After having sought the libretto of an opera from the whole world, from poets ancient and modern,[189] and after having tried to write one himself, he finally took that of Madame Rosa Mayreder, an adaptation of a Spanish novelette of Don Pedro de Alarcon.  This was Corregidor, which, after having been refused by other theatres, was played in June, 1896, at Mannheim.  The work was not a success in spite of its musical qualities, and the poorness of the libretto helped on its failure.

[Footnote 189:  Detlev von Liliencron offered him an American subject.  “But in spite of my admiration for Buffalo Bill and his unwashed crew,” said Wolf sarcastically, “I prefer my native soil and people who appreciate the advantages of soap.”]

But the main thing was that Wolf’s creative genius had returned.  In April, 1896, he wrote straight away the twenty-two songs of the second volume of the Italienisches-Liederbuch.  At Christmas his friend Mueller sent him some of Michelangelo’s poems, translated into German by Walter Robert-Tornow; and Wolf, deeply moved by their beauty, decided at once to devote a whole volume of Lieder to them.  In 1897 he composed the first three melodies.  At the same time he was also working at a new opera, Manuel Venegas, a poem by Moritz Hoernes, written after the style of Alarcon.  He seemed full of strength and happiness and confidence in his renewed health.  Mueller was speaking to him of the premature death of Schubert, and Wolf replied, “A man is not taken away before he has said all he has to say.”

He worked furiously, “like a steam-engine,” as he said, and was so absorbed in the composition of Manuel Venegas (September, 1897) that he went without rest, and had hardly time to take necessary food.  In a fortnight he had written fifty pages of the pianoforte score, as well as the motifs for the whole work, and the music of half the first act.

Then madness came.  On 20 September he was seized while he was working at the great recitative of Manuel Venegas in the first act.

He was taken to Dr. Svetlin’s private hospital in Vienna, and remained there until January, 1898.  Happily he had devoted friends who took care of him and made up for the indifference of the public; for what he had earned himself would not have enabled him even to die in peace.  When Schott, the publisher, sent him in October, 1895, his royalties for the editions of his Lieder of Moerike, Goethe, Eichendorff, Keller, Spanish poetry, and the first volume of Italian poetry, their total for five years came to eighty-six marks and thirty-five pfennigs!  And Schott calmly added that he had not expected so good a result.  So it was Wolf’s friends, and especially Hugo Faisst, who not only saved him from misery by their unobtrusive and often secret generosity, but spared him the horror of destitution in his last misfortunes.