With this note I sallied forth. The house lies opposite the fountain--how deafening the waters sounded in my ears! I ascended the simple staircase; in the wall stand plaster statues which impose silence--at any rate I couldn't utter a sound in this sacred hallway. Everything is cheery and yet solemn! The greatest simplicity prevails in the rooms, and yet it is all so inviting! "Do not fear," said the modest walls, "he will come, and he will be, and he will not claim to be _more_ than you." And then the door opened and there he stood, solemnly serious, with his eyes fixed upon me. I stretched out my hands toward him, I believe, and soon I knew no more. Goethe caught me up quickly to his heart. "Poor child, did I frighten you?"--those were the first words through which his voice thrilled my heart. He led me into his room and placed me on the sofa opposite him. There we sat, both mute, until at last he broke the silence. "You have doubtless read in the paper that we suffered a great bereavement a few days ago in the death of the Duchess Amalia." "Oh," I said, "I do not read the papers." "Why, I thought everything that goes on in Weimar interests you." "No, nothing interests me but you alone, and therefore I'm far too impatient to pore over the papers." "You are a kind child." A long pause--I, glued in such anxiety to the odious sofa; you know how impossible it is for me to sit up in such well-bred fashion. Oh, mother, is it possible for any one to forget herself thus? Suddenly I said, "I can't stay here on this sofa any longer," and jumped up. "Well," said he, "make yourself comfortable;" and with that I flew into his arms. He drew me on his knee and pressed me to his heart. Everything was quiet, oh, so quiet, and then all vanished. I hadn't slept for so long--years had passed in longing for him--and I fell asleep on his breast. When I awoke a new life began for me. I'll not write you more this time. BETTINA. May, 1807.