slender and wears a silver band to keep her curls in order, is all the more charming by comparison. Three days in the week I have music at four o’clock, to wit, Bärmann, Breiting, Standacher, young Poissl, and various others come in, and we hold a sort of musical picnic. In this way I come to know operas which, to my discredit, I have neither heard nor seen before, as “Lodoiska,” “Faniska,” “Medea;” also “Preciosa,” “Abu Hassan,” etc.—the scores being lent us from the theatre. But on Wednesday evening we had a great joke. We had lost several wagers which we were all supposed to share in, so after many proposals we at last resolved to hold a musical soirée in my room, and invite all our Creditors. This brought up the list to about thirty persons; divers came uninvited and had themselves presented to us. There was a woeful lack of space; we had to put several on my bed, and a flock of patient sheep were conducted into my little room. The affair was incredibly lively and a great success. E. also was there, sweet as never was, melting with admiration and poetic fervour, and grey stockings, in short infinitely tedious. First I played my old quartette in E flat minor, then Breiting sang “Adelaide,” then Herr S. played variations on the violin—with many apologies. Bärmann played Beethoven’s first quartette (F major), which he had arranged for two clarinets, basset-horn, and bassoon; then came an air from Euryanthe, furiously demanded over again da capo, and for a finale I had to improvise—would not—but the uproar became so violent that I had to set to it
