[Footnote 187: Wolf was living there with a friend. He had not a lodging
of his own until 1896, and that was due to the generosity of his
friends.]

Suddenly, at Doebling, on 29 November, 1891, the stream of Wolf's genius
flowed again, and he wrote fifteen Italian _Lieder_, sometimes several
in one day. In December it stopped again; and this time for five years.
These Italian melodies show, however, no trace of any effort, nor a
greater tension of mind than is shown in his preceding works. On the
contrary, they have the air of being the simplest and most natural work
that Wolf ever did. But the matter is of no real consequence, for when
Wolf's genius was not stirring within him he was useless. He wished to
write thirty-three Italian _Lieder_, but he had to stop after the
twenty-second, and in 1891 he published one volume only of the
_Italienisches-Liederbuch_. The second volume was completed in a month,
five years later, in 1896.

One may imagine the tortures that this solitary man suffered. His only
happiness was in creation, and he saw his life cease, without any
apparent cause, for years together, and his genius come and go, and
return for an instant, and then go again. Each time he must have
anxiously wondered if it had gone for ever, or how long it would be
before it came back again. In letters to Kaufmann on 6 August, 1891, and
26 April, 1893, he says:

"You ask me for news of my opera.[188] Good Heavens! I should be
content if I could write the tiniest little _Liedchen_. And an
opera, now?... I firmly believe that it is all over with me.... I
could as well speak Chinese as compose anything. It is horrible....
What I suffer from this inaction I cannot tell you. I should like
to hang myself."

To Hugo Faisst he wrote on 21 June, 1894:

"You ask me the cause of my great depression of spirit, and would
pour balm on my wounds. Ah yes, if you only could! But no herb
grows that could cure my sickness; only a god could help me. If you
can give me back my inspirations, and wake up the familiar spirit
that is asleep in me, and let him possess me anew, I will call you
a god and raise altars to your name. My cry is to gods and not to
men; the gods alone are fit to pronounce my fate. But however it
may end, even if the worst comes, I will bear it--yes, even if no
ray of sunshine lightens my life again.... And with that we will,
once for