he role of a formal minister presiding at
tea brought me down from my celestial heights. Had his manner been rude
or had he shown me the door, it would have pleased me better. I almost
repented having gone to Weimar.

Consequently I determined to devote the following day to sightseeing,
and ordered horses at the inn for the day following. On the morning of
the next day visitors of all sorts put in an appearance, among them the
amiable and respected Chancellor Mueller, and, above all, my
fellow-countryman Hummel, who for many years had been occupying the
position of musical director in Weimar. He had left Vienna before my
poetry had attracted attention, so that we had not become acquainted
with each other. It was almost touching to witness the joy with which
this ordinarily unsociable man greeted me and took possession of me. In
the first place I probably revived in him memories of his native city,
which he had left with reluctance; then, too, it probably gave him
satisfaction to find his literary countryman honored and respected in
Weimar, where he heard nothing but disparaging opinions regarding the
intellectual standing of Austria. And, finally, he had an opportunity of
conversing with a Viennese in his home dialect, which he had preserved
pure and unadulterated while living among people who spoke quite
differently. I do not know whether it was the contrast, or whether this
really was the worst German I had ever heard in my life. While we were
planning to visit some points of interest in Weimar, and while
Chancellor Mueller, who had probably noticed my depression, was assuring
me that Goethe's formality was nothing but the embarrassment always
displayed by him on meeting a stranger for the first time, the waiter
entered and handed me a card containing an invitation from Goethe to
dine with him the next day. I therefore had to prolong my stay and to
countermand the order for the horses. The morning was passed in visiting
the places that had become famous through their literary associations.
Schiller's house interested me most of all, and I was especially
delighted to find in the poet's study, really an attic-room in the
second story, an old man who is said to have acted as prompter at the
theatre in Schiller's time, teaching his grandson to read. The little
boy's open and intelligently animated expression prompted the illusion
that out of Schiller's study a new Schiller might some day emerge--an
illusion which, to be s