me the horse prudently kept an eye on me as far as the Barriere de l’Etoile, as he was doubtful of my ability to take my horse beyond this point.  And, in fact, as I drew near to the Avenue de l’Imperatrice my steed obstinately refused to go any further:  he curveted sideways and backwards and frequently stood stock-still.  In this he persisted until at last I decided to return, in which the prudent foresight of the groom luckily came to my rescue.  He helped me down from my beast in the open street and led it home smiling.  With this experience my last effort to become a horseman came to an inglorious end, and I lost ten rides, the vouchers for which remained unused in my desk.

By way of compensation I found abundant refreshment and regular exercise in solitary walks in the Bois de Boulogne, gaily accompanied by my little dog Fips, during which I learned once more to appreciate the sylvan beauty of this artificial pleasure-ground.  Life also had become quieter, as is usually the case at this season in Paris.  Bulow, after hearing that his dejeuner at Vachette’s had produced the extraordinary result of an imperial command for the production of Tannhauser, had long since gone back to Germany; and in August I also set out on my carefully planned excursion to the German Rhine districts.  There I first turned my steps, via Cologne, to Coblenz, where I expected to find Princess Augusta of Prussia.  Learning, however, that she was in Baden, I made my way towards Soden, whence I fetched Minna for a further tour, accompanied by her recently acquired friend, Mathilde Schiffner.  We touched at Frankfort, where I met my brother Albert for the first time since leaving Dresden, as he also happened to be passing through this city.

When I was there it occurred to me that this was the residence of Schopenhauer, but a singular timidity restrained me from calling upon him.  My temper just then seemed too distraught and too far removed from all that which might have formed a subject for conversation with Schopenhauer, even if I had felt strongly attracted towards him, and which alone could have furnished a reason for intruding myself upon him, in spite of such disinclination.  As with so many other things in my life, I again deferred one of its most precious opportunities until that fervently expected ‘more favourable season,’ which I presumed was sure to come some day.  When, a year after this flying visit, I again stayed some time in Frankfort to superintend the production of my Meistersinger, I imagined that at last this more favourable opportunity for seeing Schopenhauer had come.  But, alas! he died that very year, a fact which led me to many bitter reflections on the uncertainty of fate.

During this earlier visit another fondly cherished hope also came to nothing.  I had reckoned on being able to induce Liszt to meet me in Frankfort, but instead found only a letter declaring it impossible to grant the fulfilment of my wish.