myself an unconscious accomplice of Director Cornet’s basest interests.  His one aim was to create a sensation, which he thought should be of great service to me also; and not only did he put me off with a smaller fee, but even suggested that it should be paid by gradual instalments.  The dignity of scenic decoration, of which he had not the smallest idea, was completely sacrificed to the most ridiculous and tawdry showiness.  He imagined that pageantry was all that was really needed to secure my success.  So he hunted out all the old fairy-ballet costumes from his stock, and fancied that if they only looked gay enough, and if plenty of people were bustling about on the stage, I ought to be satisfied.  But the most sorry item of all was the singer he provided for the title-role.  He was a man of the name of Wurda, an elderly, flabby and voiceless tenor, who sang Rienzi with the expression of a lover—­ like Elvino, for instance, in the Somnanibula.  He was so dreadful that I conceived the idea of making the Capitol tumble down in the second act, so as to bury him sooner in its ruins, a plan which would have cut out several of the processions, which were so dear to the heart of the director.  I found my one ray of light in a lady singer, who delighted me with the fire with which she played the part of Adriano.  This was a Mme. Fehringer, who was afterwards engaged by Liszt for the role of Ortrud in the production of Lohengrin at Weimar, but by that time her powers had greatly deteriorated.  Nothing could be more depressing than my connection with this opera under such dismal circumstances.  And yet there were no outward signs of failure.  The manager hoped in any case to keep Rienzi in his repertoire until Tichatschek was able to come to Hamburg and give the people of that town a true idea of the play.  This actually took place in the following summer.

My discouragement and ill-humour did not escape the notice of Herr Cornet, and discovering that I wished to present my wife with a parrot, he managed to procure a very fine bird, which he gave me as a parting gift.  I carried it with me in its narrow cage on my melancholy journey home, and was touched to find that it quickly repaid my care and became very much attached to me.  Minna greeted me with great joy when she saw this beautiful grey parrot, for she regarded it as a self-evident proof that I should do something in life.  We already had a pretty little dog, born on the day of the first Rienzi rehearsal in Dresden, which, owing to its passionate devotion to myself, was much petted by all who knew me and visited my house during those years.  This sociable bird, which had no vices and was an apt scholar, now formed an addition to our household; and the pair did much to brighten our dwelling in the absence of children.  My wife soon taught the bird snatches of songs from Rienzi, with which it would good-naturedly greet me from a distance when it heard me coming up the stairs.