Bülow was in wretched health during the entire summer, suffering from headaches, sleeplessness, and general nervous collapse, but with an iron will he went through the summer’s programme, accepting no financial recompense for himself, solely to help gather money through his classes toward the completion of the Raff monument. I remember one night returning to the hotel after the opera, and as I passed the door of his room to get to mine, which was on the same floor, I heard such loud and continued sobbing that I opened his door, after receiving no response to my knocking. I found him in his nightclothes, kneeling before his bed, his head buried in the mattress and sobbing so bitterly that it was heart-breaking. I rushed over to him, thinking that perhaps he was very ill, and it was a long time before I could quiet him. He kept reiterating that life was over for him, that he wanted to die, and it was only by continually telling him how much we all adored him and what his friendship meant for us that I was able gradually to quiet him and to put him to bed, where I sat holding his hands until early morning when he finally went to sleep. Weak and ill though he was after the summer’s arduous work, he had promised the University of Marburg to give them two of his famous Beethoven recitals, and as his friend Steyl, the music publisher, and I were worried about his condition we decided to accompany him in order to look after him. The arrangements for the concerts which were to be held in the afternoon in the aula of the venerable university were in the hands of the professor of Greek, a typical old absent-minded gentleman who seemed overcome with the honor of having a visit from the great von Bülow and who also was nervously afraid of this brusque little man. I was worried over the whole affair. Bülow had been very weak all morning and Steyl and I wanted him to cancel the recital, but he would not hear of it and bravely went on the stage to begin his programme. Unfortunately, owing to the summer heat, the windows of the aula were open wide, and during the music the cries of the children playing below, the rumbling of carts over the rough pavements of the mediæval streets, came up in constant clangor. Bülow began, faltered, began again and stopped—ran from the stage and returned to begin again. But it was no use. The noise continued and the recital had to be called off, and after a nervous crisis accompanied by great weeping, we got him back to the hotel and to bed, Bülow heaping curses on the little professor on whom he blamed everything, the glaring sunlight, the cries of the playing children, and the noise of the carts. The recital for the following day was, of course, cancelled, and we arranged everything for taking Bülow back to Frankfort.