My feeling of desperation at the unparalleled length of my opera was augmented by the temper of my relatives, whom I saw for a short time after the performance.  Friedrich Brockhaus and his family had come over with some friends from Leipzig, and had invited us to the inn, hoping to celebrate an agreeable success over a pleasant supper, and possibly to drink my health.  But on arriving, kitchen and cellar were closed, and every one was so worn out that nothing was to be heard but outcries at the unparalleled case of an opera lasting from six o’clock till past twelve.  No further remarks were exchanged, and we stole away feeling quite stupefied.

About eight the next morning I put in an appearance at the clerks’ office, in order that in case there should be a second performance I might arrange the necessary curtailment of the parts.  If, during the previous summer, I had contested every beat with the faithful chorus-master Fischer, and proved them all to be indispensable, I was now possessed by a blind rage for striking out.  There was not a single part of my score which seemed any longer necessary—­what the audience had been made to swallow the previous evening now appeared but a chaos of sheer impossibilities, each and all of which might be omitted without the slightest damage or risk of being unintelligible.  My one thought now was how to reduce my convolution of monstrosities to decent limits.  By dint of unsparing and ruthless abbreviations handed over to the copyist, I hoped to avert a catastrophe, for I expected nothing less than that the general manager, together with the city and the theatre, would that very day give me to understand that such a thing as the performance of my Last of the Tribunes might perhaps be permitted once as a curiosity, but not oftener.  All day long, therefore, I carefully avoided going near the theatre, so as to give time for my heroic abbreviations to do their salutary work, and for news of them to spread through the city.  But at midday I looked in again upon the copyists, to assure myself that all had been duly performed as I had ordered.  I then learned that Tichatschek had also been there, and, after inspecting the omissions that I had arranged, had forbidden their being carried out.  Fischer, the chorus-master, also wished to speak to me about them:  work was suspended, and I foresaw great confusion.  I could not understand what it all meant, and feared mischief if the arduous task were delayed.  At length, towards evening, I sought out Tichatschek at the theatre.  Without giving him a chance to speak, I brusquely asked him why he had interrupted the copyists’ work.  In a half-choked voice he curtly and defiantly rejoined, ’I will have none of my part cut out—­it is too heavenly.’  I stared at him blankly, and then felt as though I had been suddenly bewitched:  such an unheard-of testimony to my success could not but shake me out of my strange anxiety.  Others joined him, Fischer radiant with delight and bubbling with laughter.  Every one spoke of the enthusiastic emotion which thrilled the whole city.  Next came a letter of thanks from the Commissioner acknowledging my splendid work.  Nothing now remained for me but to embrace Tichatschek and Fischer, and go on my way to inform Minna and Clara how matters stood.