piano, for he could reach an interval of a twelfth.  Der Letzte Hieb, a public beer-garden situated on a pleasant height, was a daily witness of my fits of wild and often enthusiastic boisterousness; never once during those mild summer nights did I return to my charges without having waxed enthusiastic over art and the world in general.  I also remember a wicked trick which has always remained a blot in my memory.  Amongst my friends was a fair and very enthusiastic Swabian called Frohlich, with whom I had exchanged my score of the C minor Symphony for his, which he had copied out with his own hand.  This very gentle, but rather irritable young man had taken such a violent dislike to one Andre, whose malicious face I also detested, that he declared that this person spoilt his evenings for him, merely by being in the same room with him.  The unfortunate object of his hatred tried all the same to meet us whenever he could:  friction ensued, but Andre would insist upon aggravating us.  One evening Frohlich lost patience.  After some insulting retort, he tried to chase him from our table by striking him with a stick:  the result was a fight in which Frolich’s friends felt they must take part, though they all seemed to do so with some reluctance.  A mad longing to join the fray also took possession of me.  With the others I helped in knocking our poor victim about, and I even heard the sound of one terrible blow which I struck Andre on the head, whilst he fixed his eyes on me in bewilderment.

I relate this incident to atone for a sin which has weighed very heavily on my conscience ever since.  I can compare this sad experience only with one out of my earliest boyhood days, namely the drowning of some puppies in a shallow pool behind my uncle’s house in Eisleben.  Even to this day I cannot think of the slow death of these poor little creatures without horror.  I have never quite forgotten some of my thoughtless and reckless actions; for the sorrows of others, and in particular those of animals, have always affected me deeply to the extent of filling me with a disgust of life.

My first love affair stands out in strong contrast against these recollections.  It was only natural that one of the young chorus ladies with whom I had to practise daily should know how to attract my attentions.  Therese Ringelmann, the daughter of a grave-digger, thanks to her beautiful soprano voice, led me to believe that I could make a great singer of her.  After I told her of this ambitious scheme, she paid much attention to her appearance, and dressed elegantly for the rehearsals, and a row of white pearls which she wound through her hair specially fascinated me.  During the summer holidays I gave Therese regular lessons in singing, according to a method which has always remained a mystery to me ever since.  I also called on her very often at her house, where, fortunately, I never met her unpleasant father, but always her mother and her sisters.  We also met in the public gardens, but false vanity always kept me from telling my friends of our relations.  I do not know whether the fault lay with her lowly birth, her lack of education, or my own doubt about the sincerity of my affections; but in any case when, in addition to the fact that I had my reasons for being jealous, they also tried to urge me to a formal engagement, this love affair came quietly to an end.