"I have just left Moritz," he wrote on one occasion to Madame von Stein. "The bandages were to-day removed from his arm, and it appears to be doing well. What I have experienced and learned at the bedside of this sufferer, in the last two weeks, may be of benefit to us both in the future. During this period he was perpetually alternating between the greatest misery and the highest delight."[35] This "greatest misery" the poor hypochondriac had borne in silence. The "highest delight," he had shared with his happier friend, with Goethe, the favorite of the gods. In the autumn they had both left Rome, and gone out to Castel Gandolfo, to pay a visit to the house of a hospitable friend. Many eminent poets and artists were sojourning at this charming place at that time. Gayety and merriment was the order of the day. It was in vain that Goethe endeavored to draw his friend Moritz into this magic circle of enjoyment. It grieved him deeply to see his friend brooding over his studies, to see the sad and gloomy expression that rested on his features. Goethe's entreaties and exhortations were at times successful in arousing him from this condition; but, after a short interval of forced gayety and mocking merriment, he would relapse into his ordinary state of silent melancholy. "Let us live as God's children in His glorious world!" Moritz raised his pale countenance from the book over which he had been brooding, and looked tenderly, and yet sadly, at Goethe. "Happy, enviable man," said he. "But who can feel and think as you do?" "You can, Moritz, if you only try," cried Goethe. "But, above all, tell me what burden is resting on your soul, and what these wrinkles on my friend's brow mean." "They mean that I have a sad presentiment," replied Moritz, with a sigh, as he threw his book aside and rose from his seat. "I am angry with myself on this account, and I have sought to dispel this presentiment, but all to no purpose! The skies of Italy are no longer serene, the whole world seems like a huge grave; of late, even Rome's works of art have appealed to me in vain; my ear has been deaf to their sublime language." [Illustration: GOETHE.] "But, speak out, growler, monster," cried Goethe, impatiently, "what northern spleen has again penetrated your northern heart? what is the matter with you? What imps have taken up their abode in your brain? What crickets are fiddling in your ears, and transforming the author, the linguist, and the sage into a miserable, grief-stricken old woman, who shuffles along through God's beautiful world, and burrows in the ground like a mole, instead of soaring upwards to the sun like an eagle?"