"Since I am here recalling the consolations of my life, I ought to express in a word my gratitude for what was by far my most profound and best-loved joy--my intimacy with Richard Wagner. I wish to be just with regard to the rest of my human relationships; but I absolutely cannot efface from my life the days at Triebschen, days of confidence, of gaiety; of sublime flashes--days of _profound_ happiness. I do not know what Wagner was for others: our sky was never darkened by a cloud." * * * * * On the 9th of January, 1889, Franz Overbeck was sitting, with his wife, at the window of his quiet house in Basle, when he saw old Burckhardt stop and ring at his door. He was surprised: Burckhardt was not an intimate, and some intuition warned him that Nietzsche, their common friend, was the cause of this visit. For some weeks he had had disquieting notes from Turin. Burckhardt brought him a long letter which all too clearly confirmed his presentiments. Nietzsche was mad. "I am Ferdinand de Lesseps," he wrote, "I am Prado, I am Chambige [the two assassins with whom the Paris newspapers were then occupied]; I have been buried twice this autumn." A few moments later Overbeck received a similar letter, and all Nietzsche's friends were likewise advised. He had written to each of them. "Friend Georges," he wrote to Brandes, "since you have discovered me, it is not wonderful to find me: what is now difficult is to lose me. "THE CRUCIFIED." Peter Gast received a message the tragic significance of which he did not understand: _"A mon maestro Pietro._ "Sing me a new song. The world is clear and all the skies rejoice." "Ariadne, I love you," he wrote to Cosima Wagner. Overbeck started immediately. He found Nietzsche, watched over by his hosts, ploughing the piano with his elbow, singing and crying his Dionysian glory. He was able to bring him back to Basle, and introduce him, without too painful a scene, into a hospital, where his mother came to seek him. He lived another ten years. The first of them were cruel, the later more kindly; sometimes even there seemed to be hope. He would recall his work. "Have I not written fine books?" he would say. He was shown portraits of Wagner. "Him," he would say, "I loved much." These returns of consciousness might have been frightful; it seems that they were not. One day his sister, as she sat by his side, could not restrain her tears. "Lisbeth," he said, "why do you cry? Are we not happy?" The ruined intellect could not be saved, but the uncorrupted soul kept sweet and charming, open to pure impressions. One day a young man who was occupied with the publication of his work was out with him on his short walk. Nietzsche perceived a little girl at the side of the road, and was charmed. He went up to her, stopped, and with a hand drew back the hair which lay low on her forehead; then, contemplating the frank face with a smile, he said: