But a likeness of Schopenhauer, painted by Lenbach after the philosopher’s death, has a story that is worth repeating. When Schopenhauer died, Wagner, who had the greatest admiration for him, begged Lenbach to paint a portrait of him. “But I never saw him,” said the artist, and declared that it was impossible. Now it so happened that a certain photographer, in cleaning out his drawers, came upon a photograph of Schopenhauer, the existence of which he had quite forgotten. Wagner, who had secured it, showed it to Lenbach and asked him whether that would not help him. The painter looked at it, and exclaimed, “Why that is my little old man!” and then told the tale of how one day walking in the street he had met a curiously comic little old man fidgeting about hither and thither from one shop-window to another, and had been so struck by the grotesqueness of the little creature that he followed him about, making mental notes of him, for the whole afternoon. So he was delighted to undertake the portrait, and by the help of the photograph, supplementing his own memory, produced what must be reckoned a famous work of art. At the back of the house is the garden. Here too the all-embracing genius of the master found room for play. He laid it out with exquisite and delicate taste. A lawn with flowers leads to a little shady wood, and that again opens on to the public gardens of the town. In front of the wood, or rather in a recess screened and shaded by it, is a bust of the master facing the house. It marks his grave. He lies in the home which he loved, in the place where he found Peace. It was in this sacred grove that I had the honour of being received by the gracious lady of Wahnfried. She is now, alas! able to see very few people, but she made an exception in my favour, and I had half an hour’s delightful conversation with her. In appearance I thought her little altered from what I remember her in 1877, when she came with her husband for the great concerts at the Albert Hall, and when those who had not the privilege of speaking with her were fascinated by her beautiful presence. Though she is not strong, the years have touched her lightly—a little more snow in the hair, the features a little more marked, reminding one more than ever of her great father, Franz Liszt—but she has retained all the grace, all the charm, all the magic of sympathy, all the keenness of thought for which she has been world-famous. Indeed, the world owes her no small meed of gratitude for the zeal and brilliant talent with which after the master’s death she threw herself into the work of keeping alive the great performances of the Fest-Spiel-Haus.