“I am sorry I have no scores to send you, but you shall have the Te Deum, Childhood of Christ and Lélio as soon as they come out. I already have your Lohengrin and should be delighted if you would let me have Tannhäuser.
“To meet as you suggest would be indeed a pleasure, but I dare not think of it. Since Paris offers me but Dead Sea fruit I must of necessity earn my bread by travelling for bread—not pleasure.
“No matter. If we could but live another hundred years or so we might perhaps understand the true inwardness of men and things. Old Demiurge must laugh in his beard at the continual triumph of his well-worn, oft-repeated farce.
“But I will not speak ill of him, since he is a friend of yours and you have become his champion. I am an impious wretch, full of respect for the Pies. Forgive the atrocious pun!
“P.S.—Winged flights of many tinted thoughts crowd in upon me and I long to send them, were there but time.
“Write me down an ass until further orders.”
XXXIV
1863—GATHERING TWILIGHT
Nearly ten years since I finished my memoir and during that time my life has been as full of incident as ever.
But since, for nothing on earth would I go through the labour of writing again, I must just indicate the chief points.
My work is over; Othello’s occupation’s gone. I no longer compose, conduct, write either prose or verse. I have resigned my post of musical critic and wish to do nothing more. I only read, think, fight my deadly weariness of soul and suffer from the incurable neuralgia that tortures me night and day.