the chance of shaking up my stagnant blood by pleasant excursions.  People say:  “Go to work, then all will be right.”  Very well in its way, but I, poor devil, lack routine, and if ideas do not come to me of themselves, I cannot make them A pleasant state of things this! and what is worse, there is no chance of helping myself in any other way.  All is shut and locked against me.  Work alone is to help me, but who is to help me to the possibility of work?  I have evidently too little of what you have too much.

I am full of enthusiasm for the German Confederacy of the Teutonic nations.  For heaven’s sake do not let the villain L. Napoleon touch my dear German Confederacy!  I should be too deeply grieved if any change were made.  I am curious, however, what will become of my intended migration to Paris.  It is surely most unpatriotic to look for a comfortable existence at the head-quarters of the enemy of the Teutonic nation.  The good Teutons should really do something to save the most Teutonic of all Teutonic opera-composers this terrible trial.  Moreover, in Paris I shall be pretty well cut off from all my German resources, and yet I shall be obliged to apply in a very high quarter in order to get permission for permanent settlement in Paris, for my Swiss settlement is coming to a close.  Germany is evidently intent upon driving me forcibly to the enemy.  Very well!  There is a possibility of my going in the autumn for six months to America, where offers have been made to me which, considering the friendly sympathy of the German Confederacy, I cannot very well neglect.  This will be decided before long.  What makes me hesitate is that the “Tristan” scheme at Carlsruhe would be crossed thereby in such a manner that I should have to give it up for the present, and should probably not resume it at any future time.  The last act of this child of sorrow is now on the verge of the “to be or not to be;” a slight pressure of some spring of the vulgar fate, at whose mercy I am, might kill this child at the very moment of its birth.  Everything with me depends now upon the turning of a hand; there may be a way and there may be a complete stoppage, for I, my Franz, am in a bad way.

I have heard nothing for a long time of any of my friends; they probably think that I am very happy in my dear Switzerland, in this splendid solitude, in the joy of composing, forgetful of all the world.  I am not angry with them because they make themselves such illusions.  If they only knew that I had to threaten violence in order to get out of you the “Dante” symphony dedicated to me, they might draw further conclusions from this fact.  What do you say to that?  I have, after all, arrived at “Dante”, of which I did not wish to speak today, because I love it too much to involve it in my present mood.  Let me tell you, however, that we had better keep the dedication, written in my copy, to ourselves.  I at least shall not mention it to a soul.  Your words have positively made me blush, you may believe