ceedingly crude and insignificant in contrast with the works
of my predecessors, especially here in the home of German poetry.
Finally, as I stated before, I had left Vienna with the feeling that my
poetic talent had completely exhausted itself, a feeling which was
intensified in Weimar to the point of actual depression. It seemed to me
an utterly unworthy proceeding to fill Goethe's ears with lamentations
and to listen to words of encouragement for which there seemed to be no
guarantee of fulfilment.

Yet there was some method in this madness after all. Goethe's aversion
at that time for anything violent and forced was well known to me. Now I
was of the opinion that calmness and deliberation are appropriate only
to one who is capable of introducing such a wealth of thought into his
works as Goethe has done in his _Iphigenia_ and _Tasso_. At the same
time I held the opinion that every one must emphasize those qualities
with which he is most strongly endowed, and these in my case were at
that time warmth of feeling and vividness of imagination. Occupying, as
I then did, the viewpoint of impartial observation, I felt that I was
far too weak to defend against Goethe the causes of such divergence from
his own views, and I had far too much reverence for him to accept his
exposition with pretended approval or in hypocritical silence.

At all events I did not go, and that displeased Goethe. He had good
cause to feel astonished that I should display such indifference to the
proffered opportunity of enlightening him concerning my works and
myself; or else he came nearer to the truth, and imagined that _The
Ancestress_ and my predilection for similar effusions, which were
repugnant to him, were not entirely quenched within me; or perhaps he
divined my entire mood, and concluded that an unmanly character was
bound to ruin even a great talent. From that time on he was much colder
toward me.

But as far as this unmanliness is concerned, I confess, as I have
previously done, to falling a prey to this weakness whenever I find
myself confronted with a confused mass of sensations of lesser
importance, especially with goodwill, reverence, and gratitude. Whenever
I was able to define the opposing factors sharply to myself in the
rejection of the bad as well as in the perseverance in a conviction, I
displayed both before and after this period a firmness which, indeed,
might even be called obstinacy. But in general it may safely be
asser