The prospect of being able to influence his young mentor,rnDuke Carl August, not only in matters of architectural reconstructionrnbut also in the layout of an English-style park, extendingrnsouthward toward the Belvedere hunting lodge along thernbanks of the discreet, half-hidden Ilm, was too tempting to resist.rnThe guidebooks assure us that Goethe’s influence in thernchoice of trees to be planted—everything from oaks, elms,rncedars, poplars, weeping willows, alders, and beeches to firs,rnwhite-barked birches, and mountain ash—was decisive. But itrnseems evident that between this English-style park—with its casuallyrnspaced clumps of trees rising above meadows dotted byrnbuttercups and daisies, marigolds and thistledown—and its influentialrnpromoter there occurred a kind of bucolic symbiosisrnbordering on perfection. The magic of this faintly forestedrnmeadowland begins to work on one from the moment onerncrosses the first wooden footbridge over the rippling, green-wateredrnIlm or walks down the grassy slope from the oldrnStadtschloss, Anna Amalia’s exquisite library, or the long,rnmany-windowed house that was once inhabited by Duke CarlrnAugust’s Oberstallmeister (master of the horse), with whose cultivatedrnwife, Charlotte von Stein, Goethe carried on a letter-exchangingrnflirtation during his first ten years in Weimar. Nor isrnthis magic purely visible; for I have never known a spot—notrneven Oxford or Cambridge—where what is “town” dissolvesrnmore imperceptibly into sonorous woodlands resonant with thernhappy chirping, warbling, and trilling of joyous songbirds.rnNot long after Goethe’s arrival in Weimar, Duke Carl August,rnrealizing how cramped and uncomfortably lodgedrnwas his protege in a local hostelry, made him a gift of a curiouslyrnsquat, tall-roofed Gartenhaus, built up against the easternrnslope of the flat meadowed valley, to which the recently promotedrnGeheimrat (privy councilor) could escape from the irksomernchores of daily administration and court etiquette. It wasrnin this semi-sylvan “retreat” that, during his early years inrnWeimar, Goethe wrote the first version of his Wilhelm Meisterrnnovels, his Iphigenie in Tauris tragedy, and some of his most famousrnpoems—such as the Erlkonig (“King of the Elves”),rnwhich was first performed in ballet form at the ducal theater inrn1782.rnAll sightseeing of famous homes is based on the spectral illusionrnthat one can somehow better appreciate the works of creativerngeniuses by visiting the places where they composed orrnpainted their masterpieces. This is a reverent illusion, closelyrnrelated to the religious impulse that prompts pilgrims to visit arnfamous shrine or chapel. In the case of most geniuses, almostrnall that remains to evoke fleeting bursts of creativity are randomrnfiimishings which once formed tire decor of those blessed momentsrnof inspiration. Goethe’s celebrated Gartenhaus is no exception.rnIts sparse pieces of fiirniture—including a late-I8thcenturyrnclavichord made of mahogany and cherry wood, arnhandsome Viennese writing desk with a score of tiny drawersrn(for the conservation of botanical species), and a curious travelingrnbed equipped with litter bars and handles—give one arngraphic idea of Goethe’s spartan love of simplicity. (Often hisrnfaithful valet, Philipp, slept in the same bedroom.) But none ofrnthese piously preserved artifacts tell us much about the sourcesrnof the poet’s inspirations —save, perhaps, for two trulyrn”Goethean” items: a copper engraving showing a panorama ofrnRome, viewed from the summit of the Janiculum in 1765, andrnan imaginary city map of ancient Rome, with its 14 metropolitanrn”districts,” such as it was supposed to have been at the timernof Marcus Aurelius and the later Caesars.rnWhen I visited this unassuming cottage early one Saturdayrnmorning, I was lucky enough to have no more than a dozenrnsightseeing competitors to contend with. I am not the only onernwho dreads what is likely to happen during the precentennialrnyear of 1999. Indeed, the Kulturstadt’s directors are bracingrnthemselves for such a flood of visitors that they are consideringrnthe construction of a second, ersatz Gartenhaus, not far fromrnthe real one, in the hope that this may relieve the pressurernplaced on creaking floorboards by tens of thousands—what amrnI saying? by hundreds of thousands—of “fans” eager to tramprnup and down the plain, uncarpeted stairs once trodden by thern”Master.”rnI must confess that I found the sparse furnishings and unpretentiousrnsimplicity of the garden house far closer in spirit tornwhat it was in Goethe’s day than the imposing burgher house—rn14 windows broad, with a pedimented entrance and two double-rndoored lateral archways for carriages and horses—that thernpoet-in-residence was offered as a present by his ducal benefactorrnin 1782. When Goethe died, half a century later, in his 83rdrnyear, he left behind an extraordinary accumulation of belongingsrnestimated to have totaled close to 50,000 items. Unlike hisrnslightly older contemporary, Catherine the Great, who had arnpalace—the now world-famous Hermitage—built in Saint Petersburgrnto house the scores of paintings she kept buying (manyrnof them still uncrated at the moment of her death), Goethe neverrnhad more than a modest townhouse in which to store his incrediblerncollection of, for the most part, artistic bric-a-brac. Ofrnthe scores of Hellenistic and Roman busts, statuettes, andrnbronze figurines I saw as I walked over the beautifully polishedrnfloors of the upstairs “reception rooms,” none, and particularlyrnnot the gigantic head of an angry, shouting goddess (whichrnused to adorn the “Juno room”), struck me as being truly originalrnor beautifrfl. The only notable exceptions were a magnificentrncollection of Italian Renaissance and post-Renaissancernfaenza plates and platters, featuring allegorical scenes fromrnGreco-Roman mythology or Roman soldiers persecutingrnChristian martyrs, a beautiful Italian Renaissance cabinet completernwith tiny wooden pillars and sculpted medallions, andrntwo exquisite oval mirrors in Goethe’s top-floor workroom.rnTastes differ, and my own are doubtiess prejudiced. It is alsornunfair to discount the formidable problems confronting thernembarrassed curators of Goethe’s townhouse. But they mightrnhave done better had they tried to make this residence more resemblernwhat it was actually like when it was inhabited byrnGoethe, his “commoner” wife Christiane Vulpius (whom he finallyrnmarried in 1806), their son August, and later their grandchildren,rnrather than turn it into a museum for the display ofrnsome of the poet-collector’s many acquisitions.rnBetter inspired have been the curators of Schfller’s smallerrnbut more charmingly furnished house, located at one corner ofrnthe former esplanade, renamed the Schillerstrasse in his honor.rnHaving no embarrassment of riches to contend with, they wiselyrnchose to fill the house with chairs, tables, beds, curtains, ironrnand terra-cotta stoves of different shapes and sizes, as well as anrnimpressive battery of kitchen pots and pans, all roughly datingrnfrom the years—1799-1805—during which Schiller lived here.rnAccess to this charming burgher house, with its green shuttersrnand ochre-hued facade, is now made from behind, where a luminousrnglass and concrete annex has been built to provide visitorsrnwith a useful introduction to the circumstances ofrn24/CHRONICLESrnrnrn