PART II

1842-1850

The journey from Paris to Dresden at that time took five days and

nights. On the German frontier, near Forbach, we met with stormy

weather and snow, a greeting which seemed inhospitable after the spring

we had already enjoyed in Paris. And, indeed, as we continued our

journey through our native land once more, we found much to dishearten

us, and I could not help thinking that the Frenchmen who on leaving

Germany breathed more freely on reaching French soil, and unbuttoned

their coats, as though passing from winter into summer, were not so

very foolish after all, seeing that we, for our part, were now

compelled to seek protection against this conspicuous change of

temperature by being very careful to put on sufficient clothing. The

unkindness of the elements became perfect torture when, later on,

between Frankfort and Leipzig, we were swept into the stream of

visitors to the Great Easter Fair.

The pressure on the mail-coaches was so great, that for two days and a

night, amid ceaseless storm, snow and rain, we were continually

changing from one wretched ‘substitute’ to another, thus turning our

journey into an adventure of almost the same type as our former voyage

at sea.

One solitary flash of brightness was afforded by our view of the

Wartburg, which we passed during the only sunlit hour of this journey.

The sight of this mountain fastness, which, from the Fulda side, is

clearly visible for a long time, affected me deeply. A neighbouring

ridge further on I at once christened the Horselberg, and as we drove

through the valley, pictured to myself the scenery for the third act of

my Tannhäuser. This scene remained so vividly in my mind, that long

afterwards I was able to give Desplechin, the Parisian scene-painter,

exact details when he was working out the scenery under my direction.

If I had already been impressed by the significance of the fact that my

first journey through the German Rhine district, so famous in legend,

should have been made on my way home from Paris, it seemed an even more

ominous coincidence that my first sight of Wartburg, which was so rich

in historical and mythical associations, should come just at this

moment. The view so warmed my heart against wind and weather, Jews and

the Leipzig Fair, that in the end I arrived, on 12th April, 1842, safe

and sound, with my poor, battered, half-frozen wife, in that selfsame

city of Dresden which I had last seen on the occasion of my sad

separation from my Minna, and my departure for my northern place of

exile.

We put up at the ‘Stadt Gotha’ inn. The city, in which such momentous

years of my childhood and boyhood had been spent, seemed cold and dead

beneath the influences of the wild, gloomy weather. Indeed, everything

there that could remind me of my youth seemed dead. No hospitable house

received us. We found my wife’s parents living in cramped and dingy

lodgings in very straitened circumstances, and were obliged at once to

look about for a small abode for ourselves. This we found in the

Topfergasse for twenty-one marks a month. After paying the necessary

business visits in connection with Rienzi, and making arrangements for

Minna during my brief absence, I set out on 15th April direct for

Leipzig, where I saw my mother and family for the first time in six

years.

During this period, which had been so eventful for my own life, my

mother had undergone a great change in her domestic position through

the death of Rosalie. She was living in a pleasant roomy flat near the

Brockhaus family, where she was free from all those household cares to

which, owing to her large family, she had devoted so many years of

anxious thought. Her bustling energy, which had almost amounted to

hardness, had entirely given place to a natural cheerfulness and

interest in the family prosperity of her married daughters. For the

blissful calm of this happy old age she was mainly indebted to the

affectionate care of her son-in-law, Friedrich Brockhaus, to whom I

expressed my heartfelt thanks for his goodness. She was exceedingly

astonished and pleased to see me unexpectedly enter her room. Any

bitterness that ever existed between us had utterly vanished, and her

only complaint was that she could not put me up in her house, instead

of my brother Julius, the unfortunate goldsmith, who had none of the

qualities that could make him a suitable companion for her. She was

full of hope for the success of my undertaking, and felt this

confidence strengthened by the favourable prophecy which our dear

Rosalie had made about me shortly before her sad death.

For the present, however, I only stayed a few days in Leipzig, as I had

first to visit Berlin in order to make definite arrangements with Count

Redern for the performance of the Fliegender Holländer. As I have

already observed, I was here at once destined to learn that the Count

was on the point of retiring from the directorship, and he accordingly

referred me for all further decisions to the new director, Küstner, who

had not yet arrived in Berlin. I now suddenly realised what this

strange circumstance meant, and knew that, so far as the Berlin

negotiations went, I might as well have remained in Paris. This

impression was in the main confirmed by a visit to Meyerbeer, who, I

found, regarded my coming to Berlin as over hasty. Nevertheless, he

behaved in a kind and friendly manner, only regretting that he was just

on the point of ‘going away,’ a state in which I always found him

whenever I visited him again in Berlin.

Mendelssohn was also in the capital about this time, having been

appointed one of the General Musical Directors to the King of Prussia.

I also sought him out, having been previously introduced to him in

Leipzig. He informed me that he did not believe his work would prosper

in Berlin, and that he would rather go back to Leipzig. I made no

inquiry about the fate of the score of my great symphony performed at

Leipzig in earlier days, which I had more or less forced upon him so

many years ago. On the other hand, he did not betray to me any signs of

remembering that strange offering. In the midst of the lavish comforts

of his home he struck me as cold, yet it was not so much that he

repelled me as that I recoiled from him. I also paid a visit to

Rellstab, to whom I had a letter of introduction from his trusty

publisher, my brother-in-law Brockhaus. Here it was not so much smug

ease that I encountered; I doubtless felt repulsed more by the fact

that he showed no inclination whatever to interest himself in my

affairs.

I grew very low spirited in Berlin. I could almost have wished

Commissioner Cerf back again. Miserable as had been the time I had

spent here years before, I had then, at any rate, met one man, who, for

all the bluntness of his exterior, had treated me with true

friendliness and consideration. In vain did I try to call to mind the

Berlin through whose streets I had walked, with all the ardour of

youth, by the side of Laube. After my acquaintance with London, and

still more with Paris, this city, with its sordid spaces and

pretensions to greatness, depressed me deeply, and I breathed a hope

that, should no luck crown my life, it might at least be spent in Paris

rather than in Berlin.

On my return from this wholly fruitless expedition, I first went to

Leipzig for a few days, where, on this occasion, I stayed with my

brother-in-law, Hermann Brockhaus, who was now Professor of Oriental

Languages at the University. His family had been increased by the birth

of two daughters, and the atmosphere of unruffled content, illuminated

by mental activity and a quiet but vivid interest in all things

relating to the higher aspects of life, greatly moved my homeless and

vagabond soul. One evening, after my sister had seen to her children,

whom she had brought up very well, and had sent them with gentle words

to bed, we gathered in the large richly stocked library for our evening

meal and a long confidential chat. Here I broke out into a violent fit

of weeping, and it seemed as though the tender sister, who five years

before had known me during the bitterest straits of my early married

life in Dresden, now really understood me. At the express suggestion of

my brother-in-law Hermann, my family tendered me a loan, to help me to

tide over the time of waiting for the performance of my Rienzi in

Dresden. This, they said, they regarded merely as a duty, and assured

me that I need have no hesitation whatever in accepting it. It

consisted of a sum of six hundred marks, which was to be paid me in

monthly instalments for six months. As I had no prospect of being able

to reply on any other source of income, there was every chance of

Minna’s talent for management being put severely to the test, if this

were to carry us through; it could be done, however, and I was able to

return to Dresden with a great sense of relief.

While I was staying with my relatives I played and sang them the

Fliegender Holländer for the first time connectedly, and seemed to

arouse considerable interest by my performance, for when, later on, my

sister Louisa heard the opera in Dresden, she complained that much of

the effect previously produced by my rendering did not come back to

her. I also sought out my old friend Apel again. The poor man had gone

stone blind, but he astonished me by his cheeriness and contentment,

and thereby once and for all deprived me of any reason for pitying him.

As he declared that he knew the blue coat I was wearing very well,

though it was really a brown one, I thought it best not to argue the

point, and I left Leipzig in a state of wonder at finding every one

there so happy and contented.

When I reached Dresden, on 26th April, I found occasion to grapple more

vigorously with my lot. Here I was enlivened by closer intercourse with

the people on whom I had to rely for a successful production of Rienzi.

It is true that the results of my interviews with Lüttichau, the

general manager, and Reissiger, the musical conductor, left me cold and

incredulous. Both were sincerely astonished at my arrival in Dresden;

and the same might even be said of my frequent correspondent and

patron, Hofrath Winkler, who also would have preferred my remaining in

Paris. But, as has been my constant experience both before and since,

help and encouragement have always come to me from humbler and never

from the more exalted ranks of life.

So in this case, too, I met my first agreeable sensation in the

overwhelmingly cordial reception I received from the old chorus-master,

Wilhelm Fischer. I had had no previous acquaintance with him, yet he

was the only person who had taken the trouble to read my score

carefully, and had not only conceived serious hopes for the success of

my opera, but had worked energetically to secure its being accepted and

practised. The moment I entered his room and told him my name, he

rushed to embrace me with a loud cry, and in a second I was translated

to an atmosphere of hope. Besides this man, I met in the actor

Ferdinand Heine and his family another sure foundation for hearty and,

indeed, deep-rooted friendship. It is true that I had known him from

childhood, for at that time he was one of the few young people whom my

stepfather Geyer liked to see about him. In addition to a fairly

decided talent for drawing, it was chiefly his pleasant social gifts

that had won him an entrance into our more intimate family circle. As

he was very small and slight, my stepfather nicknamed him DavidCHEN,

and under this appellation he used to take part with great affability

and good-humour in our little festivities, and above all in our

friendly excursions into the neighbouring country, in which, as I

mentioned in its place, even Carl Maria von Weber used to join.

Belonging to the good old school, he had become a useful, if not

prominent, member of the Dresden stage. He possessed all the knowledge

and qualities for a good stage manager, but never succeeded in inducing

the committee to give him that appointment. It was only as a designer

of costumes that he found further scope for his talents, and in this

capacity he was included in the consultations over the staging of

Rienzi.

Thus it came about that he had the opportunity of busying himself with

the work of a member, now grown to man’s estate, of the very family

with whom he had spent such pleasant days in his youth. He greeted me

at once as a child of the house, and we two homeless creatures found in

our memories of this long-lost home the first common basis to our

friendship. We generally spent our evenings with old Fischer at

Heine’s, where, amid hopeful conversation, we regaled ourselves on

potatoes and herrings, of which the meal chiefly consisted.

Schroder-Devrient was away on a holiday; Tichatschek, who was also on

the point of going away, I had just time to see, and with him I went

quickly through a part of his role in Rienzi. His brisk and lively

nature, his glorious voice and great musical talent, gave special

weight to his encouraging assurance that he delighted in the role of

Rienzi. Heine also told me that the mere prospect of having many new

costumes, and especially new silver armour, had inspired Tichatschek

with the liveliest desire to play this part, so that I might rely on

him under any circumstances. Thus I could at once give closer attention

to the preparations for practice, which was fixed to begin in the late

summer, after the principal singers had returned from their holiday.

I had to make special efforts to pacify my friend Fischer by my

readiness to abbreviate the score, which was excessively lengthy. His

intentions in the matter were so honest that I gladly sat down with him

to the wearisome task. I played and sang my score to the astonished man

on an old grand piano in the rehearsing-room of the Court Theatre, with

such frantic vigour that, although he did not mind if the instrument

came to grief, he grew concerned about my chest. Finally, amid hearty

laughter, he ceased to argue about cutting down passages, as precisely

where he thought something might be omitted I proved to him with

headlong eloquence that it was precisely here that the main point lay.

He plunged with me head over heels into the vast chaos of sound,

against which he could raise no objection, beyond the testimony of his

watch, whose correctness I also ended by disputing. As sops I

light-heartedly flung him the big pantomime and most of the ballet in

the second act, whereby I reckoned we might save a whole half-hour.

Thus, thank goodness, the whole monster was at last handed over to the

clerks to make a fair copy of, and the rest was left for time to

accomplish.

We next discussed what we should do in the summer, and I decided upon a

stay of several months at Toplitz, the scene of my first youthful

flights, whose fine air and baths, I hoped, would also benefit Minna’s

health. But before we could carry out this intention I had to pay

several more visits to Leipzig to settle the fate of my Dutchman. On

5th May I proceeded thither to have an interview with Küstner, the new

director of the Berlin Opera, who I had been told had just arrived

there. He was now placed in the awkward position of being about to

produce in Berlin the very opera which he had before declined in

Munich, as it had been accepted by his predecessor in office. He

promised me to consider what steps he would take in this predicament.

In order to learn the result of Küstner’s deliberations, I determined,

on 2nd June, to seek him out, and this time in Berlin itself. But at

Leipzig I found a letter in which he begged me to wait patiently a

little longer for his final verdict. I took advantage of being in the

neighbourhood of Halle to pay a visit to my eldest brother Albert. I

was very much grieved and depressed to find the poor fellow, whom I

must give the credit of having the greatest perseverance and a quite

remarkable talent for dramatic song, living in the unworthy and mean

circumstances which the Halle Theatre offered to him and his family.

The realisation of conditions into which I myself had once nearly sunk

now filled me with indescribable abhorrence. Still more harrowing was

it to hear my brother speak of this state in tones which showed, alas,

only too plainly, the hopeless submission with which he had already

resigned himself to its horrors. The only consolation I could find was

the personality and childlike nature of his step-daughter Johanna, who

was then fifteen, and who sang me Spohr’s Rose, wie bist du so schon

with great expression and in a voice of an extraordinarily beautiful

quality.

Then I returned to Dresden, and at last, in wonderful weather,

undertook the pleasant journey to Toplitz with Minna and one of her

sisters, reaching that place on 9th June, where we took up our quarters

at a second-class inn, the Eiche, at Schonau. Here we were soon joined

by my mother, who paid her usual yearly visit to the warm baths all the

more gladly this time because she knew she would find me there. If she

had before had any prejudice against Minna because of my premature

marriage to her, a closer acquaintance with her domestic gifts soon

changed it into respect, and she quickly learned to love the partner of

my doleful days in Paris. Although my mother’s vagaries demanded no

small consideration, yet what particularly delighted me about her was

the astonishing vivacity of her almost childlike imagination, a faculty

she retained to such a degree that one morning she complained that my

relation of the Tannhäuser legend on the previous evening had given her

a whole night of pleasant but most tiring sleeplessness.

By dint of appealing letters to Schletter, a wealthy patron of art in

Leipzig, I managed to do something for Kietz, who, had remained behind

in misery in Paris, and also to provide Minna with medical treatment. I

also succeeded to a certain extent in ameliorating my own woeful

financial position. Scarcely were these tasks accomplished, when I

started off in my old boyish way on a ramble of several days on foot

through the Bohemian mountains, in order that I might mentally work out

my plan of the ‘Venusberg’ amid the pleasant associations of such a

trip. Here I took the fancy of engaging quarters in Aussig on the

romantic Schreckenstein, where for several days I occupied the little

public room, in which straw was laid down for me to sleep on at night.

I found recreation in daily ascents of the Wostrai, the highest peak in

the neighbourhood, and so keenly did the fantastic solitude quicken my

youthful spirit, that I clambered about the ruins of the Schreckenstein

the whole of one moonlit night, wrapped only in a blanket, in order

myself to provide the ghost that was lacking, and delighted myself with

the hope of scaring some passing wayfarer.

Here I drew up in my pocket-book the detailed plan of a three-act opera

on the ‘Venusberg,’ and subsequently carried out the composition of

this work in strict accordance with the sketch I then made.

One day, when climbing the Wostrai, I was astonished, on turning the

corner of a valley, to hear a merry dance tune whistled by a goatherd

perched up on a crag. I seemed immediately to stand among the chorus of

pilgrims filing past the goatherd in the valley; but I could not

afterwards recall the goatherd’s tune, so I was obliged to help myself

out of the matter in the usual way.

Enriched by these spoils, I returned to Toplitz in a wonderfully

cheerful frame of mind and robust health, but on receiving the

interesting news that Tichatschek and Schroder-Devrient were on the

point of returning, I was impelled to set off once more for Dresden. I

took this step, not so much to avoid missing any of the early

rehearsals of Rienzi, as because I wanted to prevent the management

replacing it by something else. I left Minna for a time with my mother,

and reached Dresden on 18th July.

I hired a small lodging in a queer house, since pulled down, facing the

Maximilian Avenue, and entered into a fairly lively intercourse with

our operatic stars who had just returned. My old enthusiasm for

Schroder-Devrient revived when I saw her again more frequently in

opera. Strange was the effect produced upon me when I heard her for the

first time in Gretry’s Blaubart, for I could not help remembering that

this was the first opera I had ever seen. I had been taken to it as a

boy of five (also in Dresden), and I still retained my wondrous first

impressions of it. All my earliest childish memories were revived, and

I recollected how frequently and with what emphasis I had myself sung

Bluebeard’s song: Ha, die Falsche! Die Thure offen! to the amusement of

the whole house, with a paper helmet of my own making on my head. My

friend Heine still remembered it well.

In other respects the operatic performances were not such as to impress

me very favourably: I particularly missed the rolling sound of the

fully equipped Parisian orchestra of string instruments. I also noticed

that, when opening the fine new theatre, they had quite forgotten to

increase the number of these instruments in proportion to the enlarged

space. In this, as well as in the general equipment of the stage, which

was materially deficient in many respects, I was impressed by the sense

of a certain meanness about theatrical enterprise in Germany, which

became most noticeable when reproductions were given, often with

wretched translations of the text, of the Paris opera repertoire. If

even in Paris my dissatisfaction with this treatment of opera had been

great, the feeling which once drove me thither from the German theatres

now returned with redoubled energy. I actually felt degraded again, and

nourished within my breast a contempt so deep that for a time I could

hardly endure the thought of signing a lasting contract, even with one

of the most up-to-date of German opera houses, but sadly wondered what

steps I could take to hold my ground between disgust and desire in this

strange world.

Nothing but the sympathy inspired by communion with persons endowed

with exceptional gifts enabled me to triumph over my scruples. This

statement applies above all to my great ideal, Schroder-Devrient, in

whose artistic triumphs it had once been my most burning desire to be

associated. It is true that many years had elapsed since my first

youthful impressions of her were formed. As regards her looks, the

verdict which, in the following winter, was sent to Paris by Berlioz

during his stay in Dresden, was so far correct that her somewhat

‘maternal’ stoutness was unsuited to youthful parts, especially in male

attire, which, as in Rienzi, made too great a demand upon the

imagination. Her voice, which in point of quality had never been an

exceptionally good medium for song, often landed her in difficulties,

and in particular she was forced, when singing, to drag the time a

little all through. But her achievements were less hampered now by

these material hindrances than by the fact that her repertoire

consisted of a limited number of leading parts, which she had sung so

frequently that a certain monotony in the conscious calculation of

effect often developed into a mannerism which, from her tendency to

exaggeration, was at times almost painful.

Although these defects could not escape me, yet I, more than any one,

was especially qualified to overlook such minor weaknesses, and realise

with enthusiasm the incomparable greatness of her performances. Indeed,

it only needed the stimulus of excitement, which this actress’s

exceptionally eventful life still procured, fully to restore the

creative power of her prime, a fact of which I was subsequently to

receive striking demonstrations. But I was seriously troubled and

depressed at seeing how strong was the disintegrating effect of

theatrical life upon the character of this singer, who had originally

been endowed with such great and noble qualities. From the very mouth

through which the great actress’s inspired musical utterances reached

me, I was compelled to hear at other times very similar language to

that in which, with but few exceptions, nearly all heroines of the

stage indulge. The possession of a naturally fine voice, or even mere

physical advantages, which might place her rivals on the same footing

as herself in public favour, was more than she could endure; and so far

was she from acquiring the dignified resignation worthy of a great

artist, that her jealousy increased to a painful extent as years went

on. I noticed this all the more because I had reason to suffer from it.

A fact which caused me even greater trouble, however, was that she did

not grasp music easily, and the study of a new part involved

difficulties which meant many a painful hour for the composer who had

to make her master his work. Her difficulty in learning new parts, and

particularly that of Adriano in Rienzi, entailed disappointments for

her which caused me a good deal of trouble.

If, in her case, I had to handle a great and sensitive nature very

tenderly, I had, on the other hand, a very easy task with Tichatschek,

with his childish limitations and superficial, but exceptionally

brilliant, talents. He did not trouble to learn his parts by heart, as

he was so musical that he could sing the most difficult music at sight,

and thought all further study needless, whereas with most other singers

the work consisted in mastering the score. Hence, if he sang through a

part at rehearsals often enough to impress it on his memory, the rest,

that is to say, everything pertaining to vocal art and dramatic

delivery, would follow naturally. In this way he picked up any clerical

errors there might be in the libretto, and that with such incorrigible

pertinacity, that he uttered the wrong words with just the same

expression as if they were correct. He waved aside good-humouredly any

expostulations or hints as to the sense with the remark, ‘Ah! that will

be all right soon.’ And, in fact, I very soon resigned myself and quite

gave up trying to get the singer to use his intelligence in the

interpretation of the part of the hero, for which I was very agreeably

compensated by the light-hearted enthusiasm with which he flung himself

into his congenial role, and the irresistible effect of his brilliant

voice.

With the exception of these two actors who played the leading parts, I

had only very moderate material at my disposal. But there was plenty of

goodwill, and I had recourse to an ingenious device to induce Reissiger

the conductor to hold frequent piano rehearsals. He had complained to

me of the difficulty he had always found in securing a well-written

libretto, and thought it was very sensible of me to have acquired the

habit of writing my own. In his youth he had unfortunately neglected to

do this for himself, and yet this was all he lacked to make a

successful dramatic composer. I feel bound to confess that he possessed

‘a good deal of melody’; but this, he added, did not seem sufficient to

inspire the singers with the requisite enthusiasm. His experience was

that Schroder-Devrient, in his Adele de Foix, would render very

indifferently the same final passage with which, in Bellini’s Romeo and

Juliet, she would put the audience into an ecstasy. The reason for

this, he presumed, must lie in the subject-matter. I at once promised

him that I would supply him with a libretto in which he would be able

to introduce these and similar melodies to the greatest advantage. To

this he gladly agreed, and I therefore set aside for versification, as

a suitable text for Reissiger, my Hohe Braut, founded on Konig’s

romance, which I had once before submitted to Scribe. I promised to

bring Reissiger a page of verse for every piano rehearsal, and this I

faithfully did until the whole book was done. I was much surprised to

learn some time later that Reissiger had had a new libretto written for

him by an actor named Kriethe. This was called the Wreck of the Medusa.

I then learned that the wife of the conductor, who was a suspicious

woman, had been filled with the greatest concern at my readiness to

give up a libretto to her husband. They both thought the book was good

and full of striking effects, but they suspected some sort of trap in

the background, to escape from which they must certainly exercise the

greatest caution. The result was that I regained possession of my

libretto and was able, later on, to help my old friend Kittl with it in

Prague; he set it to music of his own, and entitled it Die Franzosen

vor Nizza. I heard that it was frequently performed in Prague with

great success, though I never saw it myself; and I was also told at the

same time by a local critic that this text was a proof of my real

aptitude as a librettist, and that it was a mistake for me to devote

myself to composition. As regards my Tannhäuser, on the other hand,

Laube used to declare it was a misfortune that I had not got an

experienced dramatist to supply me with a decent text for my music.

For the time being, however, this work of versification had the desired

result, and Reissiger kept steadily to the study of Rienzi. But what

encouraged him even more than my verses was the growing interest of the

singers, and above all the genuine enthusiasm of Tichatschek. This man,

who had been so ready to leave the delights of the theatre piano for a

shooting party, now looked upon the rehearsals of Rienzi as a genuine

treat. He always attended them with radiant eyes and boisterous

good-humour. I soon felt myself in a state of constant exhilaration:

favourite passages were greeted with acclamation by the singers at

every rehearsal, and a concerted number of the third finale, which

unfortunately had afterwards to be omitted owing to its length,

actually became on that occasion a source of profit to me. For

Tichatschek maintained that this B minor was so lovely that something

ought to be paid for it every time, and he put down a silver penny,

inviting the others to do the same, to which they all responded

merrily. From that day forward, whenever we came to this passage at

rehearsals, the cry was raised, ‘Here comes the silver penny part,’ and

Schroder-Devrient, as she took out her purse, remarked that these

rehearsals would ruin her. This gratuity was conscientiously handed to

me each time, and no one suspected that these contributions, which were

given as a joke, were often a very welcome help towards defraying the

cost of our daily food. For Minna had returned from Toplitz, at the

beginning of August, accompanied by my mother.

We lived very frugally in chilly lodgings, hopefully awaiting the tardy

day of our deliverance. The months of August and September passed, in

preparation for my work, amid frequent disturbances caused by the

fluctuating and scanty repertoire of a German opera house, and not

until October did the combined rehearsals assume such a character as to

promise the certainty of a speedy production. From the very beginning

of the general rehearsals with the orchestra we all shared the

conviction that the opera would, without doubt, be a great success.

Finally, the full dress rehearsals produced a perfectly intoxicating

effect. When we tried the first scene of the second act with the

scenery complete, and the messengers of peace entered, there was a

general outburst of emotion, and even Schroder-Devrient, who was

bitterly prejudiced against her part, as it was not the role of the

heroine, could only answer my questions in a voice stifled with tears.

I believe the whole theatrical body, down to its humblest officials,

loved me as though I were a real prodigy, and I am probably not far

wrong in saying that much of this arose from sympathy and lively

fellow-feeling for a young man, whose exceptional difficulties were not

unknown to them, and who now suddenly stepped out of perfect obscurity

into splendour. During the interval at the full dress rehearsal, while

other members had dispersed to revive their jaded nerves with lunch, I

remained seated on a pile of boards on the stage, in order that no one

might realise that I was in the quandary of being unable to obtain

similar refreshment. An invalid Italian singer, who was taking a small