The room where we were, as well as the adjoining apartment into which we were allowed to peep, was full of relics of all kinds.  Each article probably had its special history, from the paintings and drawings on the walls and the old-fashioned chests, chairs and tables, to the cups, vases, glasses, coverlets, and cushions arranged in the neatest order, some standing or lying around the apartment, others visible through the glass doors of a cupboard.  But the most interesting object to me was the portrait of Goethe painted by Stieler.  It has been made familiar to all by copies, and represents the poet, though at an advanced age, in the full possession of his physical strength.  He holds in his hand a letter, from which he is in the act of looking up:  the face is turned slightly aside.  It seems as if the glance was one of greeting to some friend who is just entering.  The colors are still wonderfully fresh and the expression bewitching.  The large eyes beam with the fire of genius, Olympian majesty is enthroned upon the brow, and the curve of the lips possesses unequaled grace and beauty.  A more aristocratic, noble mouth cannot be imagined.  Who could have resisted the eloquence of those lips?

“This picture is not in the least idealized:  it is a perfect likeness of my father-in-law,” observed Frau von Goethe, and added that this portrait by Stieler was one of the best which had ever been painted.  Not far from the superb portrait of the father appears the melancholy face of the son, August von Goethe, but I sought in vain for a picture of the bud so early broken, Goethe’s granddaughter, the lovely Alma, who died in Vienna.

Fran von Goethe noticed with evident pleasure our eager interest in her surroundings, and showed us many a relic.  As she spoke of the radiance of those long-past days which still gilded her quiet life, she seemed to me like the venerable figure in the tale of the “Seven Ravens,” who relates marvelous stories to a listening group.  Gradually a throng of shapes from the dim past entered the small room and gathered round the speaker, who suddenly became transfigured by the light of youth.  She was again the poet’s cheerful nurse, the fair flower of the household, the happy mother, the intellectual woman, the centre of a brilliant circle.  I gazed as if at a buried world, which suddenly became once more alive:  its inhabitants, clad in antique garments, walked past us, stared in astonishment, and seemed to say, We too were happy and beloved, feted and praised, the blue sky arched over us also, and we plucked violets and rejoiced in their fragrance till the deep, heavy sleep came.

  Wait—­only wait: 
  Soon thou too will rest.