The winter of this year, up to the spring of 1849, passed in a many-sided development of my position and temper, as I have described them, that is to say, in a sort of dull agitation.  My latest artistic occupation had been the five-act drama, Jesus of Nazareth, just mentioned.  Henceforth I lingered on in a state of brooding instability, full of expectation, yet without any definite wish.  I felt fully convinced that my activity in Dresden, as an artist, had come to an end, and I was only waiting for the pressure of circumstances to shake myself free.  On the other hand, the whole political situation, both in Saxony and the rest of Germany, tended inevitably towards a catastrophe.  Day by day this drew nearer, and I flattered myself into regarding my own personal fate as interwoven with this universal unrest.  Now that the powers of reaction were everywhere more and more openly bracing themselves for conflict, the final decisive struggle seemed indeed close at hand.  My feelings of partisanship were not sufficiently passionate to make me desire to take any active share in these conflicts.  I was merely conscious of an impulse to give myself up recklessly to the stream of events, no matter whither it might lead.

Just at this moment, however, an entirely new influence forced itself in a most strange fashion into my fortunes, and was at first greeted by me with a smile of scepticism.  Liszt wrote announcing an early production in Weimar of my Tannhauser under his own conductorship—­the first that had taken place outside Dresden—­and he added with great modesty that this was merely a fulfilment of his own personal desire.  In order to ensure success he had sent a special invitation to Tichatschek to be his guest for the two first performances.  When the latter returned he said that the production had, on the whole, been a success, which surprised me very much.  I received a gold snuff-box from the Grand Duke as a keepsake, which I continued to use until the year 1864.  All this was new and strange to me, and I was still inclined to regard this otherwise agreeable occurrence as a fleeting episode, due to the friendly feeling of a great artist.  ‘What does this mean for me?’ I asked myself.  ’Has it come too early or too late?’ But a very cordial letter from Liszt induced me to visit Weimar for a few days later on, for a third performance of Tannhausar, which was to be carried out entirely by native talent, with a view to the permanent addition of this opera to the repertoire.  For this purpose I obtained leave of absence from my management for the second week in May.