About this time a young Englishwomen, Madame Jessie Laussot, who had married a Frenchman in Bordeaux, one day presented herself at my house in the company of Karl Ritter, who was barely eighteen years of age.  This young man, who was born in Russia of German parents, was a member of one of those northern families who had settled down permanently in Dresden, on account of the pleasant artistic atmosphere of that place.  I remembered that I had seen him once before not long after the first performance of Tannhauser, when he asked me for my autograph for a copy of the score of that opera, which was on sale at the music-shop.  I now learned that this copy really belonged to Frau Laussot, who had been present at those performances, and who was now introduced to me.  Overcome with shyness, the young lady expressed her admiration in a way I had never experienced before, and at the same time told me how great was her regret at being called away by family affairs from her favourite home in Dresden with the Ritter family, who, she gave me to understand, were deeply devoted to me.  It was with a strange, and in its way quite a new, sensation that I bade farewell to this young lady.  This was the first time since my meeting with Alwine Frommann and Werder, when the Fliegender Hollander was produced, that I came across this sympathetic tone, which seemed to come like an echo from some old familiar past, but which I never heard close at hand.  I invited young Ritter to come and see me whenever he liked, and to accompany me sometimes on my walks.  His extraordinary shyness, however, seemed to prevent him from doing this, and I only remember seeing him very occasionally at my house.  He used to turn up more often with Hans von Bulow, whom he seemed to know pretty well, and who had already entered the Leipzig University as a student of law.  This well-informed and talkative young man showed his warm and hearty devotion to me more openly, and I felt bound to reciprocate his affection.  He was the first person who made me realise the genuine character of the new political enthusiasm.  On his hat, as well as on his father’s, the black, red, and gold cockade was paraded before my eyes.

Now that I had finished my Lohengrin, and had leisure to study the course of events, I could no longer help myself sympathising with the ferment aroused by the birth of German ideals and the hopes attached to their realisation.  My old friend Franck had already imbued me with a fairly sound political judgment, and, like many others, I had grave doubts as to whether the German parliament now assembling would serve any useful purpose.  Nevertheless, the temper of the populace, of which there could be no question, although it might not have been given very obvious expression, and the belief, everywhere prevalent, that it was impossible to return to the old conditions, could not fail to exercise its influence upon me.  But I wanted actions instead of words, and actions which