We spent another whole month together in the cottage, which, by the way, I had unconsciously christened Asyl.  It was an extremely trying period, and the experiences I went through every day only confirmed me in my decision to give up the house.  Under the circumstances my young guests also had to suffer, as my worry communicated itself to all who were in sympathy with me.  Klindworth, who was coming on a visit from London, to add to the gloom of this extraordinary menage, soon joined us.  So the house was suddenly filled, and the table surrounded by sad, mysteriously depressed guests, whose wants were ministered to by one who was shortly to leave her home for ever.

It seemed to me that there must be one human being in existence specially qualified to bring light and reconciliation, or at least tolerable order, into the gloom and trouble by which we were all surrounded.  Liszt had promised me a visit, but he was so happily situated beyond the reach of these harassing conditions, he had had such experience of the world, and possessed that innate aplomb to such an extraordinary degree, that he did not seem to me to be very likely to approach these misunderstandings in a rational spirit.  I almost felt inclined to make my final decision dependent on the effect of his expected visit.  It was in vain that we begged of him to hasten his journey; he offered to meet me at the Lake of Geneva a month later!  Then my courage failed.  Intercourse with my friends now afforded me no satisfaction, for although they could not understand why I should be turned out of a home that suited me so well, yet it was apparent to every one that I could not remain under these conditions.  We still had music every now and then, but it was in a half-hearted and absent-minded fashion.  To make matters worse, we had a national vocal festival inflicted upon us, during which I was obliged to face all kinds of demands; matters did not always pass off without unpleasantness, as amongst others I had to decline to see Franz Lachner, who had been specially engaged for the festival, and did not return his call.  Tausig certainly delighted us by carolling Lachner’s ‘Old German Battle Song’ in the upper octave, which, thanks to his boyish falsetto, was within his reach; however, even his pranks were no longer able to cheer us.  Everything, which under other circumstances would have made this summer month one of the most stimulating in my life, now contributed to my discomfort, as did also the stay of the Countess d’Agoult, who, having come on a visit to her daughter and son-in-law, attached herself to our party for the time being.  By way of filling up the house, Karl Ritter also came after much grumbling and sulking, and once again proved himself to be very interesting and original.