in a very faulty manner, I felt the object of my study had been
attained, and I had no inclination to devote any further
attention to perfecting my technique.

Yet I had attained this much: I was no longer dependent for music
on the playing of others; from this time forth I used to try and
play, albeit very imperfectly, everything I wanted to know. I
also tried Mozart's Don Juan, but was unable to get any pleasure
out of it, mainly because the Italian text in the arrangement for
the piano placed the music in a frivolous light in my eyes, and
much in it seemed to me trivial and unmanly. (I can remember that
when my sister used to sing Zerlinen's ariette, Batti, batti, ben
Masetto, the music repelled me, as it seemed so mawkish and
effeminate.)

On the other hand, my bent for music grew stronger and stronger,
and I now tried to possess myself of my favourite pieces by
making my own copies. I can remember the hesitation with which my
mother for the first time gave me the money to buy the scored
paper on which I copied out Weber's Lutzow's Jagd, which was the
first piece of music I transcribed.

Music was still a secondary occupation with me when the news of
Weber's death and the longing to learn his music to Oberon fanned
my enthusiasm into flame again. This received fresh impetus from
the afternoon concerts in the Grosser Garten at Dresden, where I
often heard my favourite music played by Zillmann's Town Band, as
I thought, exceedingly well. The mysterious joy I felt in hearing
an orchestra play quite close to me still remains one of my most
pleasant memories. The mere tuning up of the instruments put me