3 6 HERMANN VON HELMHOLTZ 



if only you could dig him out, and that proved treasure-trove 

 indeed '. Before long he was accepted as one of the household, 

 which, he declared, seemed to him less a part of ordinary life 

 than of some beautiful romance ; while his judgement in all 

 matters was soon accepted as conclusive. He played the piano 

 a great deal with the younger sister, Olga, who sang exceedingly 

 well, displayed his talent for reading aloud, made pretty verses 

 for the young ladies, and acted comedy almost like a professional, 

 taking the humorous parts for choice, especially those with 

 a touch of the grotesque. A still existing play-bill tells us that 

 he took the chief role of Herr Petermann in a piece called 

 Lodgings to Let, performed on December 27, 1846, at the house 

 of Rigler, the Director of the Gymnasium. It is on record 

 that Helmholtz gave up his time most amiably, and worked 

 hard at the performance, although it was obvious from his 

 acting that his mind was occupied with other and higher 

 thoughts ; in fact, he was just then writing the Introduction to 

 his memoir on the * Conservation of Energy '. l He was 

 becoming/ writes his sister-in-law, * an inseparable part of our 

 existence, and there was a ripening sense between him and my 

 sister that their lives were bound up together. Olga was not 

 beautiful, but she was refined and agreeable; she never put 

 herself forward, but listened with attention and keen observa- 

 tion. Her mind was alert, amusing, witty, almost sarcastic ; but 

 there was about her a breath of femininity and simple purity 

 that was irresistible/ 



The betrothal took place on March n, 1847, an d Helmholtz 

 writes a characteristic letter to his bride-elect on a day when he 

 had vainly expected her at a symphony-concert at the Sing- 

 Akademie in Berlin. ' You did not come, and so my ear went 

 wrong also. I fancied it must always have been your soul, 

 with your deep musical perceptions, that had governed the 

 harmonies in my brain. My ear heard only musical figures, 

 and my soul heard naught. Needless to say this was in the 

 Mozart Symphony, one of his finest, with which every one else 

 was delighted. But forlorn as I was, bereft of the better half 

 of my soul, I might as well have been listening to scales upon 

 the piano. I only recovered myself in the Coriolanus Overture. 

 That is a jewel so short, so convincing, so decided, and proud 

 amid a host of restless and entangled motifs, while it dies off 



