasure in coming hither.  With deep emotion we crossed the threshold over which Goethe’s coffin was borne, and with light step ascended the broad, easy staircase of the house that we had so often heard described.  Half-effaced frescoes, which had gleamed over the head of the king of poesy, looked down upon us, and our eyes wandered over the bronze figures past which Goethe had walked day after day.

On reaching the second story, Ottilie von Goethe came forward to greet us, looking like an apparition from another world.  Her figure was small and fragile, but there was an aristocratic repose in all her movements.  A white lace cap trimmed with dark-red velvet bows rested on her hair, which was arranged over her temples in thick gray curls, framing her face, from which a pair of brown eyes greeted us with a bright, cordial glance.  A white knit shawl covered her shoulders and a black silk dress fell around her in ample folds.  At her side stood her younger sister, a canoness, who was paying her a few days’ visit—­an amiable lady with a very cheerful temperament.  Ottilie von Goethe shared the violets with her.  An easy conversation commenced.  Frau von Goethe was very much interested in Herr Rohlfs’ travels and Edward Vogel’s fate, and said that one of her grandsons also cherished the same ardent, restless longing to see foreign countries and people.  Then she spoke of her own journeys to Italy, “a long, long time ago,” and of the charms of Venice and Verona.  Underlying the words was a slight tone of regret that she was now not only bound to the spot, but also to the house, for invalids cannot venture out of doors to enjoy the spring until the first of May, and September drives them back into their quiet cell.  “How often one longs for a distant horizon!” she sighed.  My eyes wandered over the wilderness of ancient roofs upon which the windows of Goethe’s house looked out, and discovered a small spot where the blue mountain-peaks appeared.

“Why, there is a distant horizon!” I involuntarily exclaimed.

“Ah, but even that is so near!” replied Frau von Goethe, smiling.