“The performance of the _Rheingold_ took place on August 1st (13th), at 7 p.m. It lasted without a break two hours and a half. The other three parts, _Walküre_, _Siegfried_, and _Götterdämmerung_, will be given with an hour’s interval, and will last from 4 p.m. to 10 p.m. In consequence of the indisposition of the singer Betz, _Siegfried_ was postponed from Tuesday to Wednesday, so that the first cycle lasted fully five days. At three o’clock we take our way to the theatre, which stands on a little hill rather distant from the town. That is the most trying part of the day, even for those who have managed to fortify themselves with a good meal. The road lies uphill, with absolutely no shade, so that one is exposed to the scorching rays of the sun. While waiting for the performance to begin, the motley troop encamps on the grass near the theatre. Some sit over a glass of beer in the restaurant. Here acquaintances are made and renewed. From all sides one hears complaints of hunger and thirst, mingled with comments on present or past performances. At four o’clock, to the minute, the fanfare sounds, and the crowd streams into the theatre. Five minutes later all the seats are occupied. The fanfare sounds again, the buzz of conversation is stilled, the lights turned down, and darkness reigns in the auditorium. From depths--invisible to the audience--in which the orchestra is sunk float the strains of the beautiful overture; the curtain parts to either side, and the performance begins. Each act lasts an hour and a half; then comes an interval, but a very disagreeable one, for the sun is still far from setting, and it is difficult to find any place in the shade. The second interval, on the contrary, is the most beautiful part of the day. The sun is already near the horizon; in the air one feels the coolness of evening, the wooded hills around and the charming little town in the distance are lovely. Towards ten o’clock the performance comes to an end....” _To M. Tchaikovsky._ “VIENNA, _August_ 8_th_ (20_th_), 1876. “Bayreuth has left me with disagreeable recollections, although my artistic ambition was flattered more than once. It appears I am by no means as unknown in Western Europe as I believed. The disagreeable recollections are raised by the uninterrupted bustle in which I was obliged to take part. It finally came to an end on Thursday. After the last notes of the _Götterdämmerung_, I felt as though I had been let out of prison. The _Nibelungen_ may be actually a magnificent work, but it is certain that there never was anything so endlessly and wearisomely spun out.