Deep thinking and
high imagining blunt that trivial instinct by which you and I size
people up. Had you and I been at Goethe's elbow when, in the October
of 1786, he entered Rome and was received by the excited Tischbein, no
doubt we should have whispered in his ear, `Beware of that man! He
will one day fail you.' Unassisted Goethe had no misgivings. For some
years he had been receiving letters from this Herr Tischbein. They
were the letters of a man steeped in the Sorrows of Werther and in all
else that Goethe had written. This was a matter of course. But also
they were the letters of a man familiar with all the treasures of
Rome. All Italy was desirable; but it was especially towards great
Rome that the soul of the illustrious poet, the confined State
Councillor of Weimar, had been ever yearning. So that when came the
longed-for day, and the Duke gave leave of absence, and Goethe,
closing his official portfolio with a snap and imprinting a fervent
but hasty kiss on the hand of Frau von Stein, fared forth on his
pilgrimage, Tischbein was a prospect inseparably bound up for him with
that of the Seven Hills. Baedeker had not been born. Tischbein would
be a great saviour of time and trouble. Nor was this hope unfulfilled.
Tischbein was assiduous, enthusiastic, indefatigable.
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