his presenting his
Variations to Beethoven and that of his first visit to the composer on
his death-bed had been full of anxieties and bitter disappointments;
and there is no doubt that the continuous struggle for existence,
coupled with the strain of unceasing work, had only too surely
undermined a constitution which could never have been robust.

One of Schubert's greatest longings was to write for the stage. The
longing was evident almost at the first, and it grew with his strength
and the consciousness of his powers as a composer. As the finger of
fame beckoned him forward it had directed his steps to the theatre as
the goal of his aspirations, and it was upon the attainment of this
object that he lavished all the later powers of his genius--only,
alas! to reap the bitter fruit of disappointment. One after another of
his operas was rejected, even, as in the case of 'Fierabras,' when at
the very point of production--the reasons assigned in each case being
either the unsuitableness of the libretto or the difficulties
presented by the music, and the door which he hoped to enter was
closed against him during his lifetime. The score of 'Fierabras'
comprised no fewer than one thousand pages, and the mournful state
into which he was thrown by its rejection may be gathered by an
extract from a letter penned just after the fate of the opera had been
sealed. He refers to himself as 'the most unfortunate, most miserable
being on earth,' and proceeds: 'Think of a man whose health can never
be restored, and who from sheer despair makes matters worse instead of
better. Think, I say, of a man whose brightest hopes have come to
nothing, to whom love and friendship are but torture, and whose
enthusiasm for the beautiful is fast vanishing, and ask yourself if
such a man is not truly unhappy.

'My peace is gone, my heart is sore,
Gone for ever and evermore.

This is my daily cry; for every night I go to sleep hoping never again
to wake, and every morning only brings back the torment of the day
before.... I have composed two operas for nothing.'

Thus sadly he wrote in the hour of bitterness, but happily for
Schubert, and still more fortunately for us, there were brighter days
yet in store for him, and the enthusiasm for the beautiful, which he
speaks of as 'fast vanishing,' returned in all its accustomed force.
No disappointment, however great, seemed to have the power to check
the flow of production--that is the one gre