Now I committed my second blunder in Weimar.  I was afraid to be alone with Goethe for an entire evening, and after considerable vacillation decided not to go.  Several elements combined to produce this fear.  In the first place, it seemed to me that there was nothing within the whole range of my intellect worthy of being displayed before Goethe.  Secondly, it was not until later that I learned to place the proper value upon my own works by comparing them with those of my contemporaries, the former appearing exceedingly 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 asserted:  Only the union of character and talent produces what is called genius.