above, who, though to be sure they considerably enlarged my ideas, at the same time impressed me very unfavourably with what was apparently the pinnacle of the artistic life of the period.  At any rate, I felt neither rewarded nor, fortunately, even diverted by the acquaintances I won by the first performance of my Tannhauser that winter.  On the contrary, I felt an irresistible desire to withdraw into my shell and leave these gay surroundings into which, strangely enough, I had been introduced at the instigation of Hiller, whom I soon recognised as being a nonentity.  I felt I must quickly compose something, as this was the only means of ridding myself of all the disturbing and painful excitement Tannhauser had produced in me.

Only a few weeks after the first performances I had worked out the whole of the Lohengrin text.  In November I had already read this poem to my intimate friends, and soon afterwards to the Hiller set.  It was praised, and pronounced ‘effective.’  Schumann also thoroughly approved of it, although he did not understand the musical form in which I wished to carry it out, as he saw no resemblance in it to the old methods of writing individual solos for the various artists.  I then had some fun in reading different parts of my work to him in the form of arias and cavatinas, after which he laughingly declared himself satisfied.

Serious reflection, however, aroused my gravest doubts as to the tragic character of the material itself, and to these doubts I had been led, in a manner both sensible and tactful, by Franck.  He thought it offensive to effect Elsa’s punishment through Lohengrin’s departure; for although he understood that the characteristics of the legend were expressed precisely by this highly poetical feature, he was doubtful as to whether it did full justice to the demands of tragic feeling in its relation to dramatic realism.  He would have preferred to see Lohengrin die before our eyes owing to Elsa’s loving treachery.  As, however, this did not seem feasible, he would have liked to see Lohengrin spell-bound by some powerful motive, and prevented from getting away.  Although, of course, I would not agree to any of these suggestions, I went so far as to consider whether I could not do away with the cruel separation, and still retain the incident of Lohengrin’s departure, which was essential.  I then sought for a means of letting Elsa go away with Lohengrin, as a form of penance which would withdraw her also from the world.  This seemed more promising to my talented friend.  While I was still very doubtful about all this, I gave my poem to Frau von Luttichau, so that she might peruse it, and criticise the point raised by Franck.  In a little letter, in which she expressed her pleasure at my poem, she wrote briefly, but very decidedly, on the knotty question, and declared that Franck must be devoid of all poetry if he did not understand that it was exactly in the way I had chosen, and in no other, that Lohengrin must depart.  I felt as if