me.  I cannot tell you too often how miserably weak I feel as a musician.  I know, in the depth of my heart, that I am an absolute blunderer.  You ought to watch me when I am at it; now thinking “it must do after all,” then going to the piano to puzzle out some wretched rubbish, and giving it up again in a state of idiocy.  Oh, how I feel then! how thoroughly persuaded of my musical wretchedness!  And then come you, whose pores are running over as with streams, fountains, cataracts, and tell me such words as those which you have said to me.  I find it difficult to think that this is not the purest irony, and I must recall your friendship in order to believe that you have not been cutting a joke at my expense after all.  This is a peculiar story, dearest friend; believe me, I am not up to much.  I really begin to think that Reissiger must have helped me with “Tannhauser” and “Lohengrin.”  With my new works you have most certainly helped me, and now that you leave me in the lurch, I can do nothing more.

About “Dante” only so much today that I was specially pleased to see how perfectly well I remembered it from your playing it to me.  As I come to study it more closely I perceive that no feature of any importance had escaped me, even the smallest and finest details were perfectly familiar to me from that time.  This at least is good evidence of my receptive faculties; but I believe that the credit is really due to the peculiar grandeur and quality of your work.

Generally speaking, if you wish to know, I am again in exactly the same condition as when I wrote the letter about you to M. Concerning that letter I recently had a brand-new experience.  K. R. had not read it, when I found it accidentally amongst my papers at Venice, and gave it to him.  After that he came to me, and told me that people who were near to you had told him in connection with this letter that I expressed myself in it in an evasive manner, and was evidently intent upon saying nothing definite about you.  He himself had been made anxious by this, and now, having read it, was truly delighted at perceiving the enormous significance I had attributed to you.  Astonished at the possibility of an ill-natured misunderstanding, I read the letter once more, and was compelled to chime in with K. R.’s impetuous declamations at the incredible dulness, superficiality, and triviality of people who could have misunderstood the meaning of this letter.  I have taken a solemn oath not to publish another word.  What we are to each other we know and tell one another at intervals for the sake of encouragement and comfort.  But what we are to the world I will be d—­d if I—!

It is too incredible.

Good Lord!  I cannot get out of my trivial mood in this letter, and therefore must not discuss anything noble, least of all the “Ideals.”  If you want to be sure of hearing something rational from me, come to me and play all your things to me, especially the Crusaders’ chorus (splendid!!); then at least you will know once more accurately what is in me.