she cried.  Liszt then entered the room to fetch her for the rehearsal.  To my great embarrassment she introduced me to him with malicious delight as the composer of Rienzi, the man whose acquaintance he now wished to make after having previously shown him the door in his glorious Paris.  My solemn asseverations that my patroness—­no doubt only in fun—­was deliberately distorting my account of my former visit to him, apparently pacified him so far as I was concerned, and, on the other hand, he had no doubt already formed his own opinion of the impulsive singer.  He certainly regretted that he could not remember my visit in Paris, but it nevertheless shocked and alarmed him to learn that any one should have had reason to complain of such treatment at his hands.  The hearty sincerity of Listz’s simple words to me about this misunderstanding, as contrasted with the strangely passionate raillery of the incorrigible lady, made a most pleasing and captivating impression upon me.  The whole bearing of the man, and the way in which he tried to ward off the pitiless scorn of her attacks, was something new to me, and gave me a deep insight into his character, so firm in its amiability and boundless good-nature.  Finally, she teased him about the Doctor’s degree which had just been conferred on him by the University of Konigsberg, and pretended to mistake him for a chemist.  At last he stretched himself out flat on the floor, and implored her mercy, declaring himself quite defenceless against the storm of her invective.  Then turning to me with a hearty assurance that he would make it his business to hear Rienzi, and would in any case endeavour to give me a better opinion of himself than his evil star had hitherto permitted, we parted for that occasion.

The almost naive simplicity and naturalness of his every phrase and word, and particularly his emphatic manner, left a most profound impression upon me.  No one could fail to be equally affected by these qualities, and I now realised for the first time the almost magic power exerted by Liszt over all who came in close contact with him, and saw how erroneous had been my former opinion as to its cause.

These two excursions to Leipzig and Berlin found but brief interruptions of the period devoted at home to our study of the Fliegender Hollander.  It was therefore, of paramount importance to me to maintain Schroder-Devrient’s keen interest in her part, since, in view of the weakness of the rest of the cast, I was convinced that it was from her alone I could expect any adequate interpretation of the spirit of my work.

The part of Senta was essentially suited to her, and there were just at that moment peculiar circumstances in her life which brought her naturally emotional temperament to a high pitch of tension.  I was amazed when she confided to me that she was on the point of breaking off a regular liaison of many years’ standing, to form, in passionate haste, another much less desirable one.  The forsaken lover, who was