difficulties, which, I suppose, took about half the money I was to have for the Meistersinger by agreement, I had counted upon finishing my work in peace with the remainder of the sum stipulated.  But since then Schott had put me off with vain promises about a fixed date for balancing accounts with the bookseller.  I had already been put to great straits, and now everything seemed to depend on my being able to hand over a complete act of the Meistersinger to Schott quickly.  I had got as far as the scene where Pogner is about to introduce Walther von Stolzing to the meistersingers, when—­about the middle of August, while Bulow was still there—­an accident occurred which, though slight in itself, made me incapable of writing for two whole months.

My surly host kept a bulldog named Leo chained up, and neglected him so cruelly that it excited my constant sympathy.  I therefore tried one day to have him freed from vermin, and held his head myself, so that the servant who was doing it should not be frightened.  Although the dog had learned to trust me thoroughly, he snapped at me once involuntarily and bit me—­apparently very slightly—­in the upper joint of my right-hand thumb.  There was no wound visible, but it was soon evident that the periosteum had become inflamed from the contusion.  As the pain increased more and more with the use of the thumb, I was ordered to do no writing until my hand was quite healed.  If my plight was not quite so terrible as the newspapers—­which announced that I had been bitten by a mad dog—­made out, it was still conducive to serious reflection on human frailty.  To complete my task, therefore, I needed, not only a sound mind and good ideas, irrespective of any required skill, but also a healthy thumb to write with, as my work was not a libretto I could dictate, but music which no one but myself could write down.

On the advice of Raff, who considered a volume of my songs to be worth one thousand francs, I decided to offer my publisher, by way of temporary compensation, five poems by my friend Frau Wesendonck which I had set to music (consisting chiefly of studies for Tristan with which I was occupied at the time), so that he should at least have something on the market.  The songs were accepted and published, but they seemed to have produced no softening effect on Schott’s mood.  I was obliged to conclude that he was acting on some one else’s instigation, and I betook myself to Kissingen (where he was staying for his ‘cure’) in order to get to the bottom of it and shape my next moves accordingly.  An interview with him was obstinately denied me, and Frau Schott, who was posted outside his door in the role of guardian angel, informed me that a bad liver attack prevented him from seeing me.  I now realised my position with regard to him.  For the moment I drew on young Weisheimer for some money, which he gave me most willingly, supported as he was by a wealthy father, and then set to work to consider what I could do next.  I could no longer count on Schott, and had in consequence lost all prospect of an unopposed performance of the Meistersinger.