This unaccustomed effort placed me in a position strangely similar to that in which I found Hiller on my return to Dresden.  He had given a performance of his new opera, Conradin von Hohenstaufen, here just about this time.  He had kept the composition of this work a secret from me, and had hoped to make a decided hit with it after the three performances which took place in my absence.  Both the poet and the composer thought that in this work they had combined the tendencies and effects of my Rienzi with those of my Tannhauser in a manner peculiarly suited to the Dresden public.  As he was just setting out for Dusseldorf, where he had been appointed concert-director, he commended his work with great confidence to my tender mercies, and regretted not having the power of appointing me the conductor of it.  He acknowledged that he owed his great success partly to the wonderfully happy rendering of the male part of Conradin by my niece Johanna.  She, in her turn, told me with equal confidence that without her Hiller’s opera would not have had such an extraordinary triumph.  I was now really anxious to see this fortunate work and its wonderful staging for myself; and this I was able to do, as a fourth performance was announced after Hiller and his family had left Dresden for good.  When I entered the theatre at the beginning of the overture to take my place in the stalls, I was astonished to find all the seats, with a few scarcely noticeable exceptions, absolutely empty.  At the other end of my row I saw the poet who had written the libretto, the gentle painter Reinike.  We moved, naturally, towards the middle of the space and discussed the strange position in which we found ourselves.  He poured out melancholy complaints to me about Hiller’s musical setting to his poetry; the secret of the mistake which Hiller had made about the success of his work he did not explain, and was evidently very much upset at the conspicuous failure of the opera.  It was from another quarter that I learned how it had been possible for Hiller to deceive himself in such an extraordinary way.  Frau Hiller, who was of Polish origin, had managed at the frequent Polish gatherings which took place in Dresden to persuade a large contingent of her countrymen, who were keen theatre-goers, to attend her husband’s opera.  On the first night these friends, with their usual enthusiasm, incited the public to applaud, but had themselves found so little pleasure in the work that they had stayed away from the second performance, which was otherwise badly attended, so that the opera could only be considered a failure.  By commandeering all the help that could possibly be got from the Poles by way of applause, every effort was made to secure a third performance on a Sunday, when the theatre generally filled of its own accord.  This object was achieved, and the Polish theatre aristocracy, with the charity that was habitual to them, fulfilled their duty towards the needy couple in whose drawing-room they had often spent such pleasant evenings.