“That is all very pretty, but I can only advise you not to give up your position. Your voice is not bad, but it is not extraordinary, and it is questionable whether you could learn anything.” “Madame, she has talent,” insisted my mother. “And under your instruction it would most certainly develop.” “But I cannot tell to-day whether I will undertake to give her this instruction. The young lady must first take a few lessons, and then I will decide whether I will go on with her—yes or no. According to my impression of to-day, there is little chance for yes.” “Oh, do not judge by to-day’s test; the poor girl was so nervous—I really did not know her.” “If one suffers from nervousness, one is not fitted for the career of an artist; an additional reason for giving it up.” “Her timidity will disappear when she gets used to it,” urged my mother. “Very well, then; come next Monday at the same hour.” And we were dismissed. We returned to the hotel, and there I gave vent to my suppressed anguish in a burst of tears. “Never, never again will I set foot in that Viardot villa! Let us go away, mamma; I will never let myself be seen in that woman’s presence again! It is over—it is all over!” My world lay in ruins. The “one important thing” was annihilated. IX THE YEAR 1866 Return · Elvira’s death · Fürstenberg’s death · The war · Homburg once more · Back to Baden · Baron Koller We journeyed back to our Baden villa. Professor Beranek was indignant at Madame Viardot. For a long time I would sing no more. But at length he brought me to it. “You will not have been the first,” he said consolingly, “who has failed of recognition at a trial and has then put the false prophets to shame through greatness fairly won.” But my self-confidence was too completely crushed. It did not so quickly wake to new force. At the same time a hard sorrow befell me. Word came from Venice that my cousin Elvira was very ill, that her lung trouble had taken a turn for the worse, and that she was confined to her bed. Not many days later there came the news of her death. For the first time in my life I learned how it feels to lose a dear one. An incomprehensible emptiness, an unintelligible shuddering.... The bereaved mother came to us. She was on the verge of despair. Now of course all singing was hushed in the house. The year 1866 brought me still another severe loss, that of my much-loved paternal friend Fürstenberg. He departed this life after a brief illness at his residence in Vienna. And one thing more that unblest year brought,—war.