Sometimes things collide in the most unexpected ways. On the one hand, I am slowly picking my way through Conversations with Goethe in the Later Years of his Life by Johann Peter Eckermann (1836). On the other hand, I am collaborating with various artists on a performance of Carnival of the Animals, an 1886 work by French composer Saint-Saëns. I’ve hereby found an interesting parallel: both men happened to write lions, and both faced similar doubts about these particular works.

The Lion opens Saint-Saëns’ humorous musical suite, a work he kept strictly private during his lifetime out of fear it would undermine his reputation as a serious composer. After all, what would people think of his braying donkeys, chord-hopping kangaroos and waltzing elephant? Now, it is his best-known work and has brought joy to many audiences.

Goethe had his own lion troubles. Famous for works like Faust that grapple with fundamental questions of morality and human existence, he also wrote an allegorical tale with romantic and fairytale elements titled Novelle (old man Goethe was rather meta). This marked something of a departure for the venerable author, and his friend Herr Eckermann was particularly startled by the tale’s unusual ending: the lion is calmed by a flute-playing child, and the story concludes with a pious song.

It is too bare, too ideal, too lyrical, thought Herr Eckermann. Should not some of the other characters appear to provide breadth and a more satisfying conclusion?

Goethe, seeing his friend’s doubt, enlightened him with the following image:

“Imagine a green plant emerging from the root, producing vibrant green leaves along its sturdy stem, ending in a flower. The flower is startling, but it must appear. Indeed, all that foliage exists solely for the sake of this flower, and would be worthless without it.”

Goethe explained that his idea for the lion tale had emerged thirty years prior, but his friends Schiller and Humboldt had advised him against going forward. Because, Goethe explained:

“They could see nothing in it, and because only the author knows the charms he can give the subject. Thus, one must never ask someone else if one wants to write.”

Oh, to be Goethe in the later years of his life, so sure of one’s work and so established in the world that critique need never be sought.

Both men, in their different ways, wrestled with a fundamental artistic dilemma that plagues creatives to this day: How do you trust your instincts when you’re worried about others’ opinions? Saint-Saëns caged his lion for fear of public mockery. Goethe hid his for three decades following the scepticism of his peers.

Both lions were eventually released. Now, preparing for our own Carnival of the Animals performance in mid-October, we’re working with two lions of our own, performed by Chinese lion dancers (舞狮). This pair of gentle, playful, acrobatic lions — one pink, one blue — are frilly and sequined, with winking eyes and flapping ears. They’ll gambol on stage to 19th century French classical music, and though this choice of opener is somewhat unconventional, these good bois are always crowd pleasers.

I’ve unexpectedly landed a role as the narrator, and it’ll be fun to imagine Goethe and Saint-Saëns watching from the wings. I’d like to think they’d enjoy the gasps of delight when our lions first bound onto the stage. Perhaps they’d see that audiences have more capacity for complex and startling flowers than we creators sometimes assume.