“So, my Parisian art-wallowings are given up since I recognized their profane character.  Heavens, how Fischer will rejoice when he hears I have become a man of order!  Everything strengthened me in my ardent desire for renunciation.  After endless waiting, I at last receive the orchestral parts of my Tannhaeuser overture, and pay with pleasure fifteen francs carriage for them.  I then find that the parts have arrived much too soon, for the Union Musicale has time for everything except for the rehearsal of my overtures.  I am, however, told that there may be rehearsals at the end of this month, and actually under a conductor who, in all the performances given under his direction, carries out the happy idea of indicating tempi, nuances, style in a manner quite different from that intended by the composer; and with passionate conscientiousness, insists on studying and conducting himself without ever allowing the composer to expound his confused views about his own work.  Rocked in blissful dreams, I receive at last a letter of Heine’s, with an enclosure from Wigand—­namely, a money-order for ten louis d’or, which, from your letter, I had unfortunately expected would come to twenty louis d’or.

    “In short, early to-morrow morning (at eight o’clock) I start
    off with the intention of being back here at the end of the
    month, for the possible rehearsals of my overture.

“I am sorry for Heine and Fischer.  Poor fellows! they picture me floating along on a sea of Parisian hopes; they will be greatly and painfully undeceived.  Salute and console them.  When my cursed ill-humour of to-day has passed away, I will write to Heine.  To his fidelity must I present an earnest face.  A thousand greetings to my dear R——­s, from whom I should so much have liked to receive a line.  The merchant M——­, of Dresden, will bring you something from me when he returns from his great Parisian business trip; a good daguerreotype copy from an excellent portrait which my friend Rietz has taken of me here.

“What more shall I write?  I am all confusion about my hasty departure.  I have now only to write the verses to my Wiland; otherwise the whole poem is finished—­German, German!  How my pen flew along!  This Wiland will carry you all away on its wings; even your friendly Parisian hopes.  If K——­ does not write soon, I shall presume that he is raving too madly about Krebs.  Krebs is clever—­so is Michalesi—­what more do you want?  But K——­ should restrain himself, and not give himself away so much as he does, as with me!

“Farewell!  Another time you will receive a more sensible letter, with a list of misprints in my last book.  If people do not comprehend me even after this work, if I am charged with improprieties, I clearly see the reason; one cannot understand my writings for the misprints.  To my joy some one is playing the piano overhead; but no melody, only accompaniment, which has a charm for me, in that I can practice myself in the art of finding melodies”—­

And, finally, these few bitter lines, sent after his return to Zurich—­