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At last I arrived in Weimar and took quarters in “The Elephant,” a hostelry at that time famous throughout Germany and the ante-room, as it were, to the living Valhalla of Weimar.  From there I dispatched the waiter with my card to Goethe, inquiring whether he would receive me.  The waiter returned with the answer that His Excellency, the Privy-councilor, was entertaining some guests and could not, therefore, receive me at the moment.  He would expect me in the evening for tea.

I dined at the hotel.  My name had become known through my card and the report of my presence spread through the town, so that I made many acquaintances.

Toward evening I called on Goethe.  In the reception-room I found quite a large assemblage waiting for His Excellency, the Privy-councilor, who had not yet made his appearance.  Among these there was a court councilor, Jacob or Jacobs, with his daughter, whom Goethe had entertained at dinner.  The daughter, who later won a literary reputation under the pseudonym of Talvj, was as young as she was beautiful, and as beautiful as she was cultured, and so I soon lost my timidity and in my conversation with the charming young lady almost forgot that I was in Goethe’s house.  At last a side door opened, and he himself entered.  Dressed in black, the star[65] on his breast, with erect, almost stiff bearing, he stepped among us with the air of a monarch granting an audience.  He exchanged a few words with one and another of his guests, and finally crossed the room and addressed me.  He inquired whether Italian literature was cultivated to any great extent in our country.  I told him, which was a fact, that the Italian language was, indeed, widely known, since all officials were required to learn it; Italian literature, on the other hand, was completely neglected; the fashion was rather to turn to English literature, which, despite its excellence, had an admixture of coarseness that seemed to me to be anything but advantageous to the present state of German culture, especially of poetry.  Whether my opinion pleased him or not, I have no means of knowing; I am almost inclined to believe it did not, inasmuch as he was at that very time in correspondence with Lord Byron.  He left me, talked with others, returned, conversed I no longer remember on what subjects, finally withdrew, and we were dismissed.

I confess that I returned to the hostelry in a most unpleasant frame of mind.  It was not that my vanity had been offended—­on the contrary, Goethe had treated me more kindly and more attentively than I had anticipated—­but to see the ideal of my youth, the author of Faust, Clavigo, and Egmont, in the 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.