I left for Germany a few days later on my pilgrimage. It was hard work truly, but it was at least _musical_ hard work, and I had the untold happiness of being safe away from the intrigues and platitudes of Paris and among sympathetic musical people. XXVI HECHINGEN--WEIMAR My tour began with trouble; I had intended giving a concert in Brussels, as Madame Nathan-Treillet, the idol of the Bruxellois, had kindly promised to come from Paris purposely to sing for me. But she fell seriously ill, and we knew that not all the symphonies in the world would make up for her absence. When the catastrophe was announced the Grande Harmonie promptly fainted _en bloc_, pipes went out as if from want of air, and people dispersed groaning. In vain did I say, “Be calm! There will be no concert; you will be spared the misery of listening to my music. Surely that compensation is not to be despised!” It availed naught. _Their eyes wept tears of beer et nolebant consolari_ because she came not. So my concert went to the devil. Time passed; I was obliged to go on leaving the poor Belgians to their fate. My anxiety for them, however, soon melted as I embarked on my Rhine journey and went up to Mainz, hoping to be able to arrange a concert there. I first went to Schott, patriarch of music publishers, who seemed rather as if he belonged to the household of the Sleeping Beauty, his somnolent sentences being interspersed with long silences. “I don’t think--you hardly will be able--give a concert--there is--no orchestra--no public--no money.” Not being overburdened with patience, I went straight to the station and off to Frankfort. To add fuel to my fire, the train was asleep too; it “made haste slowly”; it did not _go_; it dawdled and, particularly that day, made interminable organ pedal-points at each station. But every adagio has an end, and finally I got to Frankfort--a well-built, bright town, very much alive and up to date. Next day, crossing the square on my way to the theatre, I came up with some young men carrying wind-instruments and asked them--since they evidently belonged to the orchestra--to take my card to Guhr, the chief. “Ah,” said one, who spoke French, “we are glad to see you. M. Guhr told us you were coming. We have done _King Lear_ twice, and though we cannot offer you your Conservatoire orchestra, perhaps you will not be very displeased with us.” Guhr appeared, sharp, incisive, with snapping dark eyes and quick gestures; it was easy to see that he would not err on the side of indulgence with his orchestra. He spoke French but not fluently enough for his wishes, so he tumbled over his sentences, which were interlarded with oaths in a thick German accent, with most ludicrous results. The upshot of his flow of eloquence was that the two Milanollo girls were creating such a furore that no other music would have the slightest chance of success. He was voluble in excuses and ended: