“I went to Weimar via Carlsruhe (where there was nothing to be done) and Mannheim—a cold, calm, respectable town, where love of music will never keep the inhabitants awake.
“The younger Lachner, a real artist, both modest and talented, is director there; he hurriedly arranged a concert for me, and was deeply grieved because the ineptitude of his trombones forbade our giving the Orgie in Harold.
“Mannheim bored me horribly, and it was an intense relief to get away and breathe freely once more.
“Behold me then again afloat on the Rhine—I meet Guhr, still swearing—I leave him—meet our friend Hiller, who tells me his Fall of Jerusalem is ready—I leave, in company with a magnificent sore throat—sleep on the way—dream frightful things that I will not repeat—reach Weimar, thoroughly ill—Lobe and Chélard try in vain to prop me up—preparations for concert—first rehearsal—I rejoice and am cured.
“There is something broad, cultivated, liberal about the very air of Weimar. Calm, luminous, peaceful, dreamy—how my heart beat as I paced the streets!
“Here is the summer-house of Goethe where the late Grand Duke used to come to take part in the discussions of Schiller, Herder, and Wieland. There, a Latin inscription traced by the author of Faust. Those two attic windows, are they indeed those of Schiller? Was it this humble roof that sheltered the mighty enthusiasm of the author of Don Carlos? Was it right of Goethe, the rich and powerful minister, thus to leave his friend in poverty? I fear me that it was true friendship on the side of Schiller only—Goethe loved himself too well, he lived too long and death was to him a terror.
“Schiller! Schiller! you deserved a less human friend!
“It is one in the morning, with bitter cold and a brilliant moon. I stand entranced before that small dark house; all is silent in this city of the dead.
“Within me surges up that passion of respect, regret, and love for the genius that stretches out a hand from beyond the cold dark grave, and lays a mighty finger on us poor obscure earth wanderers, and upon that humble threshold I kneel, murmuring brokenly, ‘Schiller! Schiller!’
“But I am no nearer the subject of my letter, dear friend; to soothe myself I must think of another dweller in Weimar, the talented but cold Hummel.