believed I had taken the first step towards such an understanding by recognising its enormous difficulty.  For many years afterwards that book never left me, and by the summer of the following year I had already studied the whole of it for the fourth time.  The effect thus gradually wrought upon me was extraordinary, and certainly exerted a decisive influence on the whole course of my life.  In forming my judgment upon all those matters which I had hitherto acquired solely through the senses, I had gained pretty much the same power as I had formerly won in music—­after abandoning the teaching of my old master Weinlich—­by an exhaustive study of counterpoint.  If, therefore, in later years I again expressed opinions in my casual writings on matters pertaining to that art which so particularly interested me, it is certain that traces of what I learned from my study of Schopenhauer’s philosophy were clearly perceptible.

Just then I was prompted to send the venerated philosopher a copy of my Nibelungen poem.  To its title I merely added by hand the words, ‘With Reverence,’ but without writing a single word to Schopenhauer himself.

This I did partly from a feeling of great shyness in addressing him, and partly because I felt that if the perusal of my poem did not enlighten Schopenhauer about the man with whom he was dealing, a letter from me, no matter how explicit, would not help him much.  I also renounced by this means the vain wish to be honoured by an autograph letter from his hand.  I learned later, however, from Karl Ritter, and also from Dr. Wille, both of whom visited Schopenhauer in Frankfort, that he spoke impressively and favourably of my poetry.  In addition to these studies, I continued writing the music to the Walkure.  I was living in great retirement at this time, my sole relaxation being to take long walks in the neighbourhood, and, as usual with me when hard at work at my music, I felt the longing to express myself in poetry.  This must have been partly due to the serious mood created by Schopenhauer, which was trying to find ecstatic expression.  It was some such mood that inspired the conception of a Tristan und Isolde.

Karl Ritter had just laid before me a sketch for the dramatic treatment of this subject (with which I was thoroughly acquainted through my Dresden studies), and had thereby drawn my attention to the material for this poem.  I had already expressed my views to my young friend about the faultiness of his sketch.  He had, in fact, made a point of giving prominence to the lighter phases of the romance, whereas it was its all-pervading tragedy that impressed me so deeply that I felt convinced it should stand out in bold relief, regardless of minor details.  On my return from one of my walks I jotted down the incidents of the three acts in a concise form, with the intention of working them out more elaborately later on.  In the last act I introduced an episode, which, however, I did not develop eventually, namely, the visit to Tristan’s deathbed by Parsifal during his search for the Holy Grail.  The picture of Tristan languishing, yet unable to die of his wound, identified itself in my mind with Amfortas in the Romance of the Grail.