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MY LIFE, VOLUME 2 (ENGLISH TRANSLATION PUBLISHED IN NEW YORK, 1911)
by Richard Wagner
PART III
PART IV
MY LIFE, VOLUME 2 (OF 2)
PART III
1850-1861
MINNA had been lucky enough to find quarters near Zurich which
corresponded very closely with the wishes I had so emphatically
expressed before leaving. The house was situated in the parish of
Enge, a good fifteen minutes' walk from the town, on a site
overlooking the lake, and was an old-fashioned hostelry called
'Zum Abendstern,' belonging to a certain Frau Hirel, who was a
pleasant old lady. The second floor, which was quite self-
contained and very quiet, offered us humble but adequate
accommodations for a modest rent.
I arrived early in the morning and found Minna still in bed. She
was anxious to know whether I had returned simply out of pity;
but I quickly succeeded in obtaining her promise that she would
never again refer to what had taken place. She was soon quite
herself again when she began to show me the progress she had made
in arranging the rooms.
Our position had for some years been growing more comfortable, in
spite of the fact that at this time various difficulties again
arose, and our domestic happiness seemed tolerably secure. Yet I
could never quite master a restless inclination to deviate from
anything that was regarded as conventional.
Our two pets, Peps and Papo, largely helped to make our lodgings
homelike; both were very fond of me, and were sometimes even too
obtrusive in showing their affection. Peps would always lie
behind me in the armchair while I was working, and Papo, after
repeatedly calling out 'Richard' in vain, would often come
fluttering into my study if I stayed away from the sitting-room
too long. He would then settle down on my desk and vigorously
shuffle about the papers and pens. He was so well trained that he
never uttered the ordinary cry of a bird, but expressed his
sentiments only by talking or singing. As soon as he heard my
step on the staircase he would begin whistling a tune, as, for
instance, the great march in the finale of the Symphony in C
minor, the beginning of the Eighth Symphony in F major, or even a
bright bit out of the Rienzi Overture. Peps, our little dog, on
the other hand, was a highly sensitive and nervous creature. My
friends used to call him 'Peps the petulant,' and there were
times when we could not speak to him even in the friendliest way
without bringing on paroxysms of howls and sobs. These two pets
of course helped very much to increase the mutual understanding
between myself and my wife.
Unfortunately, there was one perpetual source of quarrel, arising
from my wife's behaviour towards poor Nathalie. Until her death
she shamefully withheld from the girl the fact that she was her
mother. Nathalie, therefore, always believed that she was Minna's
sister, and consequently could not understand why she should not
have the same rights as my wife, who always treated her in an
authoritative way, as a strict mother would do, and seemed to
think herself justified in complaining of Nathalie's behaviour.
Apparently the latter had been much neglected and spoiled just at
the critical age, and deprived of any proper training. She was
short in stature and inclined to become stout, her manners were
awkward and her opinions narrow. Minna's hasty temper and
continual jeering made the girl, who was naturally very good-
natured, stubborn and spiteful, so that the behaviour of the
'sisters' often caused the most hateful scenes in our quiet home.
I never lost my patience at these incidents, however, but
remained, completely indifferent to everything going on around
me.
The arrival of my young friend Karl was a pleasant diversion in
our small household. Ho occupied a tiny attic above our rooms and
shared our meals. Sometimes he would accompany me on my walks,
and for a time seemed quite satisfied.
But I soon noticed in him a growing restlessness. He had not been
slow to recognise, by the unpleasant scenes that again became
daily occurrences in our married life, at what point the shoe
pinched that I had good-naturedly put on again at his request.
However, when one day I reminded him that in coming hack to
Zurich I had other objects in view besides the longing for a
quiet domestic life, he remained silent. But I saw that there was
another peculiar reason for his uneasiness; he took to coming in
late for meals, and even then he had no appetite. At first I was
anxious at this, fearing he might have taken a dislike to our
simple fare, but I soon discovered that my young friend was so
passionately addicted to sweets that I feared he might eventually
ruin his health by trying to live on large quantities of
confectionery. My remarks seemed to annoy him, as his absences
from the house became more frequent, I thought that probably his
small room did not afford him the comfort he required, and I
therefore made no objection when he left us and took a room in
town.
As his state of uneasiness still seemed to increase and he did
not appear at all happy in Zurich, I was glad to be able to
suggest a little change for him, and persuade him to go for a
holiday to Weimar, where the first performance of Lohengrin was
to take place about the end of August.
About the same time I induced Minna to go with me for our first
ascent of the Righi, a feat we both accomplished very
energetically on foot. I was very much grieved on this occasion
to discover that my wife had symptoms of heart disease, which
continued to develop subsequently. We spent the evening of the
28th of August, while the first performance of Lohengrin was
taking place at Weimar, in Lucerne, at the Schwan inn, watching
the clock as the hands went round, and marking the various times
at which the performance presumably began, developed, and came to
a close.
I always felt somewhat distressed, uncomfortable, and ill at ease
whenever I tried to pass a few pleasant hours in the society of
my wife.
The reports received of that first performance gave me no clear
or reassuring impression of it. Karl Ritter soon came back to
Zurich, and told me of deficiencies in staging and of the
unfortunate choice of a singer for the leading part, but remarked
that on the whole it had gone fairly well. The reports sent me by
Liszt were the most encouraging. He did not seem to think it
worth while to allude to the inadequacy of the means at his
command for such a bold undertaking, but preferred to dwell on
the sympathetic spirit that prevailed in the company and the
effect it produced on the influential personages he had invited
to be present.
Although everything in connection with this important enterprise
eventually assumed a bright aspect, the direct result on my
position at the time was very slight. I was more interested in
the future of the young friend who had been entrusted to my care
than in anything else. At the time of his visit to Weimar he had
been to stay with his family in Dresden, and after his return
expressed an anxious wish to become a musician, and possibly to
secure a position as a musical director at a theatre. I had never
had an opportunity of judging of his gifts in this line. He had
always refused to play the piano in my presence, but I had seen
his setting of an alliterative poem of his own, Die Walkure,
which, though rather awkwardly put together, struck me by its
precise and skilful compliance with the rules of composition.
He proved himself to be the worthy pupil of his master, Robert
Schumann, who, long before, had told me that Karl possessed great
musical gifts, and that he could not remember ever having had any
other pupil endowed with such a keen ear and such a ready
facility for assimilation. Consequently I had no reason to
discourage the young man's confidence in his capacity for the
career of a musical director. As the winter season was
approaching, I asked the manager of the theatre for the address
of Herr Kramer, who was coming for the season, and learned that
he was still engaged at Winterthur.
Sulzer, who was always ready when help or advice was needed,
arranged for a meeting with Herr Kramer at a dinner at the
'Wilden Mann' in Winterthur. At this meeting it was decided, on
my recommendation, that Karl Ritter should be appointed musical
director at the theatre for the ensuing winter, starting from
October, and the remuneration he was to receive was really a very
fair one. As my protege was admittedly a beginner, I had to
guarantee his capacity by undertaking to perform his duties in
the event of any trouble arising at the theatre on the ground of
his inefficiency. Karl seemed delighted. As October drew near and
the opening of the theatre was announced to take place 'under
exceptional artistic auspices.' I thought it advisable to see
what Karl's views were.
By way of a debut I had selected Der Freischutz, so that he might
open his career with a well-known opera. Karl did not entertain
the slightest doubt of being able to master such a simple score,
but when he had to overcome his reserve in playing the piano
before me, as I wanted to go through the whole opera with him, I
was amazed at seeing that he had no idea of accompaniment. He
played the arrangement for the pianoforte with the characteristic
carelessness of an amateur who attaches no importance to
lengthening a bar by incorrect fingering. He knew nothing
whatever about rhythmic precision or tempo, the very essentials
of a conductor's career. I felt completely nonplussed and was
absolutely at a loss what to say. However, I still hoped the
young man's talent might suddenly break out, and I looked forward
to an orchestral rehearsal, for which I provided him with a pair
of large spectacles. I had never noticed before that he was so
shortsighted, but when reading he had to keep his face so close
to the music that it would have been impossible for him to
control both orchestra and singers. When I saw him, hitherto so
confident, standing at the conductor's desk staring hard at the
score, in spite of his spectacles, and making meaningless signs
in the air like one in a trance, I at once realised that the time
for carrying out my guarantee had arrived.
It was, nevertheless, a somewhat difficult and trying task to
make young Ritter understand that I should be compelled to take
his place; but there was no help for it, and it was I who had to
inaugurate Kramer's winter season under such 'exceptional
artistic auspices.' The success of Der Freischulz placed me in a
peculiar position as regards both the company and the public, but
it was quite out of the question to suppose that Karl could
continue to act as musical director at the theatre by himself.
Strange to say, this trying experience coincided with an
important change in the life of another young friend of mine,
Hans von Bulow, whom I had known in Dresden. I had met his father
at Zurich in the previous year just after his second marriage. He
afterwards settled down at Lake Constance, and it was from this
place that Hans wrote to me expressing his regret that he was
unable to pay his long-desired visit to Zurich, as he had
previously promised to do.
As far as I could make out, his mother, who had been divorced
from his father, did all in her power to restrain him from
embracing the career of an artist, and tried to persuade him to
enter the civil or the diplomatic service, as he had studied law.
But his inclinations and talents impelled him to a musical
career. It seemed that his mother, when giving him permission to
go to visit his father, had particularly urged him to avoid any
meeting with me. When I afterwards heard that he had been advised
by his father also not to come to Zurich, I felt sure that the
latter, although he had been on friendly terms with me, was
anxious to act in accordance with his first wife's wishes in this
serious matter of his son's future, so as to avoid any further
disputes after the friction of the divorce had barely been
allayed. Later on I learned that these statements, which roused a
strong feeling of resentment in me against Eduard von Bulow, were
unfounded; but the despairing tone of Hans's letter, clearly
showing that any other career would be repugnant to him and would
be a constant source of misery, seemed to be ample reason for my
interference. This was one of the occasions when my easily
excited indignation roused me to activity. I replied very fully,
and eloquently pointed out to him the vital importance of this
moment in his life. The desperate tone of his letter justified me
in telling him very plainly that this was not a case in which he
could deal hastily with his views as to the future, but that it
was a matter profoundly affecting his whole heart and soul. I
told him what I myself would do in his case, that is to say, if
he really felt an overwhelming and irresistible impulse to become
an artist, and would prefer to endure the greatest hardships and
trials rather than be forced into a course he felt was a wrong
one, he ought, in defiance of everything, to make up his mind to
accept the helping hand I was holding out to him at once. If, in
spite of his father's prohibition, he still wished to come to me,
he ought not to hesitate, but should carry out his wishes
immediately on the receipt of my letter.
Karl Ritter was pleased when I entrusted him with the duty of
delivering the letter personally at Bulow's country villa. When
he arrived he asked to see his friend at the door, and went for a
stroll with him, during which he gave him my letter. Thereupon
Hans, who like Karl had no money, at once decided, in spite of
storm and rain, to accompany Karl back to Zurich on foot. So one
day they turned up absolutely tired out, and came into my room
looking like a couple of tramps, with visible signs about them of
their mad expedition. Karl beamed with joy over this feat, while
young Bulow was quite overcome with emotion.
I at once realised that I had taken a very serious responsibility
on my shoulders, yet I sympathised deeply with the overwrought
youth, and my conduct towards him was guided by all that had
occurred for a long time afterwards.
At first we had to console him, and stimulate his confidence by
our cheerfulness. His appointment was soon arranged. He was to
share Karl's contract at the theatre, and enjoy the same rights;
both were to receive a small salary, and I was to continue to act
as surety for their capabilities.
At this time they happened to be rehearsing a musical comedy, and
Hans, without any knowledge of the subject, took up his position
at the conductor's desk and handled the baton with great vigour
and remarkable skill. I felt safe as far as he was concerned, and
all doubt as to his ability as musical director vanished on the
spot. But it was a somewhat difficult task to overcome Karl's
misgivings about himself, owing to the idea ingrained in his mind
that he never could become a practical musician. A growing
shyness and secret antipathy towards me soon manifested itself
and became more noticeable in this young man, in spite of the
fact that he was certainly gifted. It was impossible to keep him
any longer in his position or to ask him to conduct again.
Bulow also soon encountered unexpected difficulties. The manager
and his staff, who had been spoiled by my having conducted on the
occasion already mentioned, were always on the look-out for some
fresh excuse for requisitioning my services.
I did, in fact, conduct again a few times, partly to give the
public a favourable impression of the operatic company, which was
really quite a good one, and partly to show my young friends,
especially Bulow, who was so eminently adapted for a conductor,
the most essential points which the leader of an orchestra ought
to know.
Hans was always equal to the occasion, and I could with a clear
conscience say there was no need for me to take his place
whenever he was called upon to conduct. However, one of the
artistes, a very conceited singer, who had been somewhat spoiled
by my praise, annoyed him so much by her ways that she succeeded
in forcing me to take up the baton again. When a couple of months
later we realised the impossibility of carrying on this state of
things indefinitely, and were tired of the whole affair, the
management consented to free us from our irksome duties. About
this time Hans was offered the post of musical director at St.
Gall without any special conditions being attached to his
engagement, so I sent the two boys off to try their luck in the
neighbouring town, and thus gained time for further developments.
Herr Eduard von Bulow had, after all, come to the conclusion that
it would be wiser to abide by his son's decision, though he did
not do so without evincing a good deal of ill-humour towards me.
He had not replied to a letter I had written him to explain my
conduct in the matter, but I afterwards learned that he had
visited his son in Zurich by way of patching up a reconciliation.
I went several times to St. Gall to see the young men, as they
remained there during the winter months. I found Karl lost in
gloomy thought: he had again met with an unfavourable reception
when conducting Gluck's Overture to Iphigenia, and was keeping
aloof from everybody. Hans was busily rehearsing with a very poor
company and a horrible orchestra, in a hideous theatre. Seeing
all this misery, I told Hans that for the time being he had
picked up enough to pass for a practical musician or even for an
experienced conductor.
The question now was to find him a sphere which would give him a
suitable scope for his talents. He told me that his father was
going to send him to Freiherr von Poissl, the manager of the
Munich Court Theatre, with a letter of introduction. But his
mother soon intervened, and wanted him to go to Weimar to
continue his musical training under Liszt. This was all I could
desire; I felt greatly relieved and heartily recommended the
young man, of whom I was very fond, to my distinguished friend.
He left St. Gall at Easter, 1851, and during the long period of
his stay in Weimar I was released from the responsibility of
looking after him.
Meanwhile Ritter remained in melancholy retirement, and not being
able to make up his mind whether or not he should return to
Zurich, where he would be disagreeably reminded of his unlucky
debut, he preferred for the present to stay in seclusion at St.
Gall.
The sojourn of my young friends at St. Gall had been pleasantly
varied during the previous winter by a visit to Zurich, when Hans
made his appearance as pianist at one of the concerts of the
musical society there. I also took an active part in it by
conducting one of Beethoven's symphonies, and it was a great
pleasure to us both to give each other mutual encouragement.
I had been asked to appear again at this society's concerts
during the winter. However, I only did so occasionally, to
conduct a Beethoven symphony, making it a condition that the
orchestra, and more especially the string instruments, should be
reinforced by capable musicians from other towns.
As I always required three rehearsals for each symphony, and many
of the musicians had to come from a great distance, our work
acquired quite an imposing and solemn character. I was able to
devote the time usually taken up by a rehearsal to the study of
one symphony, and accordingly had leisure to work out the
minutest details of the execution, particularly as the technical
difficulties were not of an insuperable character. My facility in
interpreting music at that time attained a degree of perfection I
had not hitherto reached, and I recognised this by the unexpected
effect my conducting produced.
The orchestra contained some really talented and clever
musicians, among whom I may mention Fries, an oboist, who,
starting from a subordinate place, had been appointed a leading
player. He had to practice with me, just as a singer would do,
the more important parts allotted to his instrument in
Beethoven's symphonies. When we first produced the Symphony in C
minor, this extraordinary man played the small passage marked
adagio at the fermata of the first movement in a manner I have
never heard equalled. After my retirement from the directorship
of these concerts he left the orchestra and went into business as
a music-seller.
The orchestra could further boast of a Herr Ott-Imhoff, a highly
cultured and well-to-do man who belonged to a noble family, and
had joined the orchestra as a patron and as an amateur musician.
He played the clarionet with a soft and charming tone which was
somewhat lacking in spirit. I must also mention the worthy Herr
Bar, a cornet-player, whom I appointed leader of the brass
instruments, as be exercised a great influence on that part of
the orchestra. I cannot remember ever having heard the long,
powerful chords of the last movement of the C minor Symphony
executed with such intense power as by this player in Zurich, and
can only compare the recollection of it with the impressions I
had when, in my early Parisian days, the Conservatoire orchestra
performed Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.
Our production of the Symphony in C minor made a great impression
on the audience, especially on my intimate friend Sulzer, who had
previously kept aloof from any kind of music. He became so
incensed when an attack was made on me by a newspaper that he
answered the gratuitous critic in a satirical poem composed with
the skill of a Platen.
As I have already said, Bulow was invited in the course of the
winter to give a pianoforte recital at a concert at which I
promised to produce the Sinfonia Eroica.
With his usual audacity he chose Liszt's piano arrangement of the
Tannhauser Overture, a work as brilliant as it is difficult, and
therefore a somewhat hazardous undertaking. However, he caused
quite a sensation, and I myself was astounded at his execution.
Up to this time I had not paid it the attention it deserved, and
it inspired me with the greatest confidence in his future. I
frequently had occasion to admire his masterly skill both as
conductor and accompanist.
During that winter, apart from the occasions in my young friend's
life already briefly alluded to, there were frequent
opportunities of displaying his capabilities. My acquaintances
used to foregather in my house, and formed quite a little club
for the purposes of mutual enjoyment, which, however, would
hardly have been successful without Bulow's assistance.
I sang suitable passages from my opera, which Hans accompanied
with an expressiveness which delighted me very much. On an
occasion like this I also read aloud extracts from my
manuscripts. For instance, during a series of successive evenings
I read the whole of my longer work, Oper und Drama, written in
the course of this winter, and was favoured by a steadily growing
and remarkably attentive audience.
Now that after my return I had secured a certain degree of peace
and tranquillity of mind, I began to think of resuming my more
serious studies. But somehow the composition of Siegfried's Death
did not seem to appeal to me. The idea of sitting down
deliberately to write a score which should never go further than
the paper on which it was written, again discouraged me; whereas
I felt more and more strongly impelled to lay a foundation on
which it might some day be possible to present such a work, even
though the end had to be gained by roundabout means. To secure
this object it seemed above all necessary to approach those
friends, both at home and abroad, who interested themselves in my
art, in order to expound to them more clearly the problems that
demanded solution, which, although definite enough to my own
mind, had scarcely as yet even entered into their heads. A
singularly favourable opportunity for so doing offered itself one
day when Sulzer showed me an article on 'Opera' in Brockhaus's
Modern Encyclopedia. The good man was fully convinced that in the
opinions expressed in this article I should find a preliminary
basis for my own theories. But a hasty glance sufficed to show me
at once how entirely erroneous they were, and I tried hard to
point out to Sulzer the fundamental difference between the
accepted views, even of very sensible people, and my own
conceptions of the heart of the matter. Finding it naturally
impossible, even with all the eloquence at my command, to
elucidate my ideas all at once, I set about preparing a
methodical plan for detailed treatment of the subject as soon as
I got home. In this way I was lead to write this book which was
published under the title of Oper und Drama, a task which kept me
fully occupied for several months, in fact until February, 1851.
But I had to pay heavily for the exhausting toil expended on the
conclusion of this work. According to my calculations, only a few
days of persevering industry were needed for the completion of my
manuscript, when my parrot, which usually watched me on my
writing-table, was taken seriously ill. As it had already
completely recovered from several similar attacks, I did not feel
very anxious. Although my wife begged me to fetch a veterinary
surgeon who lived in a village which was rather far off, I
preferred to stick to my desk, and I put off going from one day
to the next. At last one evening the all-important manuscript was
finished, and the next morning our poor Papo lay dead on the
floor. My inconsolable grief over this melancholy loss was fully
shared by Minna, and by our mutual affection for this treasured
pet we were once more tenderly united in a way likely to conduce
to our domestic happiness.
In addition to our pets, our older Zurich friends had also
remained faithful to us, in spite of the catastrophe which had
befallen my family life. Sulzer was without a doubt the worthiest
and most important of these friends. The profound difference
between us both in intellect and temperament seemed only to
favour this relationship, for each was constantly providing
surprises for the other; and as the divergencies between us were
radical, they often gave rise to most exhilarating and instructive
experiences. Sulzer was extraordinarily excitable and very
delicate in health. It was quite against his own original desire
that he had entered the service of the state, and in doing so he
had sacrificed his own wishes to a conscientious performance of
duty in the extremest sense of the word, and now, through his
acquaintance with me, he was drawn more deeply into the sphere of
aesthetic enjoyment than he regarded as justifiable. Probably he
would have indulged less freely in these excesses, had I taken my
art a little less seriously. But as I insisted upon attaching an
importance to the artistic destiny of mankind which far
transcended the mere aims of citizenship, I sometimes completely
upset him. Yet, on the other hand, it was just this intense
earnestness which so strongly attracted him to me and my
speculations. This not only gave rise to pleasant conversation
and calm discussion between us, but also, owing to a fiery temper
on both sides, sometimes provoked violent explosions, so that,
with trembling lips, he would seize hat and stick and hurry away
without a word of farewell. Such, however, was the intrinsic
worth of the man, that he was sure to turn up again the next
evening at the accustomed hour, when we both felt as though
nothing whatever had passed between us. But when certain bodily
ailments compelled him to remain indoors for many days, it was
difficult to gain access to him, for he was apt to become furious
when any one inquired about his health. On these occasions there
was only one way of putting him in a good temper, and that was to
say that one had called to ask a favour of him. Thereupon he was
pleasantly surprised, and would not only declare himself ready to
oblige in any way that was in his power, but would assume a
really cheerful and benevolent demeanour.
A remarkable contrast to him was presented by the musician
Wilhelm Baumgartner, a merry, jovial fellow, without any aptitude
for concentration, who had learned just enough about the piano to
be able, as teacher at so much an hour, to earn what he required
for a living. He had a taste for what was beautiful, provided it
did not soar too high, and possessed a true and loyal heart, full
of a great respect for Sulzer, which unfortunately could not cure
him of a craving for the public-house.
Besides this man, there were two others who had also from the
very first formed part of our circle. Both of them were friends
of the pair I have already mentioned; their names were Hagenbuch,
a worthy and respectable deputy cantonal secretary; and Bernhard
Spyri, a lawyer, and at that time editor of the Eidgenossische
Zeitung. The latter was a singularly good-tempered man, but not
overburdened with intellect, for which reason Sulzer always
treated him with special consideration.
Alexander Muller soon disappeared from our midst, as he became
more and more engrossed by domestic calamities, bodily
infirmities, and the mechanical drudgery of giving lessons by the
hour. As for the musician Abt, I had never felt particularly
drawn towards him, in spite of his Schwalben, and he too speedily
left us to carve a brilliant career for himself in Brunswick.
In the meantime, however, our Zurich circle was enriched by all
kinds of additions from without, mainly due to the political
shipwrecks. On my return, in January, 1850, I had already found
Adolph Kolatschek, a plain, though not unprepossessing-looking
man, though he was a bit of a bore. He imagined himself born to
be an editor, and had founded a German monthly magazine, which
was to open a field for those who had been outwardly conquered in
the recent movements to continue their fight in the inner realm
of the spirit. I felt almost flattered at being picked out by him
as an author, and being informed that 'a power like mine' ought
not to be absent from a union of spiritual forces such as was to
be established by his enterprise. I had previously sent him from
Paris my treatise on Kunst und Klima; and he now gladly accepted
some fairly long extracts from my still unpublished Oper und
Drama, for which he moreover paid me a handsome fee. This man
made an indelible impression on my mind as the only instance I
have met of a really tactful editor. He once handed me the
manuscript of a review on my Kunstwerk der Zukunft, written by a
certain Herr Palleske, to read, saying that he would not print it
without my express consent, though he did not press me to give
it. It was a superficial article, without any true comprehension
of the subject, and couched in most arrogant terms. I felt that
if it appeared in this particular journal it would certainly
demand inconvenient and wearisome rejoinders from me, in which I
should have to restate my original thesis. As I was by no means
inclined to enter upon such a controversy, I agreed to
Kolatschek's proposal, and suggested that he had better return
the manuscript to its author for publication elsewhere.
Through Kolatschek I also learned to know Reinhold Solger, a
really excellent and interesting man. But it did not suit his
restless and adventurous spirit to remain cooped up in the small
and narrow Swiss world of Zurich, so that he soon left us and
went to North America, where I heard that he went about giving
lectures and denouncing the political situation in Europe. It was
a pity that this talented man never succeeded in making a name
for himself by more important work. His contributions to our
monthly journal, during the brief term of his stay in Zurich,
were certainly among the best ever written on these topics by a
German.
In the new year, 1851, Georg Herwegh also joined us, and I was
delighted to meet him one day at Kolatschek's lodgings. The
vicissitudes which had brought him to Zurich came to my knowledge
afterwards in a somewhat offensive and aggressive manner. For the
present, Herwegh put on an aristocratic swagger and gave himself
the airs of a delicately nurtured and luxurious son of his times,
to which a fairly liberal interpolation of French expletives at
least added a certain distinction. Nevertheless, there was
something about his person, with his quick, flashing eye and
kindliness of manner, which was well calculated to exert an
attractive influence. I felt almost flattered by his ready
acceptance of my invitation to my informal evening parties, which
may, perhaps, have been fairly agreeable gatherings, as Bulow
entertained us with music, though to me personally they afforded
no mental sustenance whatever. My wife used to declare that, when
I proceeded to read from my manuscript, Kolatschek promptly fell
asleep, while Herwegh gave all his attention to her punch. When,
later on, as I have already mentioned, I read my Oper und Drama
for twelve consecutive evenings to our Zurich friends, Herwegh
stayed away, because he did not wish to mix with those for whom
such things had not been written. Yet my intercourse with him
became gradually more cordial. Not only did I respect his
poetical talent, which had recently gained recognition, but I
also learned to realise the delicate and refined qualities of his
richly cultivated intellect, and in course of time learned that
Herwegh, on his side, was beginning to covet my society. My
steady pursuit of those deeper and more serious interests which
so passionately engrossed me seemed to arouse him to an ennobling
sympathy, even for those topics which, since his sudden leap into
poetic fame, had been, greatly to his prejudice, smothered under
mere showy and trivial mannerisms, altogether alien to his
original nature. Possibly this process was accelerated by the
growing difficulties of his position, which he had hitherto
regarded as demanding a certain amount of outward show. In short,
he was the first man in whom I met with a sensitive and
sympathetic comprehension of my most daring schemes and opinions,
and I soon felt compelled to believe his assertion that he
occupied himself solely with my ideas, into which, certainly, no
other man entered so profoundly as he did.
This familiarity with Herwegh, in which an element of affection
was certainly mingled, was further stimulated by news which
reached me respecting a new dramatic poem which I had sketched
out for the coining spring. Liszt's preparations in the late
summer of the previous year for the production in Weimar of my
Lohengrin had met with more success than, with such limited
resources, had hitherto seemed possible. This result could
naturally only have been obtained by the zeal of a friend endowed
with such rich and varied gifts as Liszt. Though it was beyond
his power to attract quickly to the Weimar stage such singers as
Lohengrin demanded, and he had been compelled on many points to
content himself with merely suggesting what was intended to be
represented, yet he was now endeavouring by sundry ingenious
methods to make these suggestions clearly comprehensible. First
of all, he prepared a detailed account of the production of
Lohengrin. Seldom has a written description of a work of art won
for it such attentive friends, and commanded their enthusiastic
appreciation from the outset, as did this treatise of Liszt's,
which extended even to the most insignificant details. Karl
Ritter distinguished himself by providing an excellent German
translation of the French original, which was first published in
the Illustrirte Zeitung. Shortly after this Liszt also issued
Tannhauser in French, accompanied by a similar preface on its
origin, and these pamphlets were the chief means of awakening,
now and for long after, especially in foreign countries, not only
a surprisingly sympathetic interest in these works, but also an
intimate understanding of them such as could not possibly have
been attained by the mere study of my pianoforte arrangements.
But, far from being satisfied with this, Liszt contrived to
attract the attention of intellects outside Weimar to the
performances of my operas, in order, with kindly compulsion, to
force them upon the notice of all who had ears to hear and eyes
to see. Although his good intentions did not altogether succeed
with Franz Dingelstedt, who would only commit himself to a
confused report on Lohengrin in the Allgemeine Zeitung, yet his
enthusiastic eloquence completely and decisively captured Adolf
Stahr for my work. His detailed view of Lohengrin in the Berlin
National-Zeitung, in which he claimed a high importance for my
opera, did not remain without permanent influence upon the German
public. Even in the narrow circle of professional musicians its
effects seem not to have been unimportant; for Robert Franz, whom
Liszt dragged almost by force to a performance of Lohengrin,
spoke of it with unmistakable enthusiasm. This example gave the
lead to many other journals, and for some time it seemed as
though the otherwise dull-witted musical press would
energetically champion my cause.
I shall shortly have occasion to describe what it was that
eventually gave quite a different direction to this movement.
Meanwhile Liszt felt emboldened by these kindly signs to
encourage me to renew my creative activity, which had now for
some time been interrupted. His success with Lohengrin gave him
confidence in his ability to execute a yet more hazardous
undertaking, and he invited me to set my poem of Siegfried's
Death to music for production at Weimar. On his recommendation,
the manager of the Weimar theatre, Herr von Ziegesar, offered to
make a definite contract with me in the name of the Grand Duke. I
was to finish the work within a year, and during that period was
to receive a payment of fifteen hundred marks (L75).
It was a curious coincidence that about this time, and also
through Liszt, the Duke of Coburg invited me to arrange the
instrumentation for an opera of his own composition, for which he
offered me the sum of two thousand seven hundred marks (L135). In
spite of my position as an outlaw, my noble patron and would-be
employer offered to receive me in his castle at Coburg, where, in
quiet seclusion with himself and Frau Birchpfeiffer, the writer
of the libretto, I might execute the work. Liszt naturally
expected nothing more from me than a decent excuse for declining
this offer, and suggested my pleading 'bodily and mental
depression.' My friend told me afterwards that the Duke had
desired my co-operation with him in his score on account of my
skilful use of trombones. When he inquired, through Liszt, what
my rules for their manipulation were, I replied that before I
could write anything for trombones I required first to have some
ideas in my head.
On the other hand, however, I felt very much tempted to entertain
the Weimar proposal. Still weary from my exhausting labour on
Oper und Drama, and worried by many things which had a depressing
effect on my spirits, I seated myself for the first time for many
months at my Hartel grand-piano, which had been rescued from the
Dresden catastrophe, to see whether I could settle down to
composing the music for my ponderous heroic drama. In rapid
outline I sketched the music for the Song of the Norns, or
Daughters of the Rhine, which in this first draft was only
roughly suggested. But when I attempted to turn Brunhilda's first
address to Siegfried into song my courage failed me completely,
for I could not help asking myself whether the singer had yet
been born who was capable of vitalising this heroic female
figure. The idea of my niece Johanna occurred to me, whom, as a
matter of fact, I had already destined for this rule when I was
still in Dresden on account of her various personal charms. She
had now entered upon the career of prima donna at Hamburg, but,
judging from all the reports I had received, and especially from
the attitude towards me that she openly adopted in her letters to
her family, I could only conclude that my modest hopes of
enlisting her talents on my behalf were doomed to disappointment.
I was, moreover, confused by the fact that a second Dresden prima
donna, Mme. Gentiluomo Spatzer, who had once enraptured Marschner
with Donizetti's dithyrambics, kept hovering perpetually before
my mind as a possible substitute for Johanna. At last, in a rage,
I sprang up from the piano, and swore that I would write nothing
more for these silly fastidious schoolgirls. Whenever I saw any
likelihood of being again brought into closer contact with the
theatre I was filled with an indescribable disgust which, for the
time being, I was unable to overcome. It was some little
consolation to discover that bodily ill-health might possibly be
at the bottom of this mental disorder. During the spring of this
year I had been suffering from a curious rash, which spread over
my whole body. For this my doctor prescribed a course of sulphur-
baths, to be taken regularly every morning. Although the remedy
excited my nerves so much that later on I was obliged to adopt
radical measures for the restoration of my health, yet in the
meantime the regular morning walk to the town and back,
surrounded by the fresh green and early spring flowers of May,
acted as a cheerful stimulant on my mental condition. I now
conceived the idea of the poem of Junger Siegfried, which I
proposed to issue as a heroic comedy by way of prelude and
complement to the tragedy of Siegfrieds Tod. Carried away by my
conception, I tried to persuade myself that this piece would be
easier to produce than the other more serious and terrible drama.
With this idea in my mind I informed Liszt of my purpose, and
offered the Weimar management to compose a score for Junger
Siegfried, which as yet was unwritten, in return for which I
would definitely accept their proposal to grant me a year's
salary of fifteen hundred marks. This they agreed to without
delay, and I took up my quarters in the attic-room evacuated the
previous year by Karl Ritter, where, with the aid of sulphur and
May-blossom, and in the highest spirits, I proposed to complete
the poem of Junger Siegfried, as already outlined in my original
design.
I must now give some account of the cordial relations which, ever
since my departure from Dresden, I had maintained with Theodor
Uhlig, the young musician of the Dresden orchestra, which I have
already described, and which by this time had developed into a
genuinely productive association. His independent and indeed
somewhat uncultivated disposition had been moulded into a warm,
almost boundless devotion to myself, inspired both by sympathy
for my fate and a thorough understanding of my works. He also had
been among the number of those who had visited Weimar to hear my
Lohengrin, and had sent me a very detailed account of the
performance. As Hartel, the music-dealer in Leipzig, had
willingly agreed to my request to publish Lohengrin on condition
that I should not demand any share in the profits, I entrusted
Uhlig with the preparation of the pianoforte arrangement. But it
was more the theoretical questions discussed in my works that
formed the chief link that bound us together by a serious
correspondence. The characteristic which especially touched me
about this man, whom from his training I could regard merely as
an instrumentalist, was that he had grasped with clear
understanding and perfect agreement those very tendencies of mine
which many musicians of apparently wider culture than his own
regarded with almost despairing horror, as being dangerous to the
orthodox practice of their art. He forthwith acquired the
literary facility necessary for the expression of his agreement
with my views, and gave tangible proof of this in a lengthy
treatise on 'Instrumental Music,' which appeared in Kolatschek's
German monthly journal. He also sent to me another strictly
theoretical work on the 'Structure of Musical Theme and Phrase.'
In this he showed the originality of his ideas about Mozart's and
Beethoven's methods, to an extent which was only equalled by the
thoroughness with which he had mastered the question, especially
where he discussed their highly characteristic differences. This
clear and exhaustive treatise appeared to me admirably adapted to
form the basis for a new theory of the higher art of musical
phrasing, whereby Beethoven's most obscure construction might be
explained, and elaborated into a comprehensible system that would
allow of further application. These treatises attracted the
attention of Franz Brendel, the astute publisher of the Neue
Zeitschrift fur Musik, to their brilliant young author. He was
invited by Brendel to join the staff of his paper, and soon
succeeded in changing his chief's previous attitude of
indecision. As Brendel's aims were on the whole perfectly
honourable and serious, he was quickly and definitely led to
adopt those views which from this time began to make a stir in
the musical world under the title of the 'New Tendency.' I
thereupon felt impelled to contribute an epoch-making article to
his paper on these lines. I had noticed for some time that such
ill-sounding catch-phrases as 'Jewish ornamental flourishes'
(Melismas), 'Synagogue Music,' and the like were being bandied
about without any rhyme or reason beyond that of giving
expression to meaningless irritation. The question thus raised
regarding the significance of the modern Jew in music stimulated
me to make a closer examination of Jewish influence and the
characteristics peculiar to it. This I did in a lengthy treatise
on 'Judaism in Music.' Although I did not wish to hide my
identity, as its author, from all inquiries, yet I considered it
advisable to adopt a pseudonym, lest my very seriously intended
effort should be degraded to a purely personal matter, and its
real importance be thereby vitiated. The stir, nay, the genuine
consternation, created by this article defies comparison with any
other similar publication. The unparalleled animosity with which,
even up to the present day, I have been pursued by the entire
press of Europe can only be understood by those who have taken an
account of this article and of the dreadful commotion which it
caused at the time of its publication. It must also be remembered
that almost all the newspapers of Europe are in the hands of
Jews. Apart from these facts, it would be impossible to
understand the unqualified bitterness of this lasting
persecution, which cannot be adequately explained on the mere
ground of a theoretical or practical dislike for my opinions or
artistic works. The first outcome of the article was a storm
which broke over poor Brendel, who was entirely innocent, and,
indeed, hardly conscious of his offence. This erelong developed
into a savage persecution which aimed at nothing less than his
ruin. Another immediate result was that the few friends whom
Liszt had induced to declare themselves in my favour forthwith
took refuge in a discreet silence. As it soon seemed advisable,
in the interests of their own productions, to give direct
evidence of their estrangement from me, most of them passed over
to the ranks of my enemies. But Uhlig clung to me all the more
closely on this account. He strengthened Brendel's weaker will to
endurance, and kept helping him with contributions for his paper,
some of them profound and others witty and very much to the
point. He fixed his eye more particularly on one of my chief
antagonists, a man named Bischoff, whom Hiller had discovered in
Cologne, and who first invented for me and my friends the title
of Zukunftsmusiker ('Musicians of the Future'). With him he
entered into a prolonged and somewhat diverting controversy. The
foundation had now been laid for the problem of the so-called
Zukunftsmusik ('Music of the Future'), which was to become a
European scandal, in spite of the fact that Liszt quickly adopted
the title himself with good-humoured pride. It is true that I had
to some extent suggested this name in the title of my book,
Kunstwerk der Zukunft; but it only developed into a battle-cry
when 'Judaism in Music' unbarred the sluices of wrath upon me
and my friends.
My book, Oper und Drama, was published in the second half of this
year, and, so far as it was noticed at all by the leading
musicians of the day, naturally only helped to add fuel to the
wrath which blazed against me. This fury, however, assumed more
the character of slander and malice, for our movement had
meantime been reduced by a great connoisseur in such things,
Meyerbeer, to a clearly defined system, which he maintained and
practised with a sure hand until his lamented death.
Uhlig had come across my book, Oper und Drama, during the early
stages of the furious uproar against me. I had presented him with
the original manuscript, and as it was nicely bound in red, I hit
upon the idea of writing in it, by way of dedication, the words,
'RED, my friend, is MY theory,' in contradistinction to the
Gothic saying, 'Grey, my friend, is all theory.' This gift
elicited an exhilarating and most delightful correspondence with
my lively and keen-sighted young friend, who, after two long
years of separation, I felt sincerely desirous of seeing again.
It was not an easy matter for the poor fiddler, whose pay was
barely that of a chamber musician, to comply with my invitation.
But he gladly tried to overcome all difficulties, and said he
would come early in July. I decided to go as far as Rorschach, on
the Lake of Constance, to meet him, so that we might make an
excursion through the Alps as far as Zurich. I went by a pleasant
detour through the Toggenburg, travelling on foot as usual. In
this way, cheerful and refreshed, I reached St. Gall, where I
sought out Karl Ritter, who, since Bulow's departure, had
remained there alone in curious seclusion. I could guess the
reason of his retirement, although he said that he had enjoyed
very agreeable intercourse with a St. Gall musician named
Greitel, of whom I never heard anything further. Though very
tired after my long walking tour, I could not refrain from
submitting the manuscript of my Jungcr Siegfried, which I had
just finished, to the quick and critical judgment of this
intelligent young man, who was thus the first person to hear it.
I was more than gratified by its effect upon him, and, in high
spirits, persuaded him to forsake his strange retreat and go with
me to meet Uhlig, so that we might all three proceed over the
Santis for a long and pleasant stay in Zurich. My first glance at
my guest, as he landed at the familiar harbour of Rorschach,
filled me at once with anxiety for his health, for it revealed
but too plainly his tendency to consumption. In order to spare
him, I wished to give up the proposed mountain climb, but he
eagerly protested that exercise of this kind in the fresh air
could only do him good after the drudgery of his wretched
fiddling. After crossing the little canton of Appenzell, we had
to face the by no means easy crossing of the Santis. It was my
first experience also of travelling over an extensive snow-field
in summer. After reaching our guide's hut, which was perched on a
rugged slope, where we regaled ourselves with exceedingly frugal
fare, we had to climb the towering and precipitous pinnacle of
rock which forms the summit of the mountain, a few hundred feet
above us. Here Karl suddenly refused to allow us, and to shake
him out of his effeminacy I had to send back the guide for him,
who, at our request, succeeded in bringing him along, half by
force. But now that we had to clamber from stone to stone along
the precipitous cliff, I soon began to realise how foolish I had
been in compelling Karl to share our perilous adventure. His
dizziness evidently stupefied him, for he stared in front of him
as though he could not see, and we had to hold him fast between
our alpenstocks, every moment expecting to see him collapse, and
tumble into the abyss. When we at last attained the summit, he
sank senseless on the ground, and I now fully understood what a
terrible responsibility I had undertaken, as the yet more
dangerous descent had still to be made. In an agony of fear,
which, while it made me forget my own danger altogether, filled
me with a vision of my young friend lying shattered on the rocks
below, we at last reached the guide's cottage in safety. As Uhlig
and myself were still determined to descend the precipitous
further side of the mountain, a feat which the guide informed us
was not without danger, I resolved to leave young Ritter behind
in the hut, as the indescribable anguish I had just endured on
his behalf had been a warning to me. Here he was to await the
return of our guide, and in his company take the not very
dangerous path by which we had come. We accordingly parted, as he
was to return in the direction of Gall, while we two roamed
through the lovely Toggenburg valley, and the next day by
Rappersweil to the Lake of Zurich, and so home. Not until many
days later did Karl relieve our anxiety concerning him by
arriving at Zurich. He remained with us a short time, and then
departed, probably wishing to escape being tempted into more
mountain climbing, which we had certainly planned. I heard from
him afterwards when he had settled for some time in Stuttgart,
where he seemed to be doing well. He soon made great friends with
a young actor, and lived on terms of great intimacy with him.
I was sincerely delighted by the close intercourse I now had with
the gentle young Dresden chamber musician, whose manly strength
of character and extraordinary mental endowments greatly endeared
him to me. My wife said that his curly golden hair and bright
blue eyes made her think an angel had come to stay with us. For
me his features had a peculiar and, considering his fate,
pathetic interest, on account of his striking resemblance to King
Friedrich August of Saxony, my former patron, who was still alive
at that time, and seemed to confirm a rumour which had reached me
that Uhlig was his natural son. It was entertaining to hear his
news of Dresden, and all about the theatre, and the condition of
musical affairs in that city. My operas, which had once been its
glory, had now quite vanished from the repertoire. He gave me a
choice example of my late colleagues' opinion of me by relating
the following incident. When Kunst und Revolution and Kunstwerk
der Zukunft appeared, and were being discussed among them, one of
them remarked: 'Ha! he may worry a long time before he will be
able to write conductor before his name again.' By way of
illustrating the advance made in music, he related the manner in
which Reissiger, having on one occasion to conduct Beethoven's
Symphony in A major, which had been previously executed by me,
had helped himself out of a sudden dilemma. Beethoven, as is well
known, marks the great finale of the last movement with a
prolonged forte, which he merely heightens by a sempre piu forte.
At this point Reissiger, who had conducted the Symphony before
me, thinking the opportunity a favourable one, had introduced a
piano, in order at least to secure an effective crescendo. This I
had naturally ignored, and had instructed the orchestra to play
with their full strength throughout. Now, therefore, that the
conducting of this work had once more fallen into my
predecessor's hands, he found it difficult to restore his unlucky
piano; but, feeling that he must save his authority, which had
been compromised, he made a rule that mezzo forte should be
played instead of forte.
But the most painful news he gave me was about the state of utter
neglect into which my unhappy operatic publications had fallen in
the hands of the court music-dealer Meser, who, seeing that money
had to be continually paid out, while nothing came in, regarded
himself as a sacrificial lamb whom I had lured to the slaughter.
Yet he steadily refused all inspection of his books, maintaining
that he thereby protected my property, as all I possessed having
been confiscated, it would otherwise be seized at once. A
pleasanter topic than this was Lohengrin. My friend had completed
the pianoforte arrangement, and was already busy correcting the
engraver's proofs.
By his enthusiastic advocacy of the water cure, Uhlig gained an
influence over me in another direction, and one which was of long
duration. He brought me a book on the subject by a certain
Rausse, which pleased me greatly, especially by its radical
principles, which had something of Feuerbach about them. Its bold
repudiation of the entire science of medicine, with all its
quackeries, combined with its advocacy of the simplest natural
processes by means of a methodical use of strengthening and
refreshing water, quickly won my fervent adherence. He
maintained, for instance, that every genuine medicine can only
act upon our organism in so far as it is a poison, and is
therefore not assimilated by our system; and proved, moreover,
that men who had become weak owing to a continuous absorption of
medicine, had been cured by the famous Priesnitz, who had
effectually driven out the poison contained in their bodies by
expelling it through the skin. I naturally thought of the
disagreeable sulphur baths I had taken during the spring, and to
which I attributed my chronic and severe state of irritability.
In so doing I was probably not far wrong. For a long while after
this I did my best to expel this and all other poisons which I
might have absorbed in the course of time, and by an exclusive
water regimen restore my original healthy condition. Uhlig
asserted that by persevering conscientiously in a water cure, he
was perfectly confident of being able to renew his own bodily
health entirely, and my own faith in it also grew daily.
At the end of July we started on an excursion through the centre
of Switzerland. From Brunnen, on the Lake of Lucerne, we
proceeded via Beckenried to Engelberg, from which place we
crossed the wild Surenen-Eck, and on this occasion learned how to
glide over the snow fairly easily. But in crossing a swollen
mountain torrent Uhlig had the misfortune to fall into the water.
By way of quieting my uneasiness about him, he at once exclaimed
that this was a very good way of carrying out the water cure. He
made no fuss about the drying of his clothes, but simply spread
them out in the sun, and in the meanwhile calmly promenaded about
in a state of nature in the open air, protesting that this novel
form of exercise would do him good. We occupied the interval in
discussing the important problem of Beethoven's theme
construction, until, by way of a joke, I told him that I could
see Councillor Carns of Dresden coming up behind him with a
party, which for a moment quite frightened him. Thus with light
hearts we reached the Reuss valley near Attinghausen, and in the
evening wandered on as far as Amsteg, and the next morning, in
spite of our great fatigue, at once visited the Madran valley.
There we climbed the Hufi glacier, whence we enjoyed a splendid
view over an impressive panorama of mountains, bounded at this
point by the Tody range. We returned the same day to Amsteg, and
as we were both thoroughly tired out, I dissuaded my companion
from attempting the ascent of the Klausen Pass to the Schachen
valley, which we had planned for the following day, and induced
him to take the easier way home via Fluelen. When, early in
August, my young friend, who was always calm and very deliberate
in his manner, set out on his return journey to Dresden, I could
detect no signs of exhaustion about him. He was hoping on his
arrival to lighten the heavy burden of life a little by
undertaking the conductorship of the entr'acte music at the
theatre, which he proposed to organise artistically, and thus set
himself free from the oppressive and demoralising service of the
opera. It was with sincere grief that I accompanied him to the
mail-coach, and he too seemed to be seized with sudden
foreboding. As a matter of fact, this was the last time we ever
met.
But for the present we carried on an active correspondence, and
as his communications were always pleasant and entertaining, and
for a long time constituted almost my sole link with the outside
world, I begged him to write me long letters as often as
possible. As postage was expensive at that time, and voluminous
letters touched our pockets severely, Uhlig conceived the
ingenious idea of using the parcel post for our correspondence.
As only packets of a certain weight might be sent in this way, a
German translation of Beaumarchais' Figaro, of which Uhlig
possessed an ancient copy, enjoyed the singular destiny of acting
as ballast for our letters to and fro. Every time, therefore,
that our epistles had swelled, to the requisite length, we
announced them with the words: 'Figaro brings tidings to-day.'
Uhlig meanwhile found much pleasure in the Mittheilung an meine
Freunde ('A Communication to my Friends'), which, immediately
after our separation, I wrote as a preface to an edition of my
three operas, the Fliegender Hollander, Tannhauser, and
Lohengrin. He was also amused to hear that Hartel, who had
accepted the book for publication on payment of ten louis d'or,
protested so vigorously against certain passages in this preface,
which wounded his orthodoxy and political feelings, that I
thought seriously of giving the book to another firm. However, he
finally persuaded me to give way, and I pacified his tender
conscience by a few trifling alterations.
With this comprehensive preface, which had occupied me during the
whole of the month of August, I hoped that my excursion into the
realms of literature would be ended once and for all. However, as
soon as I began to think seriously about taking up the
composition of Junger Siegfried, which I had promised for Weimar,
I was seized with depressing doubts which almost amounted to a
positive reluctance to attempt this work. As I could not clearly
discern the reason of this dejection, I concluded that its source
lay in the state of my health, so I determined one day to carry
out my theories about the advantages of a water cure, which I had
always propounded with great enthusiasm. I made due inquiries
about a neighbouring hydropathic establishment, and informed my
wife that I was going off to Albisbrunnen, which was situated
about three miles from our abode. It was then about the middle of
September, and I had made up my mind not to come back until I was
completely restored to health.
Minna was quite frightened when I announced my intention, and
looked upon it as another attempt on my part to abandon my home.
I begged of her, however, to devote herself during my absence to
the task of furnishing and arranging our new flat as comfortably
as possible. This, although small, was conveniently situated on
the ground floor of the Vordern Escher Hauser im Zeltweg. We had
determined to move back to the town, on account of the great
inconvenience of the situation of our present quarters,
especially during winter time. Everybody, of course, was
astonished at the idea of my undertaking a water cure so late in
the season. Nevertheless, I soon succeeded in securing a fellow-
patient. I was not fortunate enough to get Herwegh, but Fate was
kind in sending me Hermann Muller, an ex-lieutenant in the Saxon
Guards, and a former lover of Schroder-Devrient, who proved a
most cheerful and pleasant companion. It had become impossible
for him to maintain his position in the Saxon army, and although
he was not exactly a political refugee, every career was closed
to him in Germany, and yet he met with all the consideration of
an exiled patriot when he came to Switzerland to try and make a
fresh start in life. We had seen a good deal of each other in my
early Dresden days, and he soon felt at home in my house, where
my wife always gave him a warm welcome. I easily persuaded him to
follow me shortly to Albisbrunnen to undergo a thorough treatment
for an infirmity from which he was suffering. I established
myself there as comfortably as I could, and I looked forward to
excellent results. The cure itself was superintended in the usual
superficial way by a Dr. Brunner, whom my wife, on one of her
visits to this place, promptly christened the 'Water Jew,' and
whom she heartily detested. Early at five o'clock in the morning
I was wrapped up and kept in a state of perspiration for several
hours; after that I was plunged into an icy cold bath at a
temperature of only four degrees; then I was made to take a brisk
walk to restore my circulation in the chilly air of late autumn.
In addition I was kept on a water diet; no wine, coffee, or tea
was allowed; and this regime, in the dismal company of nothing
but incurables, with dull evenings only enlivened by desperate
attempts at games of whist, and the prohibition of all
intellectual occupation, resulted in irritability and overwrought
nerves. I led this life for nine weeks, but I was determined not
to give in until I felt that every kind of drug or poison I had
ever absorbed into my system had been brought to the surface. As
I considered that wine was most dangerous, I presumed that my
system still contained many unassimilated substances which I had
absorbed at various dinner-parties at Sulzer's, and which must
evaporate in profuse perspiration. This life, so full of
privations, which I led in rooms miserably furnished with common
deal and the usual rustic appointments of a Swiss pension, awoke
in me by way of contrast an insuperable longing for a cosy and
comfortable home; indeed, as the year went on, this longing
became a passionate desire. My imagination was for ever picturing
to itself the manner and style in which a house or a dwelling
ought to be appointed and arranged, in order to keep my mind
pleasantly free for artistic creation.
At this time symptoms of a possible improvement in my position
appeared. Karl Ritter, unfortunately for himself, wrote to me
from Stuttgart while I was at the hydro, describing his own
private attempts to secure the benefits of a water cure--not by
means of baths, but by drinking quantities of water. I had found
out that it was most dangerous to drink large quantities of water
without undergoing the rest of the treatment, so I implored Karl
to submit to the regular course, and not to have an effeminate
fear of privations, and to come at once to Albisbrunnen. He took
me at my word, and to my great delight arrived in a few days'
time at Albisbrunnen. Theoretically he was filled with enthusiasm
for hydropathy, but he soon objected to it in practice; and he
denounced the use of cold milk as indigestible and against the
dictates of Nature, as mother's milk was always warm. He found
the cold packs and the cold baths too exciting, and preferred
treating himself in a comfortable and pleasant way behind the
doctor's back. He soon discovered a wretched confectioner's shop
in the neighbouring village, and when he was caught buying cheap
pastry on the sly, he was very angry. He soon grew perfectly
miserable, and would fain have escaped, had not a certain feeling
of honour prevented him from doing so. The news reached him here
of the sudden death of a rich uncle, who had left a considerable
fortune to every member of Karl's family. His mother, in telling
him and me of the improvement in her position, declared that she
was now able to assure me the income which the two families of
Laussot and Ritter had offered me some time ago. Thus I stepped
into an annual income of two thousand four hundred marks for as
long as I required it, and into partnership with the Ritter
family.
This happy and encouraging turn of events made me decide to
complete my original sketch of the Nibelungen, and to bring it
out in our theatres without paying any regard to the
practicability of its various parts. In order to do this I felt
that I must free myself from all obligations to the management of
the Weimar theatre. I had already drawn six hundred marks salary
from this source, but Karl was enchanted to place this sum at my
disposal in order that I might return it. I sent the money back
to Weimar with a letter expressing my most grateful
acknowledgments to the management for their conduct towards me,
and at the same time I wrote to Liszt, giving him the fullest
particulars of my great plan, and explaining how I felt
absolutely compelled to carry it out.
Liszt, in his reply, told me how delighted he was to know that I
was now in a position to undertake such a remarkable work, which
he considered in every respect worthy of me if only on account of
its surprising originality. I began to breathe freely at last,
because I had always felt that it was merely self-deception on my
part to maintain that it would be possible to produce Junger
Siegfried with the limited means at the disposal of even the best
German theatre.
My water cure and the hydropathic establishment became more and
more distasteful to me; I longed for my work, and the desire to
get back to it made me quite ill. I tried obstinately to conceal
from myself that the object of my cure had entirely failed;
indeed, it had really done me more harm than good, for although
the evil secretions had not returned, my whole body seemed
terribly emaciated. I considered that I had had quite enough of
the cure, and comforted myself with the hope that I should derive
benefit from it in the future. I accordingly left the hydropathic
establishment at the end of November. Muller was to follow me in
a few days, but Karl, wishing to be consistent, was determined to
remain until he perceived a similar result in himself to the one
I had experienced or pretended I had experienced. I was much
pleased with the way in which Minna had arranged our new little
flat in Zurich. She had bought a large and luxurious divan,
several carpets for the floor and various dainty little luxuries,
and in the back room my writing-table of common deal was covered
with a green tablecloth and draped with soft green silk curtains,
all of which my friends admired immensely. This table, at which I
worked continually, travelled with me to Paris, and when I left
that city I presented it to Blandine Ollivier, Liszt's elder
daughter, who had it conveyed to the little country house at St.
Tropez, belonging to her husband, where, I believe, it stands to
this day. I was very glad to receive my Zurich friends in my new
home, which was so much more conveniently situated than my former
one; only I quite spoilt all my hospitality for a long time by my
fanatical agitation for a water diet and my polemics against the
evils of wine and other intoxicating drinks. I adopted what
seemed almost a new kind of religion: when I was driven into a
corner by Sulzer and Herwegh, the latter of whom prided himself
on his knowledge of chemistry and physiology, about the absurdity
of Rausse's theory of the poisonous qualities contained in wine,
I found refuge in the moral and aesthetic motive which made me
regard the enjoyment of wine as an evil and barbarous substitute
for the ecstatic state of mind which love alone should produce. I
maintained that wine, even if not taken in excess, contained
qualities producing a state of intoxication which a man sought in
order to raise his spirits, but that only he who experienced the
intoxication of love could raise his spirits in the noblest sense
of the word. This led to a discussion on the modern relations of
the sexes, whereupon I commented on the almost brutal manner in
which men kept aloof from women in Switzerland. Sulzer said he
would not at all object to the intoxication resulting from
intercourse with women, but in his opinion the difficulty lay in
procuring this by fair means. Herwegh was inclined to agree with
my paradox, but remarked that wine had nothing whatever to do
with it, that it was simply an excellent and strengthening food,
which, according to Anacreon, agreed very well with the ecstasy
of love. As my friends studied me and my condition more closely,
they felt they had reason to be very anxious about my foolish and
obstinate extravagances. I looked terribly pale and thin; I
hardly slept at all, and in everything I did I betrayed a strange
excitement. Although eventually sleep almost entirely forsook me,
I still pretended that I had never been so well or so cheerful in
my life, and I continued on the coldest winter mornings to take
my cold baths, and plagued my wife to death by making her show me
my way out with a lantern for the prescribed early morning walk.
I was in this state when the printed copies of Oper und Drama
reached me, and I devoured rather than read them with an
eccentric joy. I think that the delightful consciousness of now
being able to say to myself, and prove to the satisfaction of
everybody, and even of Minna, that I had at last completely freed
myself from my hateful career as conductor and opera composer,
brought about this immoderate excitement. Nobody had a right to
make the demands upon me which two years ago had made me so
miserable. The income which the Ritters had assured me for life,
and the object of which was to give me an absolutely free hand,
also contributed to my present state of mind, and made me feel
confidence in everything I undertook. Although my plans for the
present seemed to exclude all possibility of being realised,
thanks to the indifference of an inartistic public, still I could
not help inwardly cherishing the idea that I should not be for
ever addressing only the paper on which I wrote. I anticipated
that before long a great reaction would set in with regard to the
public and everything connected with our social life, and I
believed that in my boldly planned work there lay just the right
material to supply the changed conditions and real needs of the
new public whose relation to art would be completely altered with
what was required. As these bold expectations had arisen in my
mind in consequence of my observations of the state of society in
general, I naturally could not say much about them to my friends.
I had not mistaken the significance of the general collapse of
the political movements, but felt that their real weakness lay in
the inadequate though sincere expression of their cause, and that
the social movement, so far from losing ground by its political
defeat, had, on the contrary, gained in energy and expansion. I
based my opinion upon the experience I had had during my last
visit to Paris, when I had attended, among other things, a
political meeting of the so-called social democratic party. Their
general behaviour made a great impression upon me; the meeting
took place in a temporary hall called Salle de la Fraternite in
the Faubourg St. Denis; six thousand men were present, and their
conduct, far from being noisy and tumultuous, filled me with a
sense of the concentrated energy and hope of this new party. The
speeches of the principal orators of the extreme left of the
Assemblee Nationale astonished me by their oratorical flights as
well as by their evident confidence in the future. As this
extreme party was gradually strengthening itself against
everything that was being done by the reactionary party then in
power, and all the old liberals had joined these social democrats
publicly and had adopted their electioneering programme, it was
easy to see that in Paris, at all events, they would have a
decided majority at the impending elections for the year 1852,
and especially in the nomination of the President of the
Republic. My own opinions about this were shared by the whole of
France, and it seemed that the year 1852 was destined to witness
a very important reaction which was naturally dreaded by the
other party, who looked forward with great apprehension to the
approaching catastrophe. The condition of the other European
states, who suppressed every laudable impulse with brutal
stupidity, convinced me that elsewhere too this state of affairs
would not continue long, and every one seemed to look forward
with great expectations to the decision of the following year.
I had discussed the general situation with my friend Uhlig, as
well as the efficacy of the water-cure system; he had just come
home fresh from orchestral rehearsals at the Dresden theatre, and
found it very difficult to agree to a drastic change in human
affairs or to have any faith in it. He assured me that I could
not conceive how miserable and mean people were in general, but I
managed to delude him into the belief that the year 1852 would be
pregnant with great and important events. Our opinions on this
subject were expressed in the correspondence which was once more
diligently forwarded by Figaro.
Whenever we had to complain of any meanness or untoward
circumstance, I always reminded him of this year, so great with
fate and hope, and at the same time I hinted that we had better
look forward quite calmly to the time when the great 'upheaval'
should take place, as only then, when no one else knew what to
do, could we step in and make a start.
I can hardly express how deeply and firmly this hope had taken
possession of me, and I can only attribute all my confident
opinions and declarations to the increased excitement of my
nerves. The news of the coup d'etat of the 2nd of December in
Paris seemed to me absolutely incredible, and I thought the world
was surely coming to an end. When the news was confirmed, and
events which no one believed could ever happen had apparently
occurred and seemed likely to be permanent, I gave the whole
thing up like a riddle which it was beneath me to unravel, and
turned away in disgust from the contemplation of this puzzling
world. As a playful reminiscence of our hopes of the year 1852, I
suggested to Uhlig that in our correspondence during that year we
should ignore its existence and should date our letters December
'51, in consequence of which this said month of December seemed
of eternal duration.
Soon afterwards I was overpowered by an extraordinary depression
in which, somehow, the disappointment about the turn of political
events and the reaction created by my exaggerated water cure,
almost ruined my health. I perceived the triumphant return of all
the disappointing signs of reaction which excluded every high
ideal from intellectual life, and from which I had hoped the
shocks and fermentations of the past few years had freed us for
ever. I prophesied that the time was approaching when
intellectually we should be such paupers that the appearance of a
new book from the pen of Heinrich Heine would create quite a
sensation. When, a short time afterwards, the Romancero appeared
from the pen of this poet who had fallen into almost complete
neglect, and was very well reviewed by the newspaper critics, I
laughed aloud; as a matter of fact, I suppose I am among the very
few Germans who have never even looked at this book, which, by
the way, is said to possess great merit.
I was now compelled to pay a great deal of attention to my
physical condition, as it gave me much cause for anxiety and
necessitated a complete change in my methods. I introduced this
change very gradually and with the co-operation of my friends. My
circle of acquaintances had widened considerably this winter,
although Karl Ritter, who had escaped from Albisbrunnen a week
after my own departure and had tried to settle in our
neighbourhood, ran off to Dresden, as he found Zurich much too
slow for his youthful spirits. A certain family of the name of
Wesendonck, who had settled in Zurich a short time before, sought
my acquaintance, and took up their abode in the same quarters in
the Hintern Escherhauser where I had lived when I first came to
Zurich. They had taken the flat there on the recommendation of
the famous Marschall von Bieberstein, who moved in after me in
consequence of the revolution in Dresden. I remember, on the
evening of a party there, that I displayed uncontrolled
excitement in a discussion with Professor Osenbruck. I tormented
him with my persistent paradoxes all through supper to such an
extent that he positively loathed me, and ever afterwards
carefully avoided coming into contact with me.
The acquaintance with the Wesendoncks was the means of giving me
the entree to a delightful home, which in point of comfort was a
great contrast to the usual run of houses in Zurich. Herr Otto
Wesendonck, who was a few years younger than I was, had amassed a
considerable fortune through a partnership in a silk business in
New York, and seemed to make all his plans subservient to the
wishes of the young wife whom he had married a few years before.
They both came from the Lower Rhine country, and, like all the
inhabitants of those parts, were fair haired. As he was obliged
to take up his abode in some part of Europe which was convenient
for the furtherance of his business in New York, he chose Zurich,
presumably because of its German character, in preference to
Lyons. During the previous winter they had both attended the
performance of a symphony of Beethoven under my conductorship,
and knowing what a sensation this performance had aroused in
Zurich, they thought it would be desirable to include me in their
circle of friends.
About this time I was persuaded to undertake the directorship of
the augmented orchestra in view of the performance of some
musical masterpieces at three concerts to be given early in the
new year under the auspices of the Societe Musicale on conditions
arranged in advance.
It gave me infinite pleasure on one of these occasions to conduct
an excellent performance of Beethoven's music to Egmont. As
Herwegh was so anxious to hear some of my own music I gave the
Tannhauser Overture, as I told him, entirely to please him, and I
prepared a descriptive programme as a guide. I also succeeded in
giving an excellent rendering of the Coriolanus Overture, to
which I had also written an explanatory programme. All this was
taken up with so much sympathy and enthusiasm by my friends that
I was induced to accede to the request of Lowe, who was at that
time manager of the theatre, and implored me to give a
performance of the Fliegender Hollander. For the sake of my
friends I agreed to enter into negotiations with the opera
company, an undertaking which, though it only lasted a very short
time, was exceedingly objectionable. It is true that humane
considerations animated me as well, as the performance was for
the benefit of Schoneck, a young conductor, whose real talent for
his art had completely won me over to him.
The efforts which this unaccustomed excursion into the regions of
opera rehearsals, etc., cost me, greatly contributed to the
overwrought state of my nerves, and I was obliged, in spite of
all my rooted prejudices against doctors, to break faith with
myself and, in accordance with the Wesendonck's special
recommendation, to place myself in the hands of Dr. Rahn-Escher,
who, by his gentle manner and soothing ways, succeeded after a
time in bringing me into a healthier condition.
I longed to get well enough to be able to take in hand the
completion of my combined Nibelungen poem. Before I could summon
up the courage to begin, I thought I would wait for the spring,
and in the meanwhile I occupied myself with a few trifles,
amongst other things a letter to Liszt on the founding of a
Goethe Institution (Goethe Stiftung), stating my ideas on the
necessity of founding a German National Theatre, as also a second
letter to Franz Brendel about the line of thought which in my
opinion should be taken up in founding a new musical journal.
I recollect a visit from Henri Vieuxtemps at this time, who came
to Zurich with Belloni to give an evening concert, and he again
delighted me and my friends with his violin playing.
With the approach of spring I was agreeably surprised by a visit
from Hermann Franck, with whom I had an interesting conversation
about the general course of events since I had lost sight of him.
In his quiet way he expressed his astonishment at the
enthusiastic manner in which I had got mixed up in the Dresden
revolution. As I quite misunderstood his remark, he explained
that he thought me capable of enthusiasm in everything, but he
could hardly credit me with having taken a serious part in
anything so foolish as trivial matters of that kind. I now
learned for the first time what the prevalent opinion was about
these much-maligned occurrences in Germany, and I was in a
position to defend my poor friend Rockel, who had been branded as
a coward, and to put not only his conduct but also my own in a
different light to that in which it had been regarded hitherto
even by Hermann Franck, who afterwards expressed his sincere
regret that he had so misunderstood us.
With Rockel himself, whose sentence had by royal mercy been
commuted to lifelong imprisonment, I carried on at this time a
correspondence, the character of which soon showed that his life
was more cheerful and happy in his enforced captivity than mine
with its hopelessness, in spite of the freedom I enjoyed.
At last the month of May arrived, and I felt I needed change of
air in the country in order to strengthen my weakened nerves and
carry out my plans in regard to poetry. We found a fairly
comfortable pied-a-terre on the Rinderknecht estate. This was
situated halfway up the Zurich Berg, and we were able to enjoy an
alfresco meal on the 22nd of May--my thirty-ninth birthday--with
a lovely view of the lake and the distant Alps. Unfortunately a
period of incessant rain set in which scarcely stopped throughout
the whole summer, so that I had the greatest struggle to resist
its depressing influence. However, I soon got to work, and as I
had begun to carry out my great plan by beginning at the end and
going backwards, I continued on the same lines with the beginning
as my goal. Consequently, after I had completed the Siegfrieds
Tod and Junger Siegfried, I next attacked one of the principal
subjects, the Walkure, which was to follow the introductory
prelude of the Rheingold. In this way I completed the poem of the
Walkure by the end of June. At the same time I wrote the
dedication of the score of my Lohengrin to Liszt, as well as a
rhymed snub to an unprovoked attack on my Fliegender Hollander in
a Swiss newspaper. A very disagreeable incident in connection
with Herwegh pursued me to my retreat in the country. One day a
certain Herr Haug, who described himself as an ex-Roman general
of Mazzini's time, introduced himself to me with a view of
forming a sort of conspiracy against him, on behalf, as he said,
of the deeply offended family of the 'unfortunate lyric poet';
however, he did not succeed in getting any assistance from me. A
much pleasanter incident was a long visit from Julia, the eldest
daughter of my revered friend Frau Ritter, who had married
Kummer, the young Dresden chamber musician, whose health seemed
so entirely undermined that they were going to consult a
celebrated hydropathic doctor who practised only a few miles from
Zurich. I now had a good opportunity of abusing this water cure
about which my young friends were so eager, and had always
believed that I was perfectly mad on it also. But we left the
chamber musician to his fate, and rejoiced at the long and
pleasant visit of our amiable and charming young friend.
As I was quite satisfied with the success of my work, and the
weather was exceptionally cold and rainy, we made up our minds to
return to our cosy winter residence in Zurich at the end of June.
I was resolved to stay there until the appearance of some real
summer weather, when I intended to take a walking tour over the
Alps, which I felt would be of great advantage to my health.
Herwegh had promised to accompany me, but as he was apparently
prevented from doing so, I started alone in the middle of July,
after arranging with my travelling companion to meet me in
Valais. I began my walking tour at Alpnach, on the Lake of
Lucerne, and my plan was to wander by unfrequented paths to the
principal points of the Bernese Oberland. I worked pretty hard,
paying a visit, for instance, to the Faulhorn, which at that time
was considered a very difficult mountain to climb. When I reached
the hospice on the Grimsel by the Hasli Thal, I asked the host, a
fine, stately-looking man, about the ascent of the Siedelhorn. He
recommended me one of his servants as a guide, a rough, sinister-
looking man, who, instead of taking the usual zig-zag paths up
the mountain, led me up in a bee line, and I rather suspected he
intended to tire me out. At the top of the Siedelhorn I was
delighted to catch a glimpse, on one side, of the centre of the
Alps, whose giant backs alone were turned to us; and on the other
side, a sudden panorama of the Italian Alps, with Mont Blanc and
Monte Rosa. I had been careful to take a small bottle of
champagne with me, following the example of Prince Puckler when
he made the ascent of Snowdon; unfortunately, I could not think
of anybody whose health I could drink. We now descended vast
snow-fields, over which my guide slid with mad haste on his
alpenstock; I contented myself with leaning carefully on the iron
point of mine, and coming down at a moderate pace.
I arrived at Obergestelen dead tired, and stayed there two days,
to rest and await the arrival of Herwegh. Instead of coming
himself, however, a letter arrived from him which dragged me down
from my lofty communings with the Alps to the humdrum
consideration of the unpleasant situation in which my unhappy
friend found himself as a result of the incident I have already
described. He feared that I had allowed myself to be taken in by
his adversary, and had consequently formed an unfavourable
opinion of him. I told him to make his mind easy on that score,
and to meet me again, if possible, in Italian Switzerland. So I
set out for the ascent of the Gries glacier, and the climb across
the pass to the southern side of the Alps, in the company of my
sinister guide alone. During the ascent an extremely sad sight
kept meeting my eyes; an epidemic of foot-rot had broken out
among cows in the Upper Alps, and several herds passed me in
single file on their way to the valley, where they were going to
be doctored. The cows had become so lean that they looked like
skeletons, and dragged themselves pitiably down the slopes, and
the smiling country with the fat meadow-land seemed to take a
savage delight in gazing on this sad pilgrimage. At the foot of
the glacier, which stood out sheer and steep before me, I felt so
depressed, and my nerves were so overwrought, that I said I
wished to turn back. I was thereupon met by the coarse sarcasm of
my guide, who seemed to scoff at my weakness. My consequent anger
braced up my nerves, and I prepared myself at once to climb the
steep walls of ice as quickly as possible, so that this time it
was he who found difficulty in keeping up with me. We
accomplished the walk over the back of the glacier, which lasted
nearly two hours, under difficulties which caused even this
native of Grimsel anxiety, at least on his own account. Fresh
snow had fallen, which partially concealed the crevasses, and
prevented one from recognising the dangerous spots. The guide, of
course, had to precede me here, to examine the path. We arrived
at last at the opening of the upper valley which gives on to the
Formazza valley, to which a steep cutting, covered with snow and
ice, led. Here my guide again began his dangerous game of
conducting me straight over the steepest slopes instead of going
in a safe zig-zag; in this way we reached a precipitous moraine,
where I saw such unavoidable danger ahead, that I insisted upon
my guide going back with me some distance, until we struck a path
that I had noticed which was not so steep. He was obliged to give
in, much against the grain. I was deeply impressed by the first
signs of cultivation that we saw in our descent from the desolate
wilds. The first scanty meadow-land accessible to cattle was
called the Bettel-Matt, and the first person we met was a marmot
hunter. The wild scenery was soon enlivened by the marvellous
swirl and headlong rush of a mountain river called the Tosa,
which at one spot breaks into a superb waterfall with three
distinct branches. After the moss and reeds had, in the course of
our continuous descent, given place to grass and meadows, and the
shrubs had been replaced by pine trees, we at last arrived at the
goal of our day's journey, the village of Pommath, called
Formazza by the Italian population, which is situated in a
charming valley. Here, for the first time in my life, I had to
eat roast marmot. After having paid my guide, and sent him on his
homeward journey, I started alone on the following morning on my
further descent of the valley, although I had only partially
recovered from my fatigue, owing to lack of sleep. It was not
until the November of this year, when the whole of Switzerland
was thrown into a state of consternation by the news that the
Grimsel inn had been set fire to by the host himself, who hoped
by this means to obtain the renewal of the lease from the
authorities, that I learned my life had been in danger under the
guidance of this man. As soon as his crime was discovered, the
host drowned himself in the little lake, on the borders of which
the inn is situated. The serving-man, however, whom he had bribed
to arrange the fire, was caught and punished. I knew by the name
that he was the same man that the worthy innkeeper had given me
as companion on my solitary journey across the glacier pass, and
I heard at the same time that two travellers from Frankfort had
perished on the same pass a short time before my own journey. I
consequently realised that I had in a really remarkable manner
escaped a fatal danger which had threatened me.
I shall never forget my impressions of my journey through the
continually descending valley. I was particularly astonished at
the southern vegetation which suddenly spreads out before one on
climbing down from a steep and narrow rocky pass by which the
Tosa is confined. I arrived at Domodossola in the afternoon in a
blaze of sunshine, and I was reminded here of a charming comedy
by an author whose name I have forgotten, which I had once seen
performed with a refinement worthy of Platen, and to which my
attention had been drawn by Eduard Devrient in Dresden. The scene
of the play was laid in Domodossola, and described exactly the
impressions I myself received on coming down from the Northern
Alps into Italy, which suddenly burst upon one's gaze. I shall
also never forget my first simple, but extremely well-served,
Italian dinner. Although I was too tired to walk any further that
day, I was very impatient to get to the borders of Lake Maggiore,
and I accordingly arranged to drive in a one-horse chaise, which
was to take me on the same evening as far as Baveno. I felt so
contented while bowling along in my little vehicle that I
reproached myself for want of consideration in having rudely
declined the offer of company which an officer passing through
the Vetturino made me by means of the driver. I admired the
daintiness of the house decorations and the pleasant faces of the
people in the pretty villages I passed through. A young mother,
strolling along and singing as she spun the flax, with her baby
in her arms, also made a never-to-be-forgotten impression on me.
Soon after sunset I caught sight of the Borromean Islands rising
gracefully out of Lake Maggiore, and again I could not sleep for
excitement at the thought of what I might see on the following
day. The next morning the visit to the islands themselves
delighted me so much that I could not understand how I had
managed to come upon anything so charming, and wondered what
would result from it. After stopping only one day, I left the
place with the feeling that I had now to flee from something to
which I did not belong, and went round Lake Maggiore, up past
Socarno, to Bellinzona, where I was once again on Swiss soil;
from there I proceeded to Lugano, intending, if I followed out my
original plan of travel, to stay there some time. But I soon
suffered from the intense heat; even bathing in the sun-scorched
lake was not refreshing. Apart from the dirty furniture, which
included the Denksopha ('thinking sofa') from the Clouds by
Aristophanes, I was sumptuously lodged in a palatial building,
which in the winter served as the government house of the canton
of Tessin, but in the summer was used as a hotel. However, I soon
fell again into the condition that had troubled me so long, and
prevented me from taking any rest, owing to my extreme nervous
strain and excitement, whenever I felt disposed to idle
pleasantly. I had taken a good many books with me, and proposed
to entertain myself with Byron. Unfortunately it required a great
effort on my part to take any pleasure in his works, and the
difficulty of doing so increased when I began to read his Don
Juan. After a few days' time I began to wonder why I had come,
and what I wanted to do here, when suddenly Herwegh wrote saying
that he and several friends intended to join me at this place. A
mysterious instinct made me telegraph to my wife to come also.
She obeyed my call with surprising alacrity, and arrived
unexpectedly in the middle of the night, after travelling by
post-chaise across the St. Gotthard Pass. She was so fatigued
that she at once fell into a sound sleep on the Denksopha, from
which the fiercest storm that I ever remember failed to awaken
her. On the following day my Zurich friends arrived.
Herwegh's chief companion was Dr. Francois Wille. I had learned
to know him some time before at Herwegh's house: his chief
characteristics were a face much scarred in students' duels, and
a great tendency to witty and outspoken remarks. He had recently
been staying near Meilen on the Lake of Zurich, and he often
asked me to visit him there with Herwegh. Here we saw something
of the habits and customs of a Hamburg household, which was kept
up in a fairly prosperous style by his wife, the daughter of Herr
Sloman, a wealthy shipowner. Although in reality he remained a
student all his life, he had made himself a position and formed a
large circle of acquaintances by editing a Hamburg political
newspaper. He was a brilliant conversationalist, and was
considered good company. He seemed to have taken up with Herwegh
with the object of overcoming the latter's antipathy to Alpine
climbing, and his consequent reluctance to undertake it. He
himself had made preparations to walk over the Gotthard Pass with
a Professor Eichelberger, and this had made Herwegh furious, as
he declared that walking tours were only permissible where it was
impossible to drive, and not on these broad highways. After
making an excursion into the neighbourhood of Lugano, during
which I got heartily sick of the childish sound of the church
bells, so common in Italy, I persuaded my friends to go with me
to the Borromean Islands, which I was longing to see again.
During the steamer trip on Lake Maggiore, we met a delicate-
looking man with a long cavalry moustache, whom in private was
humourously dubbed General Haynau, and the distrust with which we
affected to treat him was a source of some amusement to us.
We soon found that he was an extremely good-natured Hanoverian
nobleman, who had been travelling about Italy for some time for
pleasure, and who was able to give us very useful information
concerning intercourse with the Italians. His advice was of great
service when we were visiting the Borromean Islands, where my
acquaintances parted from my wife and myself to travel back by
the nearest route, whereas we intended proceeding further across
the Simplon and through Le Valais to Chamounix.
From the fatigue my tour had so far occasioned me, I felt that it
would be some time before I started on a similar one again. I was
therefore eager to see what was best worth seeing in Switzerland
as thoroughly as possible now that I had the chance. Moreover, I
was just then, and indeed had been for some time, in that
impressionable humour from which I might anticipate important
results to myself from novel scenery, and I did not like to miss
Mont Blanc. A view of it was attended with great difficulties,
amongst which may be mentioned our arrival by night at Martigny,
where, owing to the crowded state of the hotels, we were
everywhere refused accommodation, and it was only on account of a
little intrigue between a postillion and a maidservant that we
found clandestine shelter for the night in a private house from
which the owners were absent.
We dutifully visited the so-called Mer de Glace in the Val de
Chamounix and the Flegere, from which I obtained a most
impressive view of Mont Blanc. However, my imagination was less
busied with the ascent of that peak than with the spectacle I
beheld when crossing the Col des Geants, as the great elevation
that we attained did not appeal to me so much as the unbroken and
sublime wildness of the latter. For some time I cherished the
intention of undertaking just one more venture of the kind. While
descending the Flegere, Minna had a fall and sprained her ankle;
the consequence of this was so painful as to deter us from any
further adventures. We therefore saw ourselves forced to hasten
on our journey home via Geneva. But even from this more important
and grander expedition, and almost the only one I had ever
undertaken purely for recreation, I returned with a strangely
unsatisfied feeling, and I could not resist the longing for
something decisive in the distance, that would give a fresh
direction to my life.
On reaching home I found announcements of a new and quite
different turn in my destiny. These consisted of inquiries and
commissions from various German theatres anxious to produce
Tannhauser. The first to apply was the Schwerin Court Theatre.
Rockel's youngest sister, who afterwards married the actor Moritz
(whom I had known from my earliest youth), had now come to
Germany as a youthful singer from England, where she had been
educated. She had given such an enthusiastic account of the
impression produced upon her by Tannhauser at Weimar, to an
official at the theatre there named Stocks, who held the position
of treasurer, that he had studied the opera most assiduously, and
had now induced the management to undertake to produce it. The
theatres at Breslau, Prague, and Wiesbaden soon followed; at the
last of these my old friend Louis Schindelmeisser was acting as
conductor. In a short time other theatres followed suit; but I
was most astonished when the Berlin Court Theatre made inquiries
through its new manager, Herr von Hulsen. From this last incident
I felt justified in assuming that the Crown Princess of Prussia,
who had always had a friendly feeling towards me, fostered by my
faithful friend Alwine Frommann, had again been intensely
interested by the performance of Tannhauser at Weimar, and had
given the impetus to these unexpected developments.
Whilst I was rejoicing over commissions from the smaller
theatres, those of the largest German stage were a source of
anxiety. I knew that at the former there were zealous conductors,
devoted to me, who had certainly been roused by the desire of
having the opera performed; in Berlin, on the other hand, matters
were quite different. The only other conductor besides Taubert,
whom I had known previously as a man devoid of talent, and at the
same time very conceited, was Heinrich Dorn, of whom I retained
most unpleasant recollections from my earliest years and from our
joint stay in Riga. I felt little drawn towards either of these,
nor did I perceive any possibility of undertaking the direction
of my own work; and from my knowledge of their capabilities as
well as of their ill-will, I had every reason to question any
successful rendering of my opera under their conductorship. Being
an exile, I was unable to go to Berlin in person in order to
supervise my work, so I immediately begged Listz's permission to
nominate him as my representative and alter ego, to which he
willingly agreed. When I afterwards made Liszt's appointment one
of my conditions, objection was raised on the part of the general
manager at Berlin on the score that the nomination of a Weimar
conductor would be regarded as a gross insult to the Prussian
court conductors, and I must consequently desist from demanding
it. Thereupon prolonged negotiations ensued with a view to
compromising the matter, which resulted in the production of
Tannhauser at Berlin being considerably delayed.
However, while Tannhauser was now rapidly spreading to the
middle-class German theatres, I became a prey to great uneasiness
as to the quality of these performances, and could never get a
very clear idea of them. As my presence was prohibited
everywhere, I had recourse to a very detailed pamphlet which was
to serve as a guide to the production of my work, and convey a
correct idea of my purpose. I had this somewhat voluminous work
printed at my own expense and tastefully bound, and to every
theatre that had given an order for the operatic score I sent a
number of copies of it, with the understanding that they were to
be given to the conductor, stage manager, and principal
performers for perusal and guidance. But from that time I have
never heard of a single person who had either read this pamphlet
or taken any notice of it. In the year 1864, when all my own
copies had been exhausted, owing to my painstaking distribution
of them, I found to my great delight, among the theatrical
archives, several copies that had been sent to the Munich Court
Theatre, quite intact and uncut. I was therefore in the agreeable
position of being able to procure copies of the missing pamphlet
for the King of Bavaria, who wished to see it, as well as for
myself and some friends.
It was a singular coincidence that the news of the diffusion of
my opera through the German theatres should synchronise with my
resolve to compose a work in the conception of which I had been
so decidedly influenced by the necessity of being absolutely
indifferent to our own theatres; yet this unexpected turn of
events in no wise affected my treatment of my design. On the
contrary, by keeping to my plan, I gained confidence and let
things take their own course, without attempting in any way to
promote the performances of my operas. I just let people do as
they liked, and looked on surprised, while continual accounts
reached my ears of remarkable successes; none of them, however,
induced me to alter my verdict on our theatres in general or on
the opera in particular. I remained unshaken in my resolve to
produce my Nibelungen dramas just as though the present operatic
stage did not exist, since the ideal theatre of my dreams must of
necessity come sooner or later. I therefore composed the libretto
of the Rheingold in the October and November of that year, and
with that I brought the whole cycle of the Nibelungen myth as I
had evolved it to a conclusion. At the same time I was rewriting
Junger Siegfried and Siegfrieds Tod, especially the latter, in
such a way as to bring them into proper relation with the whole;
and by so doing, important amplifications were made in Siegfrieds
Tod which were in harmony with the now recognised and obvious
purpose of the whole work. I was accordingly obliged to find for
this last piece a new title suited to the part it plays in the
complete cycle. I entitled it Gotterdammerung, and I changed the
name Junger Siegfried to Siegfried, as it no longer dealt with an
isolated episode in the life of the hero, but had assumed its
proper place among the other prominent figures in the framework
of the whole. The prospect of having to leave this lengthy poem
for some time entirely unknown to those whom I might expect to be
interested in it was a source of great grief to me. As the
theatres now and then surprised me by sending me the usual
royalties on Tannhauser, I devoted a part of my profits to having
a number of copies of my poem neatly printed for my own use. I
arranged that only fifty copies of this edition de luxe should be
struck off. But a great sorrow overtook me before I had completed
this agreeable task. It is true, I met on all sides with
indications of sympathetic interest in the completion of my great
lyric work, although most of my acquaintances regarded the whole
thing as a chimera, or possibly a bold caprice. The only one who
entered into it with any heartiness or real enthusiasm was
Herwegh, with whom I frequently discussed it, and to whom I
generally read aloud such portions as were completed. Sulzer was
much annoyed at the remodelling of Siegfrieds Tod, as he regarded
it as a fine and original work, and thought it would be deprived
of that quality if I decided to alter it to any extent. He
therefore begged me to let him have the manuscript of the earlier
version to keep as a remembrance; otherwise it would have been
entirely lost. In order to get an idea of the effect of the whole
poem when rendered in complete sequence, I decided, only a few
days after the work was completed in the middle of December, to
pay a short visit to the Wille family at their country seat, so
as to read it aloud to the little company there. Besides Herwegh,
who accompanied me, the party there consisted of Frau Wille and
her sister, Frau von Bissing. I had often entertained these
ladies with music in my own peculiar fashion during my pleasant
visits to Mariafeld, about two hours' walk from Zurich. In them I
had secured a devoted and enthusiastic audience, somewhat to Herr
Wille's annoyance, as he often admitted that he had a horror of
music; nevertheless, he ended in his jovial way by taking the
matter good humouredly.
I arrived towards evening, and we attacked Rheingold at once, and
as it did not seem very late, and I was supposed to be capable of
any amount of exertion, I went on with the Walkure until
midnight. The next morning after breakfast it was Siegfried's
turn, and in the evening I finished off with Gotterdammerung. I
thought I had every reason to be satisfied with the result, and
the ladies in particular were so much moved that they ventured no
comment. Unfortunately the effort left me in a state of almost
painful excitement; I could not sleep, and the next morning I was
so disinclined for conversation that I left my hurried departure
unexplained. Herwegh, who accompanied me back alone, appeared to
divine my state of mind, and shared it by maintaining a similar
silence.
However, I now wished to have the pleasure of confiding the whole
completed work to my friend Uhlig at Dresden. I carried on a
regular correspondence with him, and he had followed the
development of my plan, and was thoroughly acquainted with every
phase of it. I did not want to send him the Walkure before the
Rheingold was ready, as the latter should come first, and even
then I did not want him to see the whole thing until I could send
him a handsomely printed copy. But at the beginning of the autumn
I discerned in Uhlig's letters grounds for feeling a growing
anxiety as to the state of his health. He complained of the
increase in his serious paroxysms of coughing, and eventually of
complete hoarseness. He thought all this was merely weakness,
which he hoped to overcome by invigorating his system with the
cold-water treatment and long walks. He found the violin work at
the theatre very exhausting, but if he took a sharp seven hours'
walk into the country he invariably felt much better. However, he
could not rid himself of his chest attacks or of his hoarseness,
and had a difficulty in making himself heard even when speaking
to a person quite near him. Up to that time I had been unwilling
to alarm the poor fellow, and always hoped that his condition
would necessitate his consulting a doctor, who would naturally
prescribe rational treatment. Now, however, as I was continually
hearing nothing from him but assurances of his confidence in the
principles of the water cure, I could contain myself no longer,
and I entreated him to give up this madness and place himself in
the hands of a sensible doctor, for in his condition what he most
needed was, not strength, but very careful attention. The poor
man was extremely alarmed at this, as he gathered from my remarks
that I feared he was already in an advanced stage of consumption.
'What is to become of my poor wife and children,' he wrote, 'if
that is really the case?' Unhappily, it was too late; with the
last strength that was left him he tried to write to me again,
and finally my old friend Fischer, the chorus-master, carried out
Uhlig's instructions, and when these were no longer audible he
had to bend down close to his lips. The news of his death
followed with frightful rapidity. It took place on the 3rd of
January, 1853. Thus, in addition to Lehrs, another of my really
devoted friends was carried off by consumption. The handsome copy
of the Ring des Nibelungen I had intended for him lay uncut
before me, and I sent it to his youngest boy, whom he had
christened Siegfried. I asked his widow to let me have any
pamphlets of a theoretical nature he might have left behind, and
I came into possession of several important ones, among them the
longer essay on 'Theme-Structure.' Although the publication of
these works would involve a great deal of trouble, owing to the
necessity of revising them, I asked Hartel of Leipzig if he would
pay the widow a fair sum for a volume of Uhlig's writings. The
publisher declared he could not undertake to bring it out without
payment, as works of that nature were quite unremunerative. It
was obvious to me, even at that time, how thoroughly every
musician who had taken a keen interest in me had made himself
disliked in certain circles.
Uhlig's melancholy death gave my home-circle the whip-hand over
me with regard to my theories on the subject of water cures.
Herwegh impressed upon my wife that she must insist upon my
taking a glass of good wine after all the exertion I underwent at
the rehearsals and concerts which I was attending throughout that
winter. By degrees, also, I again accustomed myself to enjoy such
mild stimulants as tea and coffee, my friends meanwhile
perceiving to their joy that I was once more becoming a man
amongst men. Dr. Rahn-Escher now became a welcome and comforting
friend and visitor, who for many years thoroughly understood the
management of my health, and especially the misgivings arising
from the over-wrought state of my nerves. He soon verified the
wisdom of his treatment, when in the middle of February I had
undertaken to read my tetralogy aloud on four consecutive
evenings before a larger audience. I had caught a severe cold
after the first evening, and on the morning of the day for the
second reading I awoke suffering from severe hoarseness. I at
once informed the doctor that my failure to give the reading
would be a serious matter to me, and asked him what he advised me
to do to get rid of the hoarseness as speedily as possible. He
recommended me to keep quiet all day, and in the evening to be
taken well wrapped up to the place where the readings were to be
held. When I got there I was to take two or three cups of weak
tea, and I should be all right; whereas if I worried over the
failure to keep my engagement I might become seriously worse.
And, indeed, the reading of this stirring work went off
capitally, and I was, moreover, able to continue the readings on
the third and fourth evenings, and felt perfectly well. I had
secured a large and handsome room for these meetings in the Hotel
Baur au lac, and had the gratifying experience of seeing it
fuller and fuller each evening, in spite of having invited only a
small number of acquaintances, giving them the option of bringing
any friends who they thought would take a genuine interest in the
subject and not come out of mere curiosity. Here, too, the
verdict seemed altogether favourable, and it was from the most
serious university men and government officials that I received
assurances of the greatest appreciation as well as kindly
remarks, showing that my poem and the artistic ideas connected
with it had been fully understood. From the peculiar earnestness
with which they gave vent to their opinions, which in this case
were so confidently unanimous, the idea occurred to me to try how
far this favourable impression might be utilized to serve the
higher aims of art. In accordance with the superficial views
generally prevailing on the subject, every one seemed to think I
might be induced to make terms with the theatre. I tried to think
out how it would be possible to convert the ill-equipped Zurich
theatre into a highly developed one by adopting sound principles,
and I laid my views before the public in a pamphlet entitled 'A
Theatre in Zurich.' The edition, consisting of about a hundred
copies, was sold, yet I never noticed the least indication of any
result from the publication; the only outcome was, that at a
banquet of the Musical Society my excellent friend, Herr Ott-
Imhoff, expressed his entire disagreement with the statements
uttered by various people, that these ideas of mine were all very
grand, but unfortunately quite impracticable. Nevertheless, my
propositions lacked the one thing that would have made them
valuable in his eyes, namely my consent to take over the
management of the theatre in person, as he would not entrust the
carrying out of my ideas to anyone but myself. However, as I was
obliged to declare then and there that I would not have anything
to do with such a scheme, the matter dropped, and in my inmost
heart I could not help thinking that the good people were quite
right.
Meanwhile, the sympathetic interest in my works was increasing.
As I now had to refuse firmly to yield to my friends' wishes for
a performance of my principal works at the theatre, I begged to
be allowed to arrange a selection of characteristic pieces, which
could easily be produced at concerts, so soon as I could obtain
the requisite support. A subscription list was accordingly
circulated, and it had the satisfactory result of inducing
several well-known art patrons to put their names down to
guarantee expenses. I had to undertake to engage an orchestra to
suit my requirements. Skilled musicians from far and near were
summoned, and after interminable efforts I began to feel that
something really satisfactory would be achieved.
I had made arrangements that the performers should stay at Zurich
a whole week from Sunday to Sunday. Half of this time was
allotted exclusively to rehearsals. The performance was to take
place on Wednesday evening, and on Friday and Sunday evenings
there were to be repetitions of it. The dates were the 18th,
20th, and 22nd of May, my fortieth birthday falling on the last-
named date. I had the joy of seeing all my directions accurately
carried out. From Mayence, Wiesbaden, Frankfort, and Stuttgart,
and on the other side, from Geneva, Lausanne, Bale, Berne, and
the chief towns in Switzerland, picked musicians arrived
punctually on Sunday afternoon. They were at once directed to the
theatre, where they had to arrange their exact places in the
orchestral stand I had previously designed at Dresden--and which
proved excellent here too--so as to begin rehearsing the first
thing next morning without delay or interruption. As these people
were at my disposal in the early morning and in the evening, I
made them learn a selection of pieces from the Fliegender
Hollander, Tannhauser, and Lohengrin. I had greater trouble in
trying to train them for a chorus, but this too turned out very
satisfactorily. There was nothing in the way of solo-singing,
except the Ballad of Senta from the Hollander, which was sung by
the wife of the conductor Heim in a good though untrained voice,
and with an amount of spirit that left nothing to be desired. As
a matter of fact, the performances could hardly be called public
concerts, but were rather of the nature of family entertainments.
I felt I was fulfilling a sincere desire on the part of a larger
circle of acquaintances by introducing them to the true nature of
my music, rendered as intelligibly as circumstances permitted.
As, at the same time, it was desirable that they should have some
knowledge of the poetical basis of it, I invited those who
intended to be present at my concerts to come for three evenings
to the Musical Society's concert-hall to hear me read aloud the
libretto of the three operas, portions of which they were about
to hear. This invitation met with an enthusiastic response, and I
was now able to hope that my audience would come better prepared
to listen to the selections from my operas than had ever been the
case before. The fact that pleased me most in the performances on
these three evenings was that I was able for the first time to
produce something from Lohengrin myself, and could thus get an
idea of the effect of my combination of the instrumental parts in
the overture to that work.
Between the performances there was a banquet which, with the
exception of a subsequent one at Pesth, was the only function of
the sort ever held in my honour. I was sincerely and deeply
affected by the speech of the aged President of the Musical
Society, Herr Ott-Usteri. He drew the attention of all those
musicians who had come together from so many places to the
significance of their meeting, and its objects and results, and
recommended as a trustworthy guide to them on their homeward
journey the conviction they had all doubtless arrived at, that
they had come into close and genuine touch with, a wonderful new
creation in the realm of art.
The sensation produced by these evening concerts spread through
the whole of Switzerland in ever-widening circles. Invitations
and requests for further repetitions of them poured in from
distant towns. I was assured that I might well repeat the three
performances in the following week without any fear of seeing a
diminution in the audience. When this project was discussed, and
I pleaded my own fatigue, and also expressed the desire to retain
for these concerts their unique character by not allowing them to
become commonplace, I was very glad to have the powerful and
intelligent support of my friend Hagenbuch, who on this occasion
was indefatigable. The festival was concluded, and the guests
were dismissed at the appointed time.
I had hoped to be able to welcome Liszt among the visitors, as he
had celebrated a 'Wagner week' at Weimar in the previous March by
performing three operas of which I had only given portions here.
Unfortunately he was unable to leave just then, but by way of
amends he promised me a visit at the beginning of July. Of my
German friends, only the faithful Mme. Julie Kummer and Mme.
Emilie Ritter arrived in time. As these two ladies had gone on to
Interlaken at the beginning of June, and I also began to feel in
great need of a change, I started with my wife, towards the end
of the month, for a short holiday. The visit was spoilt in the
most dismal fashion by continuous rain; and on the 1st of July,
as we were starting in desperation on our homeward journey to
Zurich with our lady friends, magnificent summer weather set in,
which lasted a considerable time. With affectionate enthusiasm we
at once attributed this change to Liszt, as he arrived in
Switzerland in the best of spirits immediately after we had
returned to Zurich. Thereupon followed one of those delightful
weeks, during which every hour of the day becomes a treasured
memory. I had already taken more roomy apartments on the second
floor in the so-called Vorderen Escher Hausern, in which I had
before occupied a flat that was much too small on the ground
floor. Frau Stockar-Escher, who was part owner of the house, was
enthusiastically devoted to me. She was full of artistic talent
herself, being an excellent amateur painter in water-colours, and
had taken great pains to rearrange the new dwelling as
luxuriously as possible. The unexpected improvement in my
circumstances brought about by the continued demands for my
operas, allowed me to indulge my desire for comfortable domestic
arrangements, which had been reawakened since my stay at the
hydropathic establishment, and which, after being repressed, had
become quite a passionate longing.
I had the flat so charmingly furnished with carpets and
decorative furniture that Liszt himself was surprised into
admiration as he entered my 'petite elegance', as he called it.
Now for the first time I enjoyed the delight of getting to know
my friend better as a fellow-composer. In addition to many of his
celebrated pianoforte pieces, which he had only recently written,
we went through several new symphonies with great ardour, and
especially his Faust Symphony. Later on, I had the opportunity of
describing in detail the impressions I received at this time in a
letter which I wrote to Marie von Wittgenstein, which was
afterwards published. My delight over everything I heard by Liszt
was as deep as it was sincere, and, above all, extraordinarily
stimulating. I even thought of beginning to compose again after
the long interval that had elapsed. What could be more full of
promise and more momentous to me than this long-desired meeting
with the friend who had been engaged all his life in his masterly
practice of music, and had also devoted himself so absolutely to
my own works, and to diffusing the proper comprehension of them.
Those almost bewilderingly delightful days, with the inevitable
rush of friends and acquaintances, were interrupted by an
excursion to the Lake of Lucerne, accompanied only by Herwegh, to
whom Liszt had the charming idea of offering a 'draught of
fellowship' with himself and me from the three springs of the
Grutli.
After this my friend took leave of us, after having arranged for
another meeting with me in the autumn.
Although I felt quite disconsolate after Liszt's departure, the
officials of Zurich took good care that I should soon have some
diversion, of a kind to which I had hitherto been a stranger. It
took the form of the presentation of a masterpiece of calligraphy
in the shape of a 'Diploma of Honour,' awarded me by the Zurich
Choral Society, which was ready at last. This was to be awarded
to me with the accompaniment of an imposing torchlight
procession, in which the various elements of the Zurich
population, who, either as individuals or members of societies,
were favourably disposed to me, were to take part. So it came to
pass that one fine summer evening a large company of torchbearers
approached the Zeltweg, to the accompaniment of loud music. They
presented a spectacle such as I had never seen before, and made a
unique impression on my mind. After the singing, the voice of the
President of the Choral Society could be heard rising from the
street. I was so much affected by the incident that my
unconquerable optimism quickly overpowered every other sensation.
In my speech of acknowledgment I indicated plainly that I saw no
reason why Zurich itself should not be the chosen place to give
an impetus to the fulfilment of the aspirations I cherished for
my artistic ideals, and that it might do so on proper civic
lines. I believe this was taken to refer to a special development
of the men's choral societies, and they were quite gratified at
my bold forecasts. Apart from this confusion, for which I was
responsible, that evening's ceremony and its effects on me were
very cheerful and beneficial.
But I still felt the peculiar disinclination and fear of taking
up composing again that I had previously experienced after
protracted pauses in musical production. I also felt very much
exhausted by all I had done and gone through, and the ever-
recurring longing to break completely with everything in the
past, that had unfortunately haunted me since my departure from
Dresden, as well as the desire and yearning for new and untried
surroundings, fostered by that anxiety, now acquired fresh and
tormenting vigour. I felt that before entering on such a gigantic
task as the music to my drama of the Nibelungen, I must
positively make one final effort to see whether I could not, in
some new environment, attain an existence more in harmony with my
feelings than I could possibly aspire to after so many
compromises. I planned a journey to Italy, or such parts of it as
were open to me as a political refugee. The means for carrying
out my wish were readily placed at my disposal through the
kindness of my friend Wesendonck, who has ever since that time
been devoted to me. However, I knew it was inadvisable to take
that journey before the autumn, and as my doctor had recommended
some special treatment for strengthening my nerves--even if only
to enjoy Italy--I decided first of all to go to St. Moritz Bad in
the Engadine. I started in the latter half of July, accompanied
by Herwegh. Strangely enough, I have often found that what other
people could note in their diaries merely as an ordinary visit or
a trivial expedition, assumed for me the character of an
adventure. This occurred on our journey to the Bad, when, owing
to the coaches being crowded, we were detained at Chur in an
incessant downpour of rain. We were obliged to pass the time in
reading at a most uncomfortable inn. I got hold of Goethe's West-
ostlichen Divan, for the reading of which I had been prepared by
Daumer's adaptation of Hafiz. To this day I never think of
Goethe's words in elucidating these poems without recalling that
wretched delay in our journey to the Engadine. We did not get on
much better at St. Moritz; the present convenient Kurhaus was not
then in existence, and we had to put up with the roughest
accommodation; this was particularly annoying to me on Herwegh's
account, as he had not gone there for health, but simply for
enjoyment. However, we were soon cheered by the lovely views of
the grand valleys, which were quite bare but for the Alpine
pastures, that met our eyes on our way down the steep slopes into
the Italian valleys. After we had secured the schoolmaster at
Samaden as a guide to the Rosetch glacier, we embarked on more
serious expeditions. We had confidently looked forward to
exceptional enjoyment in thus penetrating beyond the precipices
of the great Mont Bernina, to which we gave the palm for beauty
above Mont Blanc itself. Unfortunately the effect was lost on my
friend, owing to the tremendous exertions by which the ascent and
crossing of the glacier were attended. Once again, but this time
to an even greater degree, I felt the sublime impression of the
sacredness of that desolate spot, and the almost benumbing calm
which the disappearance of all vegetation produces on the
pulsating life of the human organism. After we had been wandering
for two hours, deep in the glacier path, we partook of a meal we
had brought with us, and champagne, iced in the fissures, to
strengthen us for our wearisome return. I had to cover the
distance nearly twice over, as, to my astonishment, Herwegh was
in such a nervous condition that I had repeatedly to go backwards
and forwards, showing him the way up and down before he would
decide to follow. I then realised the peculiarly exhausting
nature of the air in those regions, as on our way back we stopped
at the first herdsman's cottage, and were refreshed with some
delicious milk. I swallowed such quantities of it that we were
both perfectly amazed, but I experienced no discomfort whatever
in consequence.
The waters, whether for internal or external use, are known to be
powerfully impregnated with iron, and in taking them I had the
same experience as on previous occasions. With my extremely
excitable nervous system, they were a source of more trouble than
relief to me. The leisure hours were filled up by reading
Goethe's Wahlverwandtschaften, which I had not read since I was
quite young. This time I absolutely devoured the book from
beginning to end, and it also became a source of heated
discussions between Herwegh and myself. As Herwegh possessed an
extensive knowledge of the characteristics of our great poetic
literature, he felt it incumbent on him to defend the character
of Charlotte against my attacks. My vehemence on the subject
showed what a strange creature I still was at over forty, and in
my heart of hearts I had to admit that Herwegh judged Gothe's
poem objectively more correctly than I did, as I always felt
depressed by a kind of moral bondage, to which Herwegh, if he had
ever experienced it at all, submitted placidly, owing to his
peculiar relations with his strong-minded wife. When the time
came to an end, and I realised that I had not much to hope for
from the treatment, we returned to Zurich. This was about the
middle of August, and I now began to look forward impatiently to
my tour in Italy. At last, in the month of September, which I had
been told was quite suitable for visiting Italy, I set off on the
journey via Geneva, full of indescribable ideas of what was
before me, and of what I might see as the outcome of my search.
Once again amid all sorts of strange adventures, I reached Turin
by special mail-coach over Mont Cenis. Finding nothing to detain
me there more than a couple of days, I hurried on to Genoa.
There, at any rate, the longed-for marvels seemed to be within
reach. The grand impression produced on me by that, city
overcomes, even to this day, any longing to visit the rest of
Italy. For a few days I was in a dream of delight; but my extreme
loneliness amidst these impressions soon made me feel that I was
a stranger in that world, and that I should never be at home in
it. Absolutely inexperienced as I was in searching out the
treasures of art on a systematic plan, I gave myself up in this
new world to a peculiar state of mind that might be described as
a musical one, and my main idea was to find some turning-point
that might induce me to remain there in quiet enjoyment. My only
object still was to find a refuge where I might enjoy the
congenial peace suited to some new artistic creation. In
consequence, however, of thoughtlessly indulging in ices, I soon
got an attack of dysentery, which produced the most depressing
lassitude after my previous exaltation. I wanted to flee from the
tremendous noise of the harbour, near which I was staying, and
seek for the most absolute calm; and thinking a trip to Spezia
would benefit me, I went there by steamer a week later. Even this
excursion, which lasted only one night, was turned into a trying
adventure, thanks to a violent head-wind. The dysentery became
worse, owing to sea-sickness, and in the most utterly exhausted
condition, scarcely able to drag myself another step, I made for
the best hotel in Spezia, which, to my horror, was situated in a
noisy, narrow street.
After a night spent in fever and sleeplessness, I forced myself
to take a long tramp the next day through the hilly country,
which was covered with pine woods. It all looked dreary and
desolate, and I could not think what I should do there. Returning
in the afternoon, I stretched myself, dead tired, on a hard
couch, awaiting the long-desired hour of sleep. It did not come;
but I fell into a kind of somnolent state, in which I suddenly
felt as though I were sinking in swiftly flowing water. The
rushing sound formed itself in my brain into a musical sound, the
chord of E flat major, which continually re-echoed in broken
forms; these broken chords seemed to be melodic passages of
increasing motion, yet the pure triad of E flat major never
changed, but seemed by its continuance to impart infinite
significance to the element in which I was sinking. I awoke in
sudden terror from my doze, feeling as though the waves were
rushing high above my head. I at once recognised that the
orchestral overture to the Rheingold, which must long have lain
latent within me, though it had been unable to find definite
form, had at last been revealed to me. I then quickly realised my
own nature; the stream of life was not to flow to me from
without, but from within. I decided to return to Zurich
immediately, and begin the composition of my great poem. I
telegraphed to my wife to let her know my decision, and to have
my study in readiness.
The same evening I took my place on the coach going to Genoa
along the Riviera di Levante. I again had the opportunity of
getting exquisite impressions of the country during this journey,
which lasted over the whole of the following day. It was, above
all, the colouring of the wonders that presented themselves to my
eyes which gave me such delight--the redness of the rocks, the
blue of the sky and the sea, the pale green of the pines; even
the dazzling white of a herd of cattle worked upon me so
powerfully that I murmured to myself with a sigh, 'How sad it is
that I cannot remain to enjoy all this, and thus gratify my
sensuous nature.'
At Genoa I again felt so agreeably stimulated that I suddenly
thought I had only yielded to some foolish weakness, and resolved
to carry out my original plan. I was already making arrangements
for travelling to Nice along the celebrated Riviera di Ponente,
of which I had heard so much, but I had scarcely decided on my
former plans, when I realised that the fact which refreshed and
invigorated me was not the renewal of my delight over Italy, but
the resolve to take up my work again. And indeed, as soon as I
made up my mind to alter this plan, the old condition set in once
more, with all the symptoms of dysentery. I thereupon understood
myself, and giving up the journey to Nice, I returned direct by
the nearest route via Alessandria and Novara.
This time I passed the Borromean Islands with supreme
indifference, and got back to Zurich over the St. Gotthard.
When I had once returned, the only thing that could have made me
happy would have been to start at once on my great work. For the
present, however, I saw that it would be seriously interrupted by
my appointment with Liszt, who was to be in Bale at the beginning
of October. I was restless and annoyed at being so unsettled, and
spent the time in visiting my wife, who, thinking that I would be
away longer, was taking the waters at Baden am Stein. As I was
easily prevailed upon to try any experiment of this kind if only
the person who recommended it were sufficiently sanguine, I
allowed myself to be persuaded into taking a course of hot baths,
and the process heightened my excitment considerably.
At last the time for the meeting in Bale arrived. At the
invitation of the Grand Duke of Baden, Liszt had arranged and
conducted a musical festival in Karlsruhe, the aim of which was
to give the public an adequate interpretation of our respective
works. As I was not yet allowed to enter the territory of the
German confederation, Liszt had chosen Bale as the place nearest
to the Baden frontier, and had brought with him some young men
who had been his devoted admirers in Karlsruhe, to give me a
hearty welcome.
I was the first to arrive, and in the evening, while sitting
alone in the dining-room of the hotel, 'Zu den drei Konigen,' the
air of the trumpet fanfare (from Lohengrin) announcing the King's
arrival, sung by a strong though not numerous chorus of men's
voices, reached me from the adjacent vestibule. The door opened
and Liszt entered at the head of his joyful little band, whom he
introduced to me. I also saw Bulow again, for the first time
since his adventurous winter visit to Zurich and St. Gall, and
with him Joachim, Peter Cornelius, Richard Pohl, and Dionys
Pruckner.
Liszt told me that he was expecting a visit from his friend
Caroline von Wittgenstein and her young daughter Marie the next
day. The bright and merry spirit which prevailed at that
gathering (which, like everything that Liszt promoted, in spite
of its intimate nature, was characterised by magnificent
unconventionality) grew to a pitch of almost eccentric hilarity
as the night wore on. In the midst of our wild mood I suddenly
missed Pohl. I knew him to be a champion of our cause through
having read his articles under the pseudonym of 'Hoplit.' I stole
away and found him in bed suffering from a splitting headache. My
sympathy had such an effect upon him that he declared himself
suddenly cured. Jumping out of bed, he allowed me to help him
dress hurriedly, and again joining our friends we sat up till the
night was far advanced and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. On the
following day our happiness was complete when the ladies arrived,
who for the next few days formed the centre of our little party.
In those days it was impossible for any one coming into contact
with Princess Caroline not to be fascinated by her bright manner
and the charming way in which she entered into all our little
plans.
She was as much interested in the more important questions that
affected us as in the accidental details of our life in relation
to society, and she had the magnetic power of extracting the very
best out of those with whom she associated. Her daughter gave one
quite a different impression. She was barely fifteen and had a
rather dreamy look on her young face, and was at the stage 'in
which womanhood and childhood meet,' thus allowing me to pay her
the compliment of calling her 'the child.' During our lively
discussions and outbursts of merriment, her dark pensive eyes
would gaze at us so calmly that we unconsciously felt that in her
innocence she unwittingly understood the cause of our gaiety. In
those days I suffered from the vanity of wishing to recite my
poems aloud (a proceeding which, by the bye, annoyed Herwegh very
much), and consequently it was no difficult task to induce me to
read out my Nibelungen drama. As the time of our parting was
drawing near, I decided I would read Siegfried only.
When Liszt was obliged to leave for Paris on a visit to his
children, we all accompanied him as far as Strasburg. I had
decided to follow him to Paris, but the Princess intended going
on from Strasburg to Weimar with her daughter.
During the few spare hours of our short stay in Strasburg I was
asked to read some of my work to the ladies, but could not find a
suitable opportunity. However, on the morning of our intended
parting, Liszt came to my room to tell me that the ladies had,
after all, decided to accompany us to Paris, and added, laughing,
that Marie had induced her mother to change her plans, as she
wished to hear the rest of the Nibelungen poems. The prolonging
of our journey, with all its delightful incidents, was quite in
accordance with my taste.
We were very sorry to part from our younger friends. Bulow told
me that Joachim, who had been holding himself rather aloof, could
not forget my tremendous article on 'Judaism,' and that he
consequently felt shy and awkward in my presence. He also said
that when Joachim had asked him (Bulow) to read one of his
compositions, he had inquired with a certain gentle diffidence,
whether I should be able to trace 'anything Jewish' in it.
This touching trait in Joachim's character induced me to say a
few particularly friendly words to him at parting and to embrace
him warmly. I never saw him again, [Footnote: This was written in
1869.] and heard to my astonishment that he had taken up a
hostile attitude to both Liszt and myself, almost immediately
after we had left. The other young men were the victims, on their
return to Germany, of a very funny although unpleasant
experience, that of coming into contact with the police at Baden.
They had entered the town singing the same bright tune of the
fanfare from Lohengrin, and they had a good deal of difficulty in
giving a satisfactory account of themselves to the inhabitants.
Our journey to Paris and our stay there were full of important
incidents, and left indelible traces of our exceptionally devoted
friendship. After great difficulty we found rooms for the ladies
in the Hotel des Princes, and Liszt then suggested that we should
go for a stroll on the boulevards, which at that hour were
deserted. I presume that our feelings on this occasion must have
differed as much as our reminiscences. When I entered the
sitting-room the next morning, Liszt remarked, with his
characteristic little smile, that the Princess Marie was already
in a great state of excitement at the thought of further
readings. Paris did not offer much attraction to me, and as
Princess Caroline desired to arouse as little attention as
possible, and Liszt was frequently called away on private
business, we took up our reading, where we had left it off in
Bale, on the very first morning of our stay in Paris, even before
we had been outside the hotel. I was not allowed to stop reading
on the following days until the Ring des Nibelungen was quite
finished. Finally Paris claimed our attention, but while the
ladies were visiting the museums I was unfortunately obliged to
stay in my room, tortured by continually recurring nervous
headaches. Liszt, however, induced me occasionally to join them
in their excursions. At the beginning of our stay he had engaged
a box for a performance of Robert le Diable, because he wanted
the ladies to see the great opera house under the most favourable
conditions. I believe that my friends shared the terrible
depression from which I was suffering on this occasion. Liszt,
however, must have had other motives for going. He had asked me
to wear evening dress, and seemed very pleased I had done so when
at the interval he invited me to go for a stroll with him through
the foyer. I could see he was under the influence of certain
reminiscences of delightful evenings spent in this selfsame
foyer, and that the dismal performance of this night must have
cast a gloom over him. We stole quietly back to our friends,
hardly knowing why we had started on this monotonous expedition.
One of the artistic pleasures I enjoyed most was a concert given
by the Morin-Chevillard Quartette Society, at which they played
Beethoven's Quartettes in E flat major and C sharp minor; the
excellent rendering of this work impressed me in very much the
same way as the performance of the Ninth Symphony by the
Conservatoire orchestra had once done. I had again the
opportunity of admiring the great artistic zeal with which the
French master these treasures of music, which even to this day
are so coarsely handled by the Germans.
This was the first time that I really became intimately
acquainted with the C sharp minor quartette, because I had never
before grasped its melody. If, therefore, I had nothing else to
remind me of my stay in Paris, this would have been an unfading
memory. I also carried away with me other equally significant
impressions. One day Liszt invited me to spend an evening with
him and his children, who were living very quietly in the care of
a governess in Paris.
It was quite a novelty to me to see Liszt with these young girls,
and to watch him in his intercourse with his son, then a growing
lad. Liszt himself seemed to feel strange in his fatherly
position, which for several years had only brought him cares,
without any of the attendant pleasures.
On this occasion we again resumed our reading of the last act of
Gotterdammerung, which brought us to the longed-for end of the
tetralogy. Berlioz, who looked us up during that time, endured
these readings with quite admirable patience. We had lunch with
him one morning before his departure, and he had already packed
his music for his concert tour through Germany. Liszt played
different selections from his Benvenuto Cellini, while Berlioz
sang to them in his peculiarly monotonous style. I also met the
journalist, Jules Janin, who was quite a celebrity in Paris,
although it took me a long time to realise this; the only thing
that impressed me about him was his colloquial Parisian French,
which was quite unintelligible to me.
A dinner, followed by a musical evening at the house of the
celebrated pianoforte manufacturer, Erard, also remains in my
memory. At this house, as well as at a dinner-party given by
Liszt at the Palais Royal, I again met his children. Daniel, the
youngest of them, particularly attracted me by his brightness and
his striking resemblance to his father, but the girls were very
shy. I must not forget to mention an evening spent at the house
of Mme. Kalergis, a woman of exceptional individuality, whom I
met here for the first time since the early performance of
Tannhauser in Dresden. When at dinner she asked me a question
about Louis Napoleon, I forgot myself so far in my excitement and
resentment as to put an end to all further conversation by saying
that I could not understand how anybody could possibly expect
great things from a man whom no woman could really love. After
dinner, when Liszt sat down at the piano, young Marie
Wittgenstein noticed that I had withdrawn silently and rather
sadly from the rest of the company; this was due partly to my
headache, and partly to the feeling of isolation that came over
me in these surroundings. I was touched by her sympathy and
evident wish to divert me.
After a very fatiguing week my friends left Paris. As I had again
been prevented from starting on my work, I now decided not to
leave Paris until I had restored my nerves to that state of calm
which was indispensable to the fulfilment of my great project. I
had invited my wife to meet me on our way back to Zurich, to give
her the opportunity of seeing Paris again, where we had both
suffered so much. After her arrival, Kietz and Anders turned up
regularly for dinner, and a young Pole, the son of my old and
beloved friend, Count Vincenz Tyszkiewicz, also came to see us
very often.
This young man (who had been born since the early days of my
friendship with his father) had devoted himself passionately to
music, as so many do nowadays. He had made quite a stir in Paris
after a performance of Freischutz at the Grand Opera, by
declaring that the many cuts and alterations which had been made
were a fraud on the initiated public, and he had sued the
management of the theatre for the return of the entrance money,
which he regretted ever having paid. He also had an idea of
publishing a paper with the view of drawing attention to the
slovenly conduct of musical affairs in Paris, which in his
opinion was an insult to public taste.
Prince Eugen von Wittgenstein-Sayn, a young amateur painter who
had belonged to Liszt's circle of intimate friends, painted a
miniature of me, for which I had to give him several sittings; it
was done under Kietz's guidance, and turned out pretty well.
I had an important consultation with a young doctor named
Lindemann, a friend of Kietz's; he strongly advised me to give up
the water cure, and tried to convert me to the toxic theory. He
had attracted the attention of Parisian society by inoculating
himself with various poisons in the hospital before witnesses, in
order to show their effects upon the system, an experiment which
he carried out in an accurate and thoroughly effective manner.
With regard to my own case, he stated that it could be easily
remedied if we ascertained by careful experiments what metallic
substance would specifically influence my nervous system. He
unhesitatingly recommended me, in case of very violent attacks,
to take laudanum, and in default of that poison he seemed to
consider valerian an excellent remedy.
Tired out, restless and exceedingly unstrung, I left Paris with
Minna towards the end of October, without in the least
understanding why I had spent so much money there. Hoping to
counterbalance this by pushing my operas in Germany, I calmly
retired to the seclusion of my Zurich lodgings, fully decided not
to leave them again until some parts, at least, of my Nibelungen
dramas were set to music.
In the beginning of November I started on this long-postponed
work. For five and a half years (since the end of March, 1848) I
had held aloof from all musical composition, and as I very soon
found myself in the right mood for composing, this return to my
work can best be compared to a reincarnation of my soul after it
had been wandering in other spheres. As far as the technique was
concerned, I soon found myself in a difficulty when I started to
write down the orchestral overture, conceived in Spezia in a kind
of half-dream, in my usual way of sketching it out on two lines.
I was compelled to resort to the complete score-formula; this
tempted me to try a new way of sketching, which was a very hasty
and superficial one, from which I immediately wrote out the
complete score.
This process often led to difficulties, as the slightest
interruption in my work made me lose the thread of my rough
draft, and I had to start from the beginning before I could
recall it to my memory.
I did not let this occur in regard to Rheingold. The whole of
this composition had been finished in outline on the 16th of
January, 1854, and consequently the plan for the musical
structure of this work in four parts had been drawn in all its
thematic proportions, as it was in this great prelude that these
thematic foundations of the whole had to be laid.
I remember how much my health improved during the writing of this
work; and my surroundings during that time consequently left very
little impression on my mind.
During the first months of the new year I also conducted a few
orchestral concerts. To please my friend Sulzer, I produced,
amongst other works, the overture to Gluck's Iphigenia in Aulis,
after having written a new finale to it. The necessity for
altering the finale by Mozart induced me to write an article for
the Brendel musical journal on this artistic problem. These
occupations did not, however, prevent me from working at the
Rheingold score, which I quickly dotted down in pencil on a few
single sheets. On the 28th May I finished the instrumentation of
the Rheingold. There had been very little change in my life at
home; things had remained the same during the last few years, and
everything went smoothly. Only my financial position was rather
precarious, owing to the past year's expenses for furniture,
etc., and also to the more luxurious mode of living I had
adopted, on the strength of my belief that my operas, which were
now better known, would bring me in a larger income.
The most important theatres, however, still held back, and to my
mortification all my efforts at negotiation with Berlin and
Vienna proved fruitless. In consequence of these disappointments
I suffered great worries and cares during the greater part of
that year. I tried to counteract these by new work, and instead
of writing out the score of Rheingold I began the composition of
the Walkure. Towards the end of July I had finished the first
scene, but had to interrupt my work on account of a journey to
the south of Switzerland.
I had received an invitation from the 'Eidgenossische
Musikgesellschaft' to conduct their musical festival at Sion that
year. I had refused, but at the same time promised that if
possible I would conduct Beethoven's Symphony in A major at one
of the gala concerts. I intended on the way to call on Karl
Ritter, who had gone to live with his young wife at Montreux on
the Lake of Geneva. The week I spent with this young couple gave
me ample opportunities for doubting whether their happiness would
be of long duration.
Karl and I left shortly afterwards for the musical festival in
Valais. On our way we were joined at Martigny by an extraordinary
young man, Robert von Hornstein, who had been introduced to me on
the occasion of my great musical festival the year before as an
enthusiast and a musician. This quaint mortal was regarded as a
very welcome addition to our party, particularly by young Ritter,
and both young people looked forward with great enthusiasm to the
treat in store for them; Hornstein had come all the way from
Swabia to hear me conduct the festival in the canton of Valais.
We arrived in the midst of the musical festivities, and I was
terribly disappointed to find how very badly and inartistically
the preliminary arrangements had been made. I was so taken aback,
after having received the worst possible impression of the sound
of the very scanty orchestra in a small church, which served as
church and concert-hall combined, and was so furious at the
thought of having been dragged into such an affair, that I merely
wrote a few lines to Methfessel, the organising director of the
festival, who had come from Berne, and took my leave, without
further ceremony. I escaped by the next post-chaise that was just
on the point of leaving, and I did this so expeditiously that
even my young friends were unaware of my departure. I purposely
kept the fact of my sudden flight from them; I had my own reasons
for doing so, and as they were rather interesting from a
psychological point of view, I have never forgotten them.
On coming back to dinner that day feeling miserable and depressed
after the disappointing impression I had just received, my
annoyance was treated with foolish and almost insulting roars of
laughter by my young friends. I presumed that their merriment was
the result of remarks made at my expense before I came in, as
neither my admonitions nor even my anger could induce them to
behave differently. I quitted the dining-room in disgust, paid my
bill and left, without giving them any opportunity of noticing my
departure. I spent a few days in Geneva and Lausanne, and decided
to call on Frau Ritter on my way back; and there I again met the
two young people. Evidently they also had given up the wretched
festival, and been completely taken aback at my sudden departure,
had almost immediately left for Montreux, in the hope of hearing
news of me.
I made no mention of their rude conduct, and as Karl cordially
invited me to stay with them a few days longer I accepted,
principally because I was very much interested in a poetical work
he had only just finished. This poem was a comedy called
Alkibiades, which he had really treated with exceptional
refinement and freedom of form. He had already told me at
Albisbrunnen about the sketch of this work, and had shown me an
elegant dagger into the blade of which the syllables Alki had
been burnt.
He explained that his friend, a young actor whom he had left in
Stuttgart, possessed a similar weapon, the blade of which bore
the syllables Biades. It seemed that Karl, even without the
symbolic help of the daggers, had again found the complement of
his own 'Alkibiadesian' individuality, this time in the young
booby Hornstein, and it is very probable that the two, whilst in
Sion, had imagined they were acting an 'Alkibiadesian' scene
before Socrates. His comedy showed me that his artistic talent
was fortunately far better than his society manners. To this day
I regret that this decidedly difficult play has never been
produced.
Hornstein now behaved properly and desired to go to Lausanne via
Vevey. We did part of the journey together on foot, and his
quaint appearance with his knapsack on his back was most amusing.
continued my journey alone from Berne to Lucerne, taking the
shortest possible route to Selisberg on the Lake of Lucerne,
where my wife was staying for a sour-milk cure.
The symptoms of heart disease, which I had already noticed some
time previously, had increased, and this place had been
recommended to her as specially invigorating and beneficial. With
great patience I endured several weeks of life at a Swiss
pension, but my wife, who had quite adapted herself to the ways
of the house and seemed very comfortable, looked upon me as a
disturbing element.
I found this a great trial, although the beautiful air and my
daily excursions into the mountains did me a great deal of good.
I even went so far as to choose a very wild spot, where, in
imagination, I ordered a little house to be built in which I
should be able to work in absolute peace.
Towards the end of July we went back to Zurich. I returned to my
Walkure and finished the first act in the month of August. I was
terribly depressed by my worries just at this time, and as it was
more than ever necessary for me to have absolute quiet for my
work, I at once agreed to my wife's departure, when she told me
of her intended visit to her relations and friends in Dresden and
Zwickau. She left me at the beginning of September, and wrote to
me about her stay in Weimar, where the Princess Wittgenstein had
received her with the greatest hospitality at Altenburg Castle.
There she met Rockel's wife, who was being cared for in the most
self-sacrificing way by her husband's brother. It showed a
spirited and original trait in Minna's character that she decided
to visit Rockel in his prison at Waldheim, solely that she might
give his wife news of him, although she disliked the man
intensely.
She told me of this visit, saying sarcastically that Rockel
looked quite happy and bright, and that life in prison did not
seem to suit him badly.
Meanwhile I plunged with renewed zeal into my work, and had
finished a fair copy of the Rheingold score by the 26th of
September. In the peaceful quietness of my house at this time I
first came across a book which was destined to be of great
importance to me. This was Arthur Schopenhauer's Die Welt als
Wille und Vorstellung. Herwegh recommended this work to me, and
told me that strangely enough it had only been recently
discovered, although it had been published over thirty years. In
a pamphlet on this subject a certain Herr Frauenstadt had drawn
the attention of the public to the book, to which I immediately
felt attracted, and I at once began to study it. For a long time
I had wanted to understand the real value of philosophy. My
conversations with Lehrs in Paris in my very young days had
awakened my longing for this branch of knowledge, upon which I
had first launched when I attended the lectures of several
Leipzig professors and in later years by reading Schelling and
Hegel. I seemed to understand the reason of their failure to
satisfy me from the writings of Feuerbach, which I studied at the
same time. What fascinated me so enormously about Schopenhauer's
work was not only its extraordinary fate, but the clearness and
manly precision with which the most difficult metaphysical
problems were treated from the very beginning.
I had been greatly drawn towards the work on learning the opinion
of an English critic, who candidly confessed that he respected
German philosophy because of its complete incomprehensibility, as
instanced by Hegel's doctrines, until the study of Schopenhauer
had made it clear to him that Hegel's lack of lucidity was due
not so much to his own incapacity as to the intentionally
bombastic style in which this philosopher had clothed his
problems. Like every man who is passionately thrilled with life,
I too sought first for the conclusions of Schopenhauer's system.
With its aesthetic side I was perfectly content, and was
especially astonished at his noble conception of music. But, on
the other hand, the final summing-up regarding morals alarmed me,
as, indeed, it would have startled any one in my mood; for here
the annihilation of the will and complete abnegation are
represented as the sole true and final deliverance from those
bonds of individual limitation in estimating and facing the
world, which are now clearly felt for the first time. For those
who hoped to find some philosophical justification for political
and social agitation on behalf of so-called 'individual freedom'
there was certainly no support to be found here, where all that
was demanded was absolute renunciation of all such methods of
satisfying the claims of personality. At first I naturally found
his ideas by no means palatable, and felt I could not readily
abandon that so-called 'cheerful' Greek aspect of the world, with
which I had looked out upon life in my Kunstwerk der Zukunft. As
a matter of fact, it was Herwegh who at last, by a well-timed
explanation, brought me to a calmer frame of mind about my own
sensitive feelings. It is from this perception of the nullity of
the visible world--so he said--that all tragedy is derived, and
such a perception must necessarily have dwelt as an intuition in
every great poet, and even in every great man. On looking afresh
into my Nibelungen poem I recognised with surprise that the very
things that now so embarrassed me theoretically had long been
familiar to me in my own poetical conception. Now at last I could
understand my Wotan, and I returned with chastened mind to the
renewed study of Schopenhauer's book. I had learned to recognise
that my first essential task was to understand the first part,
namely, the exposition and enlarging of Kant's doctrine of the
ideality of that world which has hitherto seemed to us so solidly
founded in time and space, and I believed I had taken the first
step towards such an understanding by recognising its enormous
difficulty. For many years afterwards that book never left me,
and by the summer of the following year I had already studied the
whole of it for the fourth time. The effect thus gradually
wrought upon me was extraordinary, and certainly exerted a
decisive influence on the whole course of my life. In forming my
judgment upon all those matters which I had hitherto acquired
solely through the senses, I had gained pretty much the same
power as I had formerly won in music--after abandoning the
teaching of my old master Weinlich--by an exhaustive study of
counterpoint. If, therefore, in later years I again expressed
opinions in my casual writings on matters pertaining to that art
which so particularly interested me, it is certain that traces of
what I learned from my study of Schopenhauer's philosophy were
clearly perceptible.
Just then I was prompted to send the venerated philosopher a copy
of my Nibelungen poem. To its title I merely added by hand the
words, 'With Reverence,' but without writing a single word to
Schopenhauer himself.
This I did partly from a feeling of great shyness in addressing
him, and partly because I felt that if the perusal of my poem did
not enlighten Schopenhauer about the man with whom he was
dealing, a letter from me, no matter how explicit, would not help
him much. I also renounced by this means the vain wish to be
honoured by an autograph letter from his hand. I learned later,
however, from Karl Ritter, and also from Dr. Wille, both of whom
visited Schopenhauer in Frankfort, that he spoke impressively and
favourably of my poetry. In addition to these studies, I
continued writing the music to the Walkure. I was living in great
retirement at this time, my sole relaxation being to take long
walks in the neighbourhood, and, as usual with me when hard at
work at my music, I felt the longing to express myself in poetry.
This must have been partly due to the serious mood created by
Schopenhauer, which was trying to find ecstatic expression. It
was some such mood that inspired the conception of a Tristan und
Isolde.
Karl Ritter had just laid before me a sketch for the dramatic
treatment of this subject (with which I was thoroughly acquainted
through my Dresden studies), and had thereby drawn my attention
to the material for this poem. I had already expressed my views
to my young friend about the faultiness of his sketch. He had, in
fact, made a point of giving prominence to the lighter phases of
the romance, whereas it was its all-pervading tragedy that
impressed me so deeply that I felt convinced it should stand out
in bold relief, regardless of minor details. On my return from
one of my walks I jotted down the incidents of the three acts in
a concise form, with the intention of working them out more
elaborately later on. In the last act I introduced an episode,
which, however, I did not develop eventually, namely, the visit
to Tristan's deathbed by Parsifal during his search for the Holy
Grail. The picture of Tristan languishing, yet unable to die of
his wound, identified itself in my mind with Amfortas in the
Romance of the Grail.
For the moment I forced myself to leave this poem on one side,
and to allow nothing to interrupt my great musical work.
Meanwhile, through the help of friends, I succeeded in bringing
about a satisfactory change in my financial position. My
prospects with regard to the German theatres also seemed
brighter. Minna had been in Berlin, and through the influence of
our old friend, Alwine Frommann, had had an interview with Herr
von Hulsen, the manager of the court theatre. After losing two
years in fruitless efforts, I at last felt more certain of seeing
Tannhauser produced there without further obstacle, as it had
become so popular with all the theatres that its failure in
Berlin could not injure its reputation; it could only reflect
disadvantageously on the Berlin management.
In the beginning of November Minna returned from her journey, and
acting on the news she gave me about the production of Tannhauser
in Berlin, I allowed matters to take their course, a decision
which afterwards caused me great annoyance, as the rendering of
my work was simply wretched. I got some compensation, however, in
the royalties, which were an important and continuous source of
income to me.
The Zurich Musical Society now again enlisted my interest for
their winter concerts. I promised to conduct, but only on
condition that they would give serious consideration to improving
the orchestra. I had already twice proposed the formation of a
decent orchestra, and I now sent in a third plan to the
committee, in which I described in detail how they might achieve
this object at a comparatively slight outlay by cooperation with
the theatre. I told them that this winter would be the last time
that I should interest myself in their concerts unless they
entertained this very reasonable proposition. Apart from this
work, I took in hand a quartette society, made up of the soloists
of the orchestra, who were anxious to study the right
interpretation of the various quartettes I had recommended.
It was a great pleasure to me to see how soon the public
patronised the efforts of these artists, who, by the way, thus
added a little extra to their incomes for a considerable time. As
far as their artistic achievements went, the work was rather
slow; the mere fact of their being able to play their respective
instruments well did not make them at once understand the art of
playing together, for which so much more is needed than mere
dynamic proportions and accents, attainable only by the
individual development of a higher artistic taste in the
treatment of the instrument by its exponent.
I was too ambitious about them, and actually taught them
Beethoven's Quartette in C sharp minor, which meant endless
trouble and rehearsing. I wrote some analytical annotations for
the better appreciation of this extraordinary work, and had them
printed on the programme. Whether I made any impression on the
audience, or whether they liked the performance, I was never able
to find out. When I say that I completed the sketch of the whole
of the music to the Walkure by the 30th of December of that year,
it will suffice to prove my strenuous and active life at that
time, as well as to show that I did not allow any outside
distraction to disturb my rigorous plan of work.
In January, 1855, I began the instrumentation of the Walkure, but
I was compelled to interrupt it, owing to a promise I made to
some of my friends to give them a chance of hearing the overture
to Faust, which I had written in Paris fifteen years before. I
had another look at this composition, which had been the means of
so important a change in my musical ideas. Liszt had produced the
work in Weimar a little while before, and had written to me in
very favourable terms about it, at the same time expressing his
wish that I should rewrite more elaborately some parts that were
only faintly indicated. So I immediately set to work to rewrite
the overture, conscientiously adopting my clear friend's delicate
suggestions, and I finished it as it was afterwards published by
Hartel. I taught our orchestra this overture, and did not think
the performance at all bad. My wife, however, did not like it;
she said it seemed to her 'as if nothing good could be made out
of it,' and she begged me not to have it produced in London when
I went there that year. At this time I had an extraordinary
application, such as I have never received again. In January the
London Philharmonic Society wrote asking me if I would be willing
to conduct their concerts for the season. I did not answer
immediately, as I wanted to obtain some particulars first, and
was very much surprised one day to receive a visit from a certain
Mr. Anderson, a member of the committee of the celebrated
society, who had come to Zurich on purpose to ensure my
acceptance.
I was expected to go to London for four months to give eight
concerts for the Philharmonic Society, for which I was to receive
in all L200. I did not quite know what to do, as, from a business
point of view, it was of no advantage to me, and, as far as the
conducting went, it was not much in my line, unless I could rely
on at least a few high-class artistic productions.
One thing only struck me as favourable, and that was the prospect
of again handling a large and excellent orchestra, after having
been denied one for so long, while the fact that I had attracted
the attention of that remote world of music fascinated me
exceedingly. I felt as if fate were calling me, and at last I
accepted the invitation of this simple and amiable-looking
Englishman, Mr. Anderson, who, fully satisfied with the result of
his mission, immediately left for England wrapped in a big fur
coat, whose real owner I only got to know later on. Before
following him to England, I had to free myself from a calamity
which I had brought upon myself through being too kind-hearted.
The managing director of the Zurich theatre for that year, an
obtrusive and over-zealous person, had at last made me accede to
his wish to produce Tannhauser, on the plea that as this work was
now performed at every opera house, it would be a very bad thing
for the Zurich theatre if it were the only one to be deprived of
the privilege, merely because I happened to live in the town.
Besides this, my wife interfered in the matter, and the singers
who played Tannhauser and Wolfram at once put themselves under
her wing. She really succeeded, too, in working on my
humanitarian feelings with regard to one of her proteges, a poor
tenor who had been badly bullied by the conductor till then. I
took these people through their parts a few times, and in
consequence found myself obliged to attend the stage rehearsals
to superintend their performances. What it all came to in the end
was that I was driven to interfere again and again, until I found
myself at the conductor's desk, and eventually conducted the
first performance myself. I have a particularly vivid
recollection of the singer who played Elizabeth on that occasion.
She had originally taken soubrette parts, and went through her
role in white kid gloves, dangling a fan. This time I had really
had enough of such concessions, and when at the close the
audience called me before the curtain, I stood there and told my
friends with great frankness that this was the last time they
would get me to do anything of the sort. I advised them in future
to look to the state of their theatre, as they had just had a
most convincing proof of its faulty construction--at which they
were all much astonished. I made a similar announcement to the
'Musikgesellschaft,' where I also conducted once more--really for
the last time--before my departure. Unfortunately, they put down
my protests to my sense of humour, and were not in the least
spurred to exert themselves, with the result that I had to be
very stern and almost rude the following winter, to deter them,
once and for all, from making further demands upon me. I thus
left my former patrons in Zurich somewhat nonplussed when I
started for London on 26th February.
I travelled through Paris and spent some days there, during which
time I saw only Kietz and his friend Lindemann (whom he regarded
as a quack doctor). Arriving in London on 2nd March I first went
to see Ferdinand Prager. In his youth he had been a friend of the
Rockel brothers, who had given me a very favourable account of
him. He proved to be an unusually good-natured fellow, though of
an excitability insufficiently balanced by his standard of
culture. After spending the first night at his home, I installed
myself the following day with his help in a house in Portland
Terrace, in the neighbourhood of Regent's Park, of which I had
agreeable recollections from former visits. I promised myself
a pleasant stay there in the coming spring, if only on account
of its close proximity to that part of the park where beautiful
copper beeches over-shadowed the path. But though I spent four
months in London, it seemed to me that spring never came, the
foggy climate so overclouded all the impressions I received.
Prager was only too eager to escort me when I went to pay the
customary visits, including one to Costa. I was thus introduced
to the director of the Italian Opera, who was at the same time
the real leader of music in London; for he was also director
of the Sacred-Music Society, which gave almost regular weekly
performances of Handel and Mendelssohn.
Prager also took me to see his friend Sainton, the leader of the
London orchestra. After giving me a very hearty reception he told
me the remarkable history of my invitation to London. Sainton, a
southern Frenchman from Toulouse, of naive and fiery temperament,
was living with a full-blooded German musician from Hamburg,
named Luders, the son of a bandsman, of a brusque but friendly
disposition. I was much affected when I heard, later on, of the
incident which had made these two men inseparable friends.
Sainton had been making a concert tour by way of St. Petersburg,
and found himself stranded at Helsingfors in Finland, unable to
get any further, pursued as he was by the demon of ill-luck. At
this moment the curious figure of the modest Hamburg bandsman's
son had accosted him on the staircase of the hotel, asking
whether he would be inclined to accept his offer of friendship
and take half of his available cash, as he (Luders) had of course
noticed the awkwardness of the other's position. From that moment
the two became inseparable friends, made concert tours in Sweden
and Denmark, found their way back in the strangest fashion to
Havre, Paris, and Toulouse, by way of Hamburg, and finally
settled down in London--Sainton to take an important post in the
orchestra, while Luders got along as best he could by the
drudgery of giving lessons. Now I found them living together in a
pretty house like a married couple, each tenderly concerned for
his friend's welfare. Luders had read my essays on art, and my
Oper und Drama in particular moved him to exclaim, 'Donnerwetter,
there's something in that!' Sainton pricked up his ears at this,
and when the conductor of the Philharmonic concerts (the great
Mr. Costa himself), for some unknown reason, quarrelled with the
society before the season began and refused to conduct their
concerts any longer, Sainton, to whom Mr. Anderson, the
treasurer, had gone for advice in this awkward predicament,
recommended them, at Luders' instigation, to engage me. I now
heard that they had not acted upon this suggestion at once. Only
when Sainton happened to remark casually that he had seen me
conduct in Dresden did Mr. Anderson decide to make the journey to
Zurich to see me (in the fur coat lent by Sainton for the
purpose), as a result of which visit I was now here. I soon
discovered, too, that Sainton had in this case acted with the
rashness characteristic of his nation. It had never occurred to
Costa that he would be taken seriously in his statement to the
Philharmonic Society, and he was thoroughly disgusted at my
appointment. As he was at the head of the same orchestra which
was at my disposal for the Philharmonic concerts, he was able to
foster an attitude of hostility to the undertakings for which I
was responsible, and even my friend Sainton had to suffer from
his animosity without actually realising the source of the
annoyance.
As time went on I saw this more plainly, while there was abundant
material for unpleasantness of every description in other
quarters. In the first place Mr. Davison, the musical critic of
the Times, adopted a most hostile attitude, and it was from this
that I first realised, clearly and definitely, the effect of my
essay entitled 'Judaism in Music.' Prager had further informed me
that Davison's extremely powerful position on the Times had
accustomed him to expect every one who came to England on
business connected with music to propitiate him by all sorts of
delicate attentions. Jenny Lind was one whose submission to these
pretensions did much to ensure her popular success; whereas
Sontag considered that her rank as Countess Rossi elevated her
above such considerations. As I had been completely absorbed in
the delight of handling a good, full orchestra, with which I
hoped to give some fine performances, it was a great blow to
learn that I had no control whatever over the number of
rehearsals I thought necessary for the concerts. For each
concert, which included two symphonies and several minor pieces
as well, the society's economical arrangements allowed me only
one rehearsal. Still I went on hoping that the impression
produced by the performances I conducted might even here justify
the demand for a special effort. It proved absolutely impossible,
however, to depart in any way from the beaten track, and,
realising this, I at once felt that the fulfilment of the task I
had undertaken was a terrible burden. At the first concert we
played Beethoven's Eroica, and my success as a conductor seemed
so marked that the committee of the society were evidently
prepared to make a special effort for the second. They demanded
selections from my own compositions as well as Beethoven's Ninth
Symphony, and conceded me two rehearsals as an exceptional
favour. This concert went off quite passably. I had drawn up an
explanatory programme for my Lohengrin Overture, but the words
'Holy Grail' and 'God' were struck out with great solemnity, as
that sort of thing was not allowed at secular concerts. I had to
content myself with the chorus from the Italian Opera for the
symphony, besides putting up with a baritone whose English phlegm
and Italian training drove me to despair at the rehearsal. All I
understood of the English version of the text was, 'Hail thee
joy' for Freudeschoner Gotterfunken. The Philharmonic Society
appeared to have staked everything on the success of this
concert, which, in fact, left nothing to be desired. They were
accordingly horrified when the Times reporter fell on this
performance, too, with furious contempt and disparagement. They
appealed to Prager to persuade me to offer Mr. Davison some
attentions, or at least to agree to meet that gentleman and be
properly introduced to him at a banquet to be arranged by Mr.
Anderson. But Prager now knew me well enough to dash their hopes
of obtaining any concession of that sort from me. The banquet
fell through, and, as I saw later, the society began from that
time forward to regret my appointment, realising that they had an
entirely intractable and pig-headed person to deal with.
As the Easter holidays began after the second concert, thereby
involving a long pause, I asked my friend's advice as to whether
it would not be more sensible to give up the whole thing--this
conductorship of the Philharmonic concerts which I had so soon
discovered to be a foolish and fruitless undertaking--and go
quietly back to Zurich. Prager assured me that the execution of
this resolve would in no wise be regarded as a reflection on the
situation, but simply as a deplorable piece of rudeness on my
part, and that the principal sufferers would be my friends. This
decided me, and I stayed--without, it is true, any hope of giving
a fresh impetus to musical life in London. The only stimulating
incident occurred on the occasion of the seventh concert, which
was the evening chosen by the Queen for her annual visit to these
functions. She expressed a wish through her husband, Prince
Albert, to hear the Tannhauser Overture. The presence of the
court certainly lent a pleasing air of ceremony to the evening,
and I had, too, the pleasure of a fairly animated conversation
with Queen Victoria and her Consort in response to their command.
The question arose of putting my operas on the stage, and Prince
Albert objected that Italian singers would never be able to
interpret my music. I was amused when the Queen met this
objection by saying that, after all, a great many Italian singers
were really Germans. All this made a good impression and, it was
obvious, served as a demonstration in my favour, without,
however, influencing the real situation to any appreciable
extent. The leading papers still announced, as before, that every
concert I conducted was a fiasco. Ferdinand Hiller actually
thought himself justified in proclaiming, for the consolation of
his friends, that my day in London was coming to an end, and that
my banishment was practically a certainty. This was on the
occasion of the Rhenish Musical Festival, which was held at that
time. As a set-off against this I reaped great satisfaction from
a scene which took place at the close of the eighth and last
concert which I conducted--one of those strange scenes which now
and again result from the long-suppressed emotion of those
concerned. The members of the orchestra had at once realised,
after my successes, the advisability of avoiding any expression
of sympathy with me if they wished to keep in good odour with
their real though unacknowledged chief, Mr. Costa, and save
themselves from a possible speedy dismissal at his hands. This
was the explanation given me when the signs of appreciation,
which I had become accustomed to receive from the players in the
course of our work together, suddenly ceased. Now, however, at
the end of the series their suppressed feelings burst forth, and
they crowded round me on all sides with deafening cheers, while
the audience, who usually left the hall noisily before the end,
likewise formed up in enthusiastic groups and surrounded me,
cheering warmly and pressing my hand. Thus both players and
listeners combined to make my farewell a scene of cordiality
which could hardly be surpassed.
But it was the personal relations which grew out of my stay in
London that provided the strangest aspect of my life there.
Immediately after my arrival, Karl Klindworth, a young pupil of
Liszt, who had been recommended to me as particularly gifted,
came to see me. He became a faithful and intimate friend, not
only during my stay in London, but ever after. Young as he was,
the short time he had spent in London had sufficed to give him an
opinion of English musical life, the justice of which I was soon
compelled to admit, terrible though it was. Incapable of adapting
himself to the curiously organised English musical cliques, he at
once lost all reasonable prospect or hope of meeting with the
recognition due to his talent. He resigned himself to making his
way through the dreary wastes of English musical life solely by
giving lessons like a day-labourer, being too proud to pay the
smallest attentions to the ruling critics, who had fallen on him
immediately as a pupil of Liszt. He was really an excellent
musician, and in addition a distinguished pianist. He immediately
approached me with the request to be allowed to make a pianoforte
arrangement of the score of Rheingold, for the use only of
virtuosi of the first rank. Unfortunately, he was overtaken by a
tedious illness, which robbed me for a long time of the desired
intercourse with him.
Although Prager and his wife stood by me with great constancy, my
real centre of intimacy was the original Sainton-Luders'
household. I had a standing invitation to dine with them, and I
found occasion, with few exceptions, to take my meals with these
friends, whose devotion surpassed that of all the others. It was
here that I generally found relaxation from the unpleasantness of
my business relations in London. Prager was often present, and we
frequently took an evening stroll through the foggy streets. On
such occasions Ludors would fortify us against the inclemency of
the London climate by an excellent punch which he could prepare
under any conditions. Only once did we get separated, and that
was in the terrific crowd that accompanied the Emperor Napoleon
from St. James's Palace to Covent Garden Theatre one evening. He
had come over to London with his Consort, on a visit to Queen
Victoria, during the critical stage of the Crimean War, and the
Londoners gaped at him as he passed no less greedily than other
nations are apt to do under similar circumstances. It so befell
that I was taken for a pushing sightseer, and proportionately
punished by blows in the ribs when I was crossing the road to try
and get into Regent Street from the Haymarket. This caused me
much amusement, on account of the obvious misunderstanding.
The grave annoyances which arose, partly from the peculiarly
momentous quarrel between Sainton and Mr. Anderson (instigated by
Costa), and which deprived me of every possibility of obtaining
any influence over the society, were productive, on the other
hand, of some amusing experiences. Anderson had, it seemed,
succeeded in elevating himself to the post of conductor of the
Queen's band, through the influence of the Queen's private
coachman. As he possessed absolutely no knowledge of music, the
annual court concert which he had to conduct became a very feast
of absurdity to the unruly Sainton, and I heard some very funny
stories about it. Another thing brought to light in the course of
these imbroglios was that Mrs. Anderson, whom I had christened
Charlemagne on account of her great corpulency, had appropriated
to herself, among other things, the office and salary of a court
trumpeter. I soon arrived at the conviction, from these and other
similar reports, that my lively friend would be beaten by this
snug little clique in the war of disclosures, and was able
subsequently to see the decision go against him at the point when
either he or Anderson had to give way. This confirmed my idea
that in this free country of England, things were managed in much
the same way as elsewhere.
The arrival of Berlioz made a very important addition to our
little company. He, too, had been brought over to London, to
conduct two of the New Philharmonic Society's concerts. The
society had appointed as ordinary conductor, by whose
recommendation I could never discover, a certain Dr. Wilde, a
typical chubby-faced Englishman, remarkably good-natured, but
ludicrously incompetent. He had taken some special lessons in
conducting from the Stuttgart conductor, Lindpaintner, who had
trained him up to the point of at least attempting to catch up
the orchestra with his beat, the orchestra itself going its own
way entirely. I heard a Beethoven symphony performed in this
fashion, and was surprised to hear the audience break into
precisely the same applause with which it greeted one of my own
strictly accurate and really fiery performances. To lend
distinction to these concerts, however, they had, as I said,
invited Berlioz over for some of them. I thus heard him conduct
some classical works, such as a Mozart symphony, and was amazed
to find a conductor, who was so energetic in the interpretation
of his own compositions, sink into the commonest rut of the
vulgar time-beater. Certain of his own compositions, such as the
more effective fragments from the Romeo and Juliet Symphony,
again made a particular impression on me, it is true; but I was
now more consciously awake to the curious weaknesses which
disfigure even the finest conceptions of this extraordinary
musician than on those earlier occasions, when I only had a sense
of general discomfort adequate to the magnitude of the
impression.
I felt much stimulated, however, on the two or three occasions
when Sainton invited me to dine with Berlioz. I was now brought
face to face with this strangely gifted person, tormented and
even blunted in some respects as he then was. When I saw him, a
man considerably my senior, coming here merely in the hope of
earning a few guineas, I could deem myself perfectly happy, and
almost floating on air, by contrast; for my own coming had been
brought about rather by a desire for distraction, a craving for
outward inspiration. His whole being expressed weariness and
despair, and I was suddenly seized with deep sympathy for this
man whose talent so far surpassed that of his rivals--for this
was clear as daylight to me. Berlioz seemed to be pleasantly
affected by the attitude of gay spontaneity I adopted with him.
His usual short, almost reserved, manner thawed visibly during
the friendly hours we passed together. He told me many comical
things about Meyerbeer, and the impossibility of escaping from
his flattery, which was dictated by his insatiable thirst for
laudatory articles. The first performance of his Prophet had been
preceded by the customary diner de la veille, and when Berlioz
excused himself for staying away, Meyerbeer first reproached him
tenderly, then challenged him to make good the great injustice he
had done him, by writing 'a real nice article' about his opera.
Berlioz declared it was impossible to get anything detrimental to
Meyerbeer inserted in a Paris paper.
I found it less easy to discuss with him matters of a more
profound artistic nature, as I invariably came up against the
real Frenchman then, who, fluent and glib of tongue, was so sure
of himself that it never occurred to him to doubt whether he had
understood his companions aright. Once, in a pleasant glow of
inspiration (having suddenly mastered the French language, to my
own great surprise), I tried to express to him my idea of the
'artistic conception.' I endeavoured to describe the powerful
effect of vital impressions on the temperament, how they hold us
captive, as it were, until we rid ourselves of them by the unique
development of our inmost spiritual visions, which are not called
forth by these impressions, but only roused by them from their
deep slumber. The artistic structure, therefore, appears to us as
in no wise a result of, but, on the contrary, a liberation from,
the vital impressions. At this point Berlioz smiled in a
patronising, comprehensive way, and said: 'Nous appelons cela:
digerer.' My amazement at this prompt summing-up of my laboured
communications was further justified by my new friend's outward
behaviour. I invited him to be present at my last concert, and
also at a small farewell feast which I was giving at home to my
few friends after it. He soon left the table, saying that he felt
unwell, but the friends who were left made no secret to me of
their belief that Berlioz had been put out of humour by the
exceedingly enthusiastic farewell with which the audience had
parted from me.
The total harvest, however, of acquaintances I made in London was
not particularly profitable. I took pleasure in the society of
Mr. Ellerton, a dignified, agreeable man, the brother-in-law of
Lord Brougham--a poet, a music-lover, and, alas! a composer. He
asked to be introduced to me at one of the Philharmonic concerts,
and did not hesitate to tell me that he welcomed me to London
because it seemed likely that I was destined to check the
exaggerated Mendelssohn worship. He was also the only Englishman
who honoured me by any hospitality, and by entertaining myself
and my friends at the University Club, gave me an opportunity of
realising the munificence of such an establishment in London.
After we had spent a very agreeable time there, I had a glimpse
of the weaker side of English hospitalities of this order, though
the incident was friendly enough. My host had to be taken home by
two men, one holding each arm, quite as a matter of course, as it
was obvious that he would not have got far across the road
without this help.
I made the acquaintance, too, of a curious man, an old-fashioned
but very friendly composer named Potter. I had to play a symphony
of his, which entertained me by its modest dimensions and its
neat development of counterpoint, the more so as the composer, a
friendly elderly recluse, clung to me with almost distressing
humility. I had positively to force him into accepting the right
tempo for the Andante in his symphony, thus proving to him that
it was really pretty and interesting. He had so little faith in
his work, that he considered the only way to avoid the danger of
boring people with it was to rattle through it at a disgraceful
speed. He really beamed with delight and gratitude when I secured
him great applause by taking this very Andante at my own time.
I got on less well with a Mr. MacFarrine, a pompous, melancholy
Scotsman, whose compositions, I was assured, were held in high
esteem by the committee of the Philharmonic Society. He seemed
too proud to discuss the interpretation of any of his works with
me, and I was therefore relieved when a symphony of his, which
did not appeal to me, was laid aside, the substitute chosen being
an overture entitled the Steeple-chase, which I enjoyed playing,
on account of its peculiarly wild, passionate character.
My acquaintance with Beneke (a merchant) and his family was
attended by much awkwardness. Wesendonck had given me a letter of
recommendation to them, so that I should at least have one
'house' to go to in London. I had to travel a full German mile to
Camberwell in response to their invitations, only to discover
that I had dropped into the very family whose house Mendelssohn
had made his home when in London. The good people did not know
what to do with me, apart from congratulating me on the
excellence of my Mendelssohn performances, and rewarding me with
descriptions of the generous character of the deceased.
Howard, the secretary of the Philharmonic Society, a worthy and
agreeable old man, was another person (the only one, he believed)
in the circle of my English acquaintances who took the trouble to
entertain me. I had to go once or twice to the Italian Opera at
Covent Garden with his daughter. There I heard Fidelio, given in
rather grotesque fashion by unclean Germans and voiceless
Italians, and with recitatives. I consequently managed to evade
paying frequent visits to this theatre. When I went to say good-
bye to Mr. Howard on leaving London, I was surprised to meet
Meyerbeer at his house. He had just arrived in London to conduct
his Nordstern. As I saw him come in it occurred to me immediately
that Howard, whom I had only known as the secretary of the
Philharmonic Society, was also the musical critic of the
Illustrated London News; it was in the latter capacity that the
great operatic composer had called upon him. Meyerbeer was
absolutely paralysed when he saw me, and this put me into such a
frame of mind that we found it impossible to exchange a word. Mr.
Howard, who had felt sure that we were acquainted, was much
surprised at this, and asked me as I was leaving whether I did
not know Meyerbeer. I answered that he had better ask Meyerbeer.
On meeting Howard again that evening, I was assured that
Meyerbeer had spoken of me in terms of the highest praise. I then
suggested his reading certain numbers of the Paris Gazette
musicale, in which Fetis had, some time before, given a less
favourable interpretation of Meyerbeer's views about me. Howard
shook his head, and could not understand how two such GREAT
COMPOSERS could meet in so strange a manner.
A visit from my old friend Hermann Franck was a pleasant
surprise. He was then staying at Brighton, and had come up to
London for a few days. We conversed a great deal, and I had to
make a considerable effort to put him right in his ideas about
me, as he had heard the most wonderful reports from German
musicians during the last few years in which our intercourse had
been broken off. He was astonished, in the first place, to find
me in London, where he considered it impossible for me ever to
find a suitable field for my musical tendencies. I did not
understand what he meant by my 'tendencies,' but I told him
quite simply how I came to accept the invitation of the
Philharmonic Society, and that I proposed to fulfil my contract
for this year's concerts, and then to go back to my work at
Zurich without further ceremony. This sounded quite different to
the state of things he had imagined, for he had felt bound to
conclude that I proposed to create a stronghold in London from
which to conduct a war of extermination against the whole race of
German musicians. This was the unanimous explanation of my
intentions which he had heard in Germany. Nothing could be more
astounding, he said, than the surprising incongruity between the
fictitious form in which I appeared to these people, and my real
nature, which he had recognised at once on seeing me again. We
joked about this, and came to a closer understanding. I was glad
to see that he valued as much as I did the works of Schopenhauer,
which had become known in the last few years. He expressed his
opinion of them with singular decision; he considered that German
intellect was destined, either to complete deterioration, in
conjunction with the national political situation, or else to an
equally complete regeneration, in which Schopenhauer would play
his part. He left me--soon to meet his terrible and not less
inexplicable fate. Only a few months later, after my return home,
I heard of his mysterious death. He was staying, as I said, at
Brighton, for the purpose of putting his son, a boy of about
sixteen, into the English navy. I had noticed that the son's
obstinate determination to serve in this force was repugnant to
his father. On the morning of the day on which the ship was to
sail, the father's body was found shattered in the street, as the
result of a fall from the window, while the son was found
lifeless--apparently strangled--on his bed. The mother had died
some years previously, and there was no one left to give
information as to the terrible occurrence, which, so far as I
know, has never to this day been cleared up. Franck had, out of
forgetfulness, left a map of London behind on his visit to me;
this I kept, as I did not know his address, and it is still in my
possession.
I have pleasanter, though not entirely unclouded, recollections
of my relations with Semper, whom I also met in London, where he
had been settled for some time with his family. He had always
seemed to me so violent and morose when in Dresden that I was
surprised and moved to admiration by the comparatively calm and
resigned spirit with which he bore the terrible interruption to
his professional career, and by his readiness to adapt his talent
(which was of an unusually productive order) to the circumstances
in which he was placed. Commissions for large buildings were out
of the question for him in England, but he set his hopes, to a
certain extent, on the patronage accorded him by Prince Albert,
as this gave him some prospects for the future. For the time
being he contented himself with commissions to design decorations
for interiors and luxurious furniture, for which he was well
paid. He took to this work as seriously, from an artistic point
of view, as if it had been a large building. We often met, and I
also spent a few evenings at his house in Kensington, when we
invariably dropped into the old vein of strange, serious humour
that helped us to forget the seamy side of life. The report I was
able to give of Semper after my return home did much to influence
Sulzer in his successful attempt to get him over to Zurich to
build the new Polytechnic.
On various occasions I also visited some not uninteresting
theatres in London, strictly avoiding opera-houses, of course. I
was most attracted by the little Adelphi Theatre in the Strand,
and I frequently made Prager and Luders go with me. They acted
some dramatised fairy-tales there under the title of Christmas.
One of the performances interested me particularly because it
consisted of a subtly connected conglomeration of the most
familiar tales, played straight through, with no break at the end
of the acts. It began with 'The Goose that laid the Golden Eggs,'
and was transformed into 'The Three Wishes'; this passed into
'Red Riding Hood' (with the wolf changed into a cannibal who sang
a very comical little couplet), and finished as 'Cinderella,'
varied with other ingredients. These pieces were in every respect
excellently mounted and played, and I gained a very good notion
there of the imaginative fare in which the English people can
find amusement. I found the performances at the Olympic Theatre
less simple and innocent. Besides witty drawing-room pieces in
the French style, which were very well played there, they acted
fairy-tales such as the Yellow Dwarf, in which Hobson, an
uncommonly popular actor, took the grotesque title-role. I saw
the same actor again in a little comedy called Garrick Fever, in
which he ends by representing a drunken man who, when people
insisted on taking him for Garrick, undertook the part of Hamlet
in this condition. I was greatly astonished by many audacities in
his acting on this occasion.
A small out-of-the-way theatre in Marylebone was just then trying
to attract the public by Shakespeare's plays. I attended a
performance of the Merry Wives there, which really amazed me by
its correctness and precision. Even a performance of Romeo and
Juliet at the Haymarket Theatre impressed me favourably, in spite
of the great inferiority of the company, on account of its
accuracy and of the scenic arrangements, which were no doubt an
inheritance from the Garrick tradition. But I still remember a
curious illusion in connection with this: after the first act I
told Luders, who was with me, how surprised I was at their giving
the part of Romeo to an old man, whose age must at least be
sixty, and who seemed anxious to retrieve his long-lost youth by
laboriously adopting a sickly-sweet, feminine air. Luders looked
at the programme again, and cried, 'Donnerwetter, it's a woman!'
It was the once famous American, Miss Cushman.
In spite of every effort, I found it impossible to obtain a seat
for Henry VIII at the Princess's Theatre. This play had been
organised according to the new stage realism, and enjoyed an
incredible vogue as a gorgeous spectacular piece, mounted with
unusual care.
In the province of music, with which I was more concerned, I have
still to mention several of the Sacred-Music Society's concerts,
which I attended in the large room at Exeter Hall. The oratorios
given there nearly every week have, it must be admitted, the
advantage of the great confidence which arises from frequent
repetition. Neither could I refuse to recognise the great
precision of the chorus of seven hundred voices, which reached
quite a respectable standard on a few occasions, particularly in
Handel's Messiah. It was here that I came to understand the true
spirit of English musical culture, which is bound up with the
spirit of English Protestantism. This accounts for the fact that
an oratorio attracts the public far more than an opera. A further
advantage is secured by the feeling among the audience that an
evening spent in listening to an oratorio may be regarded as a
sort of service, and is almost as good as going to church. Every
one in the audience holds a Handel piano score in the same way as
one holds a prayer-book in church. These scores are sold at the
box-office in shilling editions, and are followed most
diligently--out of anxiety, it seemed to me, not to miss certain
points solemnly enjoyed by the whole audience. For instance, at
the beginning of the 'Hallelujah Chorus' it is considered proper
for every one to rise from his seat. This movement, which
probably originated in an expression of enthusiasm, is now
carried out at each performance of the Messiah with painful
precision.
All these recollections, however, are merged in the all-absorbing
memory of almost uninterrupted ill-health, caused primarily, no
doubt, by the state of the London climate at that season of the
year, which is notorious all over the world. I had a perpetual
cold, and I therefore followed the advice of my friends to take a
heavy English diet by way of resisting the effect of the air, but
this did not improve matters in the least. For one thing, I could
not get my home sufficiently warmed through, and the work that I
had brought with me was the first thing to suffer. The
instrumentation of the Walkure, which I had hoped to finish off
here, only advanced a paltry hundred pages. I was hindered in
this principally by the circumstance that the sketches from which
I had to work on the instrumentation had been written down
without considering the extent to which a prolonged interruption
of my working humour might affect the coherence of the sketch.
How often did I sit before those pencilled pages as if they had
been unfamiliar hieroglyphics which I was incapable of
deciphering! In absolute despair I plunged into Dante, making for
the first time a serious effort to read him. The Inferno, indeed,
became a never-to-be-forgotten reality in that London atmosphere.
But at last came the hour of deliverance from even those evils
which I had brought upon myself by my last assumption that I
might be accepted, not to say wanted, in the great world. The
sole consolation I had was in the deep emotion of my new friends
when I took leave of them. I hurried home by way of Paris, which
was clothed in its summer glory, and saw people really
promenading again, instead of pushing through the streets on
business. And so I returned to Zurich, full of cheerful
impressions, on the 30th of June, my net profits being exactly
one thousand francs.
My wife had an idea of taking up her sour-milk cure again on the
Selisberg by Lake Lucerne, and as I thought mountain air would be
good for my impaired health also, we decided to move there at
once. Our project suffered a brief delay through the fatal
illness of my dog Peps. As the result of old age in his
thirteenth year, he suddenly exhibited such weakness that we
became apprehensive of taking him up the Selisberg, for he could
not have borne the fatigue of the ascent. In a few days his agony
became alarmingly acute. He grew stupid, and had frequent
convulsions, his only conscious act being to get up often from
his bed (which was in my wife's room, as he was usually under her
care) and stumble as far as my writing-table, where he sank down
again in exhaustion. The veterinary surgeon said he could do no
more, and as the convulsions gradually became terribly acute, I
was advised to shorten the poor animal's cruel agony and free him
from his pain by a little prussic acid. We delayed our departure
on his account until I at last convinced myself that a quick
death would be charity to the poor suffering creature, who was
quite past all hope. I hired a boat, and took an hour's row
across the lake to visit a young doctor of my acquaintance named
Obrist, who had, I knew, come into possession of a village
apothecary's stock, which included various poisons. From him I
obtained a deadly dose, which I carried home across the lake in
my solitary skiff on an exquisite summer evening. I was
determined only to resort to this last expedient in case the poor
brute were in extremity. He slept that last night as usual in his
basket by my bedside, his invariable habit being to wake me with
his paws in the morning. I was suddenly roused by his groans,
caused by a particularly violent attack of convulsions; he then
sank back without a sound; and I was so strangely moved by the
significance of the moment that I immediately looked at my watch
to impress on my memory the hour at which my extraordinarily
devoted little friend died; it was ten minutes past one on the
10th of July. We devoted the next day to his burial, and shed
bitter tears over him. Frau Stockar-Escher, our landlady, made
over to us a pretty little plot in her garden, and there we
buried him, with his basket and cushions. His grave was shown me
many years after, but the last time I went to look at the little
garden I found that everything had undergone an elegant
transformation, and there were no longer any signs of Pep's
grave.
At last we really started for the Selisberg, accompanied this
time only by the new parrot--a substitute for good old Papo--from
the Kreutzberg menagerie, which I had bought for my wife the year
before. This one was a very good and intelligent bird also, but I
left him entirely to Minna, treating him with invariable
kindness, but never making a friend of him. Fortunately for us,
our stay in the glorious air of this summer resort, of which we
had grown very fond, was favoured by continuous fine weather. I
devoted all my leisure, apart from my lonely walks, to making a
fair copy of that part of the Walkure which was fully scored, and
also took up my favourite reading again--the study of
Schopenhauer. I had the pleasure of receiving a charming letter
from Berlioz, together with Les Soirees de l'Orchestre, his new
book, which I found inspiriting to read, although the author's
taste for the grotesque was as foreign to me here as in his
compositions. Here, too, I met young Robert von Hornstein again,
who proved himself a pleasant and intelligent companion. I was
particularly interested in his quick and evidently successful
plunge into the study of Schopenhauer. He informed me that he
proposed to settle for some time in Zurich, where Karl Ritter,
too, had decided to take permanent winter quarters for his young
wife and himself.
In the middle of August we returned to Zurich ourselves, and I
was able to devote myself steadily to completing the
instrumentation of the Walkure, while my relations with former
acquaintances remained much the same. From outside I received
news of the steady persistence with which my Tannhauser was,
little by little, being propagated in German theatres. Lohengrin,
too, followed in its steps, though without a first meeting with
an entirely favourable reception. Franz Dingelstedt, who was at
the time manager of the court theatre at Munich, undertook to
introduce Tannhauser there, although, thanks to Lachner, the
place was not prepossessed in my favour. He seemed to have
managed it fairly well; its success, however, according to him,
was not so great as to allow of my promised fee being punctually
paid. But my income, owing to the conscientious stewardship of my
friend Sulzer, was now sufficient to permit me to work without
anxiety on that account. But I met with a new vexation when
colder weather set in. I suffered from innumerable attacks of
erysipelas during the whole winter, each fresh attack (in
consequence of some tiny error of diet, or of the least cold)
being attended by violent pain. It was obviously the result of
the ill effects of the London climate. What pained me most was
the frequent interruption of my work on this account. The most I
could do was to read when the illness was taking its course.
Burnouff's Introduction a l'Histoire du Bouddhisme interested me
most among my books, and I found material in it for a dramatic
poem, which has stayed in my mind ever since, though only vaguely
sketched. I may still perhaps work it out. I gave it the title of
Die Sieger. It was founded on the simple legend of a Tschantala
girl, who is received into the dignified order of beggars known
as Clakyamouni, and, through her exceedingly passionate and
purified love for Ananda, the chief disciple of Buddha, herself
gains merit. Besides the underlying beauty of this simple
material, a curious relation between it and the subsequent
development of my musical experience influenced my selection. For
to the mind of Buddha the past life (in a former incarnation) of
every being who appears before him stands revealed as plainly as
the present; and this simple story has its significance, as
showing that the past life of the suffering hero and heroine is
bound up with the immediate present in this life. I saw at once
that the continuous reminiscence in the music of this double
existence might perfectly well be presented to the emotions, and
I decided accordingly to keep in prospect the working out of this
poem as a particularly congenial task.
I had thus two new subjects stamped on my imagination, Tristan
and Die Sieger; with these I was constantly occupied from this
time onwards, together with my great work, the Nibelungen, the
unfinished portion of which was still of gigantic dimensions. The
more these projects absorbed me, the more did I writhe with
impatience at the perpetual interruptions of my work by these
loathsome attacks of illness. About this time Liszt proposed to
pay me a visit that had been postponed in the summer, but I had
to ask him not to come, as I could not be certain, after my late
experiences, of not being tied to a sick-bed during the few days
he would be able to give me. Thus I spent the winter, calm and
resigned in my productive moments, but moody and irritable
towards the outside world, and consequently a source of some
anxiety to my friends. I was glad, however, when Karl Ritter's
arrival in Zurich allowed him to become more intimate with me
again. By his selecting Zurich as a settled home, for the winter
months, at any rate, he showed his devotion to me in a way that
did me good, and wiped out more than one bad impression.
Hornstein had actually managed to come too, but could not stay.
He declared he was so nervous that he could not touch a note of
the piano, and made no attempt to deny that the fact of his
mother's having died insane made him very much afraid of going
mad himself. Although this in a way made him interesting, his
intellectual gifts were marred by such weakness of character,
that we were soon reduced to thinking him fairly hopeless, and we
were not inconsolable when he suddenly left Zurich.
My circle had gained considerably of late by the addition of a
new acquaintance, Gottfried Keller, a native of Zurich, who had
just returned to the welcoming arms of his affectionate fellow-
townsmen from Germany, where his writings had brought him some
fame. Several of his works--in particular, a longish novel, Der
Grune Heinrich--had been recommended to me in favourable though
not exaggerated terms by Sulzer. I was therefore surprised to
find him a person of extraordinarily shy and awkward demeanour.
Every one felt anxious about his prospects on first becoming
acquainted with him, and it was indeed this question of his
future that was the difficulty. Although everything he wrote
showed great original talent, it was obvious at once that they
were merely efforts in the direction of artistic development, and
the inevitable inquiry arose as to what was to follow and really
establish his fame. I kept continually asking him what he was
going to do next. In reply he would mention all sorts of fully
matured schemes, which would none of them hold water on closer
acquaintance. Luckily a government post was eventually found for
him (from patriotic considerations, it seemed),--where he no
doubt did good service, although his literary activity seemed to
lie fallow after his early efforts.
Herwegh, another friend of longer standing, was less fortunate. I
had worried myself for a long time about him too, trying to think
that his previous efforts were merely introductions to really
serious artistic achievements. He admitted himself that he felt
his best was still to come. It seemed to him that he had all the
material--crowds of 'ideas'--in reserve for a great poetical
work; there was nothing wanting but the 'frame' in which he could
paint it all, and this is what he hoped, from day to day, to
find. As I grew tired of waiting for it, I set about trying to
find the longed-for frame for him myself. He evidently wished to
evolve an epic poem on a large scale, in which to embody the
views he had acquired. As he had once alluded to Dante's luck in
finding a subject like the pilgrimage through hell and purgatory
into paradise, it occurred to me to suggest, for the desired
frame, the Brahman myth of Metempsychosis, which in Plato's
version comes within reach of our classical education. He did not
think it a bad idea, and I accordingly took some trouble to
define the form such a poem would take. He was to decide upon
three acts, each containing three songs, which would make nine
songs in all. The first act would show his hero in the Asiatic
country of his birth; the second, his reincarnation in Greece and
Rome; the third, his reincarnation in the Middle Ages and in
modern times. All this pleased him very much, and he thought, it
might come to something. Not so my cynical friend, Dr. Wille, who
had an estate in the country where we often met in the bosom of
his family. He was of opinion that we expected far too much of
Herwegh. Viewed at close quarters he was, after all, only a young
Swabian who had received a far larger share of honour and glory
than his abilities warranted, through the Jewish halo thrown
around him by his wife. In the end I had to shrug my shoulders in
silent acquiescence with these hopelessly unkind remarks, as I
could, of course, see poor Herwegh sinking into deeper apathy
every year, until in the end he seemed incapable of doing
anything.
Semper's arrival in Zurich, which had at last taken place,
enlivened our circle considerably. The Federal authorities had
asked me to use my influence with Semper to induce him to accept
a post as teacher at the Federal Polytechnic. Semper came over at
once to have a look at the establishment first, and was
favourably impressed with everything. He even found cause for
delight, when out walking, in the unclipped trees, 'where one
might light upon a caterpillar again,' he said, and decided
definitely to migrate to Zurich, and thus brought himself and his
family permanently into my circle of acquaintance. True, he had
small prospect of commissions for large buildings, and considered
himself doomed to play the schoolmaster for ever. He was,
however, in the throes of writing a great work on art, which,
after various mishaps and a change of publisher, he brought out
later under the title, Der Styl. I often found him engaged with
the drawings for illustrating this book; he drew them himself
very neatly on stone, and grew so fond of the work that he
declared the smallest detail in his drawing interested him far
more than the big clumsy architectural jobs.
From this time forward, in accordance with my manifesto, I would
have nothing whatever to do with the 'Musikgesellschaft,' neither
did I ever conduct a public performance in Zurich again. The
members of this society could not at first be brought to believe
that I was in earnest, and I was obliged to bring it home to them
by a categorical explanation, in which I dwelt on their slackness
and their disregard of my urgent proposals for the establishment
of a decent orchestra. The excuse I invariably received was, that
although there was money enough among the musical public, yet
every one fought shy of heading the subscription list with a
definite sum, because of the tiresome notoriety they would win
among the towns-people. My old friend, Herr Ott-Imhof, assured me
that it would not embarrass him in the least to pay ten thousand
francs a year to a cause of that sort, but that from that moment
every one would demand why he was spending his income in that
way. It would rouse such a commotion that he might easily be
brought to account about the administration of his property. This
called to my mind Goethe's exclamation at the beginning of his
Erste Schweizer Briefe. So my musical activities at Zurich ceased
definitely from that time.
[Footnote: This doubtless refers to the following passage: 'And
the Swiss call themselves free! These smug bourgeois shut up in
their little towns, these poor devils on their precipices and
rocks, call themselves free! Is there any limit at all to what
one can make people believe and cherish, provided that one
preserves the old fable of "Freedom" in spirits of wine for them?
Once upon a time they rid themselves of a tyrant and thought
themselves free. Then, thanks to the glorious sun, a singular
transformation occurred, and out of the corpse of their late
oppressor a host of minor tyrants arose. Now they continue to
relate the old fable; on all sides it is drummed into one's ears
ad nauseam--they have thrown off the yoke of the despot and have
remained free. And there they are, ensconsed behind their walls
and imprisoned in their customs, their laws, the opinion of their
neighbours, and their Philistine suburbanism' (Goethe's Werke,
Briefe aus der Schweiz, Erste Abteilung.)--Editor]
On the other hand, I occasionally had music at home. Neat and
precious copies of Klindworth's pianoforte score of Rheingold, as
well as of some acts of the Walkure, lay ready to hand, and
Baumgartner was the first who was set down to see what he could
make of the atrociously difficult arrangement. Later on we found
that Theodor Kirchner, a musician who had settled at Winterthur
and frequently visited Zurich, was better able to play certain
bits of the pianoforte score. The wife of Heim, the head of the
Glee Society, with whom we were both on friendly terms, was
pressed into the service to sing the parts for female voices when
I attempted to play some of the vocal parts. She had a really
fine voice and a warm tone, and had been the only soloist at the
big performances in 1853; only she was thoroughly unmusical, and
I had hard work to make her keep in tune, and it was even more
difficult to get the time right. Still, we achieved something,
and my friends had an occasional foretaste of my Nibelungen
music.
But I had to exercise great moderation here too, as every
excitement threatened to bring on a return of erysipelas. A
little party of us were at Karl Ritter's one evening, when I hit
upon the idea of reading aloud Hoffmann's Der Goldene Topf. I did
not notice that the room was getting gradually cooler, but before
I had finished my reading I found myself, to every one's horror,
with a swollen, red nose, and had to trail laboriously home to
tend the malady, which exhausted me terribly every time. During
these periods of suffering I became more and more absorbed in
developing the libretto of Tristan, whereas my intervals of
convalescence were devoted to the score of the Walkure, at which
I toiled diligently but laboriously, completing the fair copy in
March of that year (1856). But my illness and the strain of work
had reduced me to a state of unusual irritability, and I can
remember how extremely bad-tempered I was when our friends the
Wesendoncks came in that evening to pay a sort of congratulatory
visit on the completion of my score. I expressed my opinion of
this way of sympathising with my work with such extraordinary
bitterness that the poor insulted visitors departed abruptly in
great consternation, and it took many explanations, which I had
great difficulty in making, to atone for the insult as the days
went on. My wife came out splendidly on this occasion in her
efforts to smooth things over. A special tie between her and our
friends had been formed by the introduction of a very friendly
little dog into our house, which had been obtained by the
Wesendoncks as a successor to my good old Peps. He proved such a
good and ingratiating animal that he soon gained my wife's tender
affection, while I, too, always felt very kindly towards him.
This time I left the choice of a name to my wife, however, and
she invented, apparently as a pendant to Peps, the name Fips,
which I was quite willing for him to have. But he was always more
my wife's friend, as, despite my great sense of justice, which
made me recognise the excellence of these animals, I never was
able to become so attached to them as to Peps and Papo.
About the time of my birthday I had a visit from my old friend
Tichatschek of Dresden, who remained faithful to his devotion and
enthusiasm for me--as far as so uncultured a person was capable
of such emotions. On the morning of my birthday I was awakened in
a touching way by the strains of my beloved Adagio from
Beethoven's E minor Quartette. My wife had invited the musicians
in whom I took a special interest for this occasion, and they
had, with subtle delicacy, chosen the very piece of which I had
once spoken with such great emotion. At our party in the evening
Tichatschek sang several things from Lohengrin, and really amazed
us all by the brilliancy of voice he still preserved. He had also
succeeded, by perseverance, in overcoming the irresolution of the
Dresden management, due to their subserviency to the court, with
regard to further performances of my operas. They were now being
given there again, with great success and to full houses. I took
a slight cold on an excursion which we made with our visitor to
Brunnen on Lake Lucerne, and thus brought on my thirteenth attack
of erysipelas. One of the terrible southern gales, which make it
impossible to heat the rooms at Brunnen, made my sufferings this
time more acute, added to the fact that I went through with the
excursion, in spite of my painful condition, rather than spoil
our guest's pleasure by turning back sooner. I was still in bed
when Tichatschek left, and I decided at least to try a change of
air in the south, because this dreadful malady seemed to me to
haunt the locality of Zurich. I chose the Lake of Geneva, and
decided to look out for a well-situated country resort in the
neighbourhood of Geneva or thereabouts, where I could start on a
cure which my Zurich doctor had prescribed. I therefore started
for Geneva in the beginning of June. Fips, who was to accompany
me into my rural retreat, caused me great anxiety on the journey;
I nearly changed my destination, on account of an attempt to
dislodge him from my carriage in the train for part of the
journey. It was thanks to the energetic way in which I carried my
point that I started my cure at Geneva, as I should otherwise
probably have gone in a different direction.
In Geneva I put up first at the familiar old Hotel de l'Ecu de
Geneve, which called up various reminiscences to my mind. Here I
consulted Dr. Coindet, who sent me to Mornex on Mont Saleve, for
the sake of its good air, and recommended me a pension. My first
thought on arrival was to find a place where I should be
undisturbed, and I persuaded the lady who kept the pension to
make over to me an isolated pavilion in the garden which
consisted of one large reception-room. Much persuasion was
needed, as all the boarders--precisely the people I wished to
avoid--were indignant at having the room originally intended for
their social gatherings taken away. But at last I secured my
object, though I had to bind myself to vacate my drawing-room on
Sunday mornings, because it was then stocked with benches and
arranged for a service, which seemed to mean a good deal to the
Calvinists among the boarders. I fell in with this quite happily,
and made my sacrifice honourably the very first Sunday by
betaking myself to Geneva to read the papers. The next day,
however, my hostess informed me that the boarders were very
annoyed at only being able to hold the service, and not the week-
day games in my drawing-room. I was given notice, and looked
round for other quarters, which I found in the house of a
neighbour.
This neighbour was a Dr. Vaillant, who had taken an equally fine
site on which to erect a hydropathic institute. I first made
inquiries about warm baths, as my Zurich doctor had advised the
use of these with sulphur, but there was no prospect of obtaining
any such thing. Dr. Vaillant'a whole manner pleased me so much,
however, that I told him my troubles. When I asked him which of
two things I should drink: hot sulphur bath-water or a certain
stinking mineral water, he smiled and said: 'Monsieur, vous
n'etes que nerveux. All this will only excite you more; you
merely need calming. If you will entrust yourself to me, I
promise that you will have so far recovered by the end of two
months as never to have erysipelas again.' And he kept his word.
I certainly formed a very different opinion of hydrotherapic
methods through this excellent doctor from any I could have
acquired from the 'Water Jew' of Albisbrunnen and other raw
amateurs. Vaillant had been famous as a doctor in Paris itself
(Lablache and Rossini had consulted him), but he had the
misfortune of becoming paralysed in both legs, and after four
years of helpless misery, during which he lost his whole practice
and sank into utter misery, he came across the original Silesian
hydropathologist, Priessnitz, to whom he was conveyed, with the
result that he recovered completely. There he learned the method
that had proved so effective, refined it from all the brutalities
of its inventor, and tried to recommend himself to the Parisians
by building a hydro at Meudon. But he met with no encouragement.
His former patients, whom he tried to persuade into visiting his
institution, merely asked whether there was dancing there in the
evening. He found it impossible to keep it up, and it is to this
circumstance that I owe my meeting with him there, near Geneva,
where he was once more trying to exploit his cure in a practical
way. He laid claim to attention, if only by the fact that he
strictly limited the number of patients he took into his house,
insisting that a doctor could only be responsible for the right
application and success of his treatment by being in a position
to observe his patients minutely at all hours of the day. The
advantage of his system, which benefited me so wonderfully, was
the thoroughly calming effect of the treatment, which consisted
in the most ingenious use of water at a moderate temperature.
Besides this, Vaillant took a special pleasure in satisfying my
wants, particularly in procuring me rest and quiet. For instance,
my presence at the common breakfast, which I found exciting and
inconvenient, was excused, and I was allowed to make tea in my
own room instead. This was an unaccustomed treat for me, and I
indulged in it, under cover of secrecy, to excess, usually
drinking tea behind closed doors for two hours, while I read
Walter Scott's novels, after the fatiguing exertions of my
morning cure. I had found some cheap and good French translations
of these novels in Geneva, and had brought a whole pile of them
to Mornex. They were admirably suited to my routine, which
prohibited serious study or work; but, apart from that, I now
fully endorsed Schopenhauer's high opinion of this poet's value,
of which I had till then been doubtful. On my solitary strolls,
it is true, I generally took a volume of Byron with me, because I
possessed a miniature edition, to read on some mountain height
with a view of Mont Blanc, but I soon left it at home, for I
realised that I hardly ever drew it from my pocket.
The only work I permitted myself was the sketching of plans for
building myself a house. These, in the end, I tried to work out
correctly with all the materials of an architect's draughtsman. I
had risen to this bold idea after negotiations on which I entered
about that time with Hartel, the music publishers at Leipzig, for
the sale of my Nibelungen compositions. I demanded forty thousand
francs on the spot for the four works, of which half was to be
paid me when the building of the house began. The publishers
really seemed so far favourably inclined towards my proposals as
to make my undertaking possible.
Very soon, however, their opinion of the market value of my works
underwent an unhappy change. I could never make out whether this
was the result of their having only just examined my poem
carefully and decided that it was impracticable, or whether
influence had been brought to bear on them from the same quarter
to which the opposition directed against most of my undertakings
could be traced, and which grew more and more evident as time
wore on. Be that as it may, the hope of earning capital for my
house-building forsook me; but my architectural studies took
their course, and I made it my aim to obtain means to fulfil
them.
As the two months I had destined to Dr. Vaillant's treatment were
up on the 15th of August, I left the resort which had proved so
beneficial, and went straight off on a visit to Karl Ritter, who,
with his wife, had taken a lovely and very unassuming little
house near Lausanne for the summer months. Both of them had
visited me at Mornex, but when I tried to induce Karl to have
some cold-water treatment, he declared, after one trial, that
even the most soothing method excited him. On the whole, though,
we found a good number of agreeable topics to discuss, and he
told me he would return to Zurich in the autumn.
I returned home in a fairly good humour with Fips, on whose
account I travelled by mail-coach to avoid the obnoxious railway
journey. My wife, too, had returned home from her sour-milk cure
on the Selisberg, and in addition I found my sister Clara
installed, the only one of my relatives who had visited me in my
Swiss retreat. We at once made an excursion with her to my
favourite spot, Brunnen on Lake Lucerne, and spent an exquisite
evening there enjoying the glorious sunset and other beautiful
effects of the Alpine landscape. At night-fall, when the moon
rose full over the lake, it turned out that a very pretty and
effective ovation had been arranged for me (I had been a frequent
visitor there) by our enthusiastic and attentive host, Colonel
Auf-der-Mauer. Two boats, illuminated by coloured lanterns, came
up to the beach facing our hotel, bearing the Brunnen brass band,
which was formed entirely of amateurs from the countryside. With
Federal staunchness, and without any attempts at punctilious
unison, they proceeded to play some of my compositions in a loud
and irrefutable manner. They then paid me homage in a little
speech, and I replied heartily, after which there was much
gripping of all sorts of horny hands on my part, as we drank a
few bottles of wine on the beach. For years afterwards I never
passed this beach on very frequent visits without receiving a
friendly handshake or a greeting. I was generally in doubt as to
what the particular boatman wanted of me, but it always turned
out that I was dealing with one of the brass bandsmen whose good
intentions had been manifested on that pleasant evening.
My sister Clara's lengthy stay with us at Zurich enlivened our
family circle very pleasantly. She was the musical one among my
brothers and sisters, and I enjoyed her society very much. It was
also a relief to me when her presence acted as a damper upon the
various household scenes brought on by Minna, who, as a result of
the steady development of her heart trouble, grew more and more
suspicious, vehement and obstinate.
In October I expected a visit from Liszt, who proposed to make a
fairly long stay at Zurich, accompanied by various people of
note. I could not wait so long, however, before beginning the
composition of Siegfried, and I began to sketch the overture on
the 22nd of September.
A tinker had established himself opposite our house, and stunned
my ears all day long with his incessant hammering. In my disgust
at never being able to find a detached house protected from every
kind of noise, I was on the point of deciding to give up
composing altogether until the time when this indispensable
condition should be fulfilled. But it was precisely my rage over
the tinker that, in a moment of agitation, gave me the theme for
Siegfried's furious outburst against the bungling Mime. I played
over the childishly quarrelsome Polter theme in G minor to my
sister, furiously singing the words at the same time, which made
us all laugh so much that I decided to make one more effort. This
resulted in my writing down a good part of the first scene by the
time Liszt arrived on 13th October.
Liszt came by himself, and my house at once became a musical
centre. He had finished his Faust and Dante Symphonies since I
had seen him, and it was nothing short of marvellous to hear him
play them to me on the piano from the score. As I felt sure that
Liszt must be convinced of the great impression his compositions
made on me, I felt no scruples in persuading him to alter the
mistaken ending of the Dante Symphony. If anything had convinced
me of the man's masterly and poetical powers of conception, it
was the original ending of the Faust Symphony, in which the
delicate fragrance of a last reminiscence of Gretchen overpowers
everything, without arresting the attention by a violent
disturbance. The ending of the Dante Symphony seemed to me to be
quite on the same lines, for the delicately introduced Magnificat
in the same way only gives a hint of a soft, shimmering Paradise.
I was the more startled to hear this beautiful suggestion
suddenly interrupted in an alarming way by a pompous, plagal
cadence which, as I was told, was supposed to represent Domenico.
'No!' I exclaimed loudly, 'not that! Away with it! No majestic
Deity! Leave us the fine soft shimmer.'
'You are right,' said Liszt. 'I said so too; it was the Princess
who persuaded me differently. But it shall be as you wish.'
All well and good--but all the greater was my distress to learn
later that not only had this ending of the Dante Symphony been
preserved, but even the delicate ending of the Faust Symphony,
which had appealed to me so particularly, had been changed, in a
manner better calculated to produce an effect, by the
introduction of a chorus. And this was exactly typical of my
relations to Liszt and to his friend Caroline Wittgenstein!
This woman, with her daughter Marie, was soon to arrive on a
visit too, and the necessary preparations were made for her
reception. But before these ladies arrived, a most painful
incident occurred between Liszt and Karl Ritter at my house.
Ritter's looks alone, and still more, a certain abrupt
contradictoriness in his way of speaking, seemed to put Liszt
into a state in which he was easily irritated. One evening Liszt
was speaking in an impressive tone of the merits of the Jesuits,
and Ritter's inopportune smiles appeared to offend him. At table
the conversation turned on the Emperor of the French, Louis
Napoleon, whose merits Liszt rather summarily insisted that we
should acknowledge, whereas we were, on the whole, anything but
enthusiastic about the general state of affairs in France. When
Liszt, in an attempt to make clear the important influence of
France on European culture, mentioned as an instance the French
Academie, Karl again indulged in his fatal smile. This
exasperated Liszt beyond all bounds, and in his reply he included
some such phrase as this: 'If we are not prepared to admit this,
what do we prove ourselves to be? Baboons!' I laughed, but again
Karl only smiled--this time, with deadly embarrassment. I
discovered afterwards through Bulow that in some youthful
squabble he had had the word 'Baboon-face' hurled at him. It soon
became impossible to hide the fact that Ritter felt himself
grossly insulted by 'the doctor,' as he called him, and he left
my house foaming with rage, not to set foot in it again for
years. After a few days I received a letter in which he demanded,
first, a complete apology from Liszt, as soon as he came to see
me again, and if this were unobtainable, Liszt's exclusion from
my house. It distressed me greatly to receive, soon after this, a
letter from Ritter's mother, whom I respected very much,
reproaching me for my unjust treatment of her son in not having
obtained satisfaction for an insult offered him in my house. For
a long time my relations with this family, intimate as they had
been, were painfully strained, as I found it impossible to make
them see the incident in the right light. When Liszt, after a
time, heard of it, he regretted the disturbance too, and with
praise-worthy magnanimity made the first advance towards a
reconciliation by paying Ritter a friendly visit. There was
nothing said about the incident, and Ritter's return visit was
made, not to Liszt, but to the Princess, who had arrived in the
meantime. After this Liszt decided that he could do nothing
further; Ritter, therefore, withdrew from our society from this
time forward, and changed his winter quarters from Zurich to
Lausanne, where he settled permanently.
Not only my own modest residence, but the whole of Zurich seemed
full of life when Princess Caroline and her daughter took up
their abode at the Hotel Baur for a time. The curious spell of
excitement which this lady immediately threw over every one she
succeeded in drawing into her circle amounted, in the case of my
good sister Clara (who was still with us at the time), almost to
intoxication. It was as if Zurich had suddenly become a
metropolis. Carriages drove hither and thither, footmen ushered
one in and out, dinners and suppers poured in upon us, and we
found ourselves suddenly surrounded by an increasing number of
interesting people, whose existence at Zurich we had never even
suspected, though they now undoubtedly cropped up everywhere. A
musician named Winterberger, who felt it incumbent on him on
certain occasions to behave eccentrically, had been brought there
by Liszt; Kirchner, the Schumann enthusiast from Winterthur, was
practically always there, attracted by the new life, and he too
did not fail to play the wag. But it was principally the
professors of Zurich University whom Princess Caroline coaxed out
of their hole-and-corner Zurich habits. She would have them, one
at a time, for herself, and again serve them up en masse for us.
If I looked in for a moment from my regular midday walk, the lady
would be dining alone, now with Semper, now with Professor
Kochly, then with Moleschott, and so on. Even my very peculiar
friend Sulzer was drawn in, and, as he could not deny, in a
manner intoxicated. But a really refreshing sense of freedom and
spontaneity pervaded everything, and the unceremonious evenings
at my house in particular were really remarkably free and easy.
On these occasions the Princess, with Polish patriarchal
friendliness, would help the mistress of the house in serving.
Once, after we had had some music, I had to give the substance of
my two newly conceived poems, Tristan und Isolde and Die Sieger,
to a group which, half sitting, half lying before me, was
certainly not without charm.
The crown of our festivities was, however, Liszt's birthday, on
the 22nd October, which the Princess celebrated with due pomp at
her own house. Every one who was some one at Zurich was there. A
poem by Hoffmann von Fallersleben was telegraphed from Weimar,
and at the Princess's request was solemnly read aloud by Herwegh
in a strangely altered voice. I then gave a performance, with
Frau Heim, of the first act, and a scene from the second, of the
Walkure, Liszt accompanying. I was able to obtain a favourable
idea of the effect of our performance by the wish expressed by
Dr. Wille to hear these things badly done, so that he could form
a correct judgment, as he feared he might be seduced by the
excellence of our execution. Besides these, Liszt's Symphonic
Poems were played on two grand pianos. At the feast, a dispute
arose about Heinrich Heine, with respect to whom Liszt made all
sorts of insidious remarks. Frau Wesendonck responded by asking
if he did not think Heine's name as a poet would, nevertheless,
be inscribed in the temple of immortality.
'Yes, but in mud,' answered Liszt quickly, creating, as may be
conceived, a great sensation.
Unfortunately, our circle was soon to suffer a great loss by
Liszt's illness--a skin eruption--which confined him to his bed
for a considerable period. As soon as he was a little better, we
quickly went to the piano again to try over by ourselves my two
finished scores of Rheingold and the Walkure. Princess Marie
listened carefully, and was even able to make intelligent
suggestions in connection with a few difficult passages in the
poem.
Princess Caroline, too, seemed to set extraordinary store on
being quite clear as to the actual intrigue concerning the fate
of the gods in my Nibelungen. She took me in hand one day, quite
like one of the Zurich professors, en particulier, to clear up
this point to her satisfaction. I must confess it was irrefutably
brought home to me that she was anxious to understand the most
delicate and mysterious features of the intrigue, though in
rather too precise and matter-of-fact a spirit. In the end I felt
as though I had explained a French society play to her. Her high
spirits in all such things were as marked as the curious
amiability of her nature in other respects; for when I one day
explained to her, in illustration of the first of these two
qualities, that four weeks of uninterrupted companionship with
her would have been the death of me, she laughed heartily. I had
reason for sadness in the changes which I realised had taken
place in her daughter Marie; in the three years since I had first
seen her she had faded to an extraordinary extent. If I then
called her a 'child,' I could not now properly describe her as a
'young woman.' Some disastrous experience seemed to have made her
prematurely old. It was only when she was excited, especially in
the evening when she was with friends, that the attractive and
radiant side of her nature asserted itself to a marked extent. I
remember one fine evening at Herwegh's, when Liszt was moved to
the same state of enthusiasm by a grand-piano abominably out of
tune, as by the disgusting cigars to which at that time he was
more passionately devoted than to the finer brands. We were all
compelled to exchange our belief in magic for a belief in actual
witchcraft as we listened to his wonderful phantasies on this
pianoforte. To my great horror, Liszt still gave evidence on more
than one occasion of an irritability which was thoroughly bad-
tempered and even quarrelsome, such as had already manifested
itself in the unfortunate scene with young Ritter. For instance,
it was dangerous, especially in the presence of Princess
Caroline, to praise Goethe. Even Liszt and myself had nearly
quarrelled (for which he seemed to be very eager) over the
character of Egmont, which he thought it his duty to depreciate
because the man allows himself to be taken in by Alba. I had been
warned, and had the presence of mind to confine myself to
observing the peculiar physiology of my friend on this occasion,
and turning my attention to his condition, much more than to the
subject of our dispute. We never actually came to blows; but from
this time forward I retained throughout my life a vague feeling
that we might one day come to such an encounter, in which case it
would not fail to be terrific. Perhaps it was just this feeling
that acted as a check on me whenever any opportunity arose for
heated argument. Goodness knows that I myself had a bad enough
reputation with my friends for my own irritability and sudden
outbursts of temper!
After I had made a stay of more than six weeks, we had a final
opportunity for coming together again before my return from this
visit that had meant so much for me. We had agreed to spend a
week at St. Gall, where we had an invitation from Schadrowsky, a
young musical director, to give our support to a society concert
in that district.
We stayed together at the Hecht inn, and the Princess entertained
us as if she had been in her own house. She gave me and my wife a
room next her own private apartment. Unfortunately a most trying
night was in store for us. Princess Caroline had one of her
severe nervous attacks, and in order to preclude the approach of
the painful hallucination by which she was tormented at such
times, her daughter Marie was obliged to read to her all through
the night in a voice deliberately raised a good deal above its
natural pitch. I got fearfully excited, especially at what
appeared to be an inexplicable disregard for the peace of one's
neighbour implied by such conduct. At two o'clock in the morning
I leaped out of bed, rang the bell continuously until the waiter
awoke, and asked him to take me to a bedroom in one of the
remotest parts of the inn. We moved there and then, not without
attracting the attention of our neighbours, upon whom, however,
the circumstance made no impression. The next morning I was much
astonished to see Marie appear as usual, quite unembarrassed, and
without showing the least traces of anything exceptional having
occurred. I now learned that everybody connected with the
Princess was thoroughly accustomed to such disturbances. Here,
too, the house soon filled with all sorts of guests: Herwegh and
his wife came, Dr. Wille and his wife, Kirchner, and several
others, and before long our life in the Hecht yielded nothing, in
point of activity, to our life in the Hotel Baur. The excuse for
all this, as I have said, was the society concert of the musical
club of St. Gall. At the rehearsal, to my genuine delight, Liszt
impressed two of his compositions, Orpheus and the Prelude, upon
the orchestra with complete success, in spite of the limited
resources at his command. The performance turned out to be a
really fine one, and full of spirit. I was especially delighted
with the Orpheus and with the finely proportioned orchestral
work, to which I had always assigned a high place of honour among
Liszt's compositions. On the other hand, the special favour of
the public was awarded to the Prelude, of which the greater part
was encored. I conducted the Eroica Symphony of Beethoven under
very painful conditions, as I always caught cold on such
occasions, and generally became feverish afterwards. My
conception and rendering of Beethoven's work made a powerful
impression upon Liszt, whose opinion was the only one which had
any real weight with me. We watched each other over our work with
a closeness and sympathy that was genuinely instructive. At night
we had to take part in a little supper in our honour, which was
the occasion for expressing the noble and deep sentiments of the
worthy citizens of St. Gall concerning the significance of our
visit. As I was regaled with a most complimentary panegyric by a
poet, it was necessary for me to respond with equal seriousness
and eloquence. In his dithyrambic enthusiasm, Liszt went so far
as to suggest a general clinking of glasses, signifying approval
of his suggestion that the new theatre of St. Gall should be
opened with a model performance of Lohengrin. No one offered any
objection. The next day, the 24th of November, we all met, for
various festivities, in the house of an ardent lover of music,
Herr Bourit, a rich merchant of St. Gall. Here we had some
pianoforte music, and Liszt played to us, among other things, the
great Sonata of Beethoven in B flat major, at the close of which
Kirchner dryly and candidly remarked, 'Now we can truly say that
we have witnessed the impossible, for I shall always regard what
I have just heard as an impossibility.' On this occasion,
attention was called to the twentieth anniversary of my marriage
with Minna, which fell on this day, and after the wedding music
of Lohengrin had been played, we formed a charming procession a
la Polonaise through the various rooms.
In spite of all these pleasant experiences, I should have been
well content to see the end of the business and return to the
peace of my home in Zurich. The indisposition of the Princess,
however, retarded the departure of my friends for Germany for
several days, and we found ourselves compelled to remain together
in a state of nervous tension and aimlessness for some time,
until at last, on the 27th November, I escorted my visitors to
Rorschach, and took my leave of them there on the steamer. Since
then I have never seen the Princess or her daughter, nor I think
it likely I shall ever meet them again.
It was not without some misgiving that I took leave of my
friends, for the Princess was really ill, and Liszt seemed to be
much exhausted. I recommended their immediate return to Weimar,
and told them to take care of themselves. Great was my surprise,
therefore, when before long I received the news that they were
making a sojourn of some duration in Munich. This followed
immediately upon their departure, and was also attended with much
noisy festivity and occasional artistic gatherings. I was thus
led to the conclusion that it was foolish of me to recommend
people with such constitutions either to do a thing or to abstain
from doing it. I, for my part, returned home to Zurich very much
exhausted, unable to sleep, and tormented by the frosty weather
at this cold season of the year. I was afraid that I had by my
recent method of life subjected myself to a fresh attack of
erysipelas. I was very pleased when I awoke the next morning to
discover no trace of what I feared, and from that day I continued
to sing the praises of my excellent Dr. Vaillant wherever I went.
By the beginning of December I had so far recovered as to be able
to resume the composition of Siegfried. Thus I again entered upon
my orderly method of life, with all its insignificance as far as
outward things were concerned: work, long walks, the perusal of
books, evenings spent with some friend or other of the domestic
circle. The only thing that worried me was the regret I still
felt for my quarrel with Ritter, in consequence of the unhappy
contre-temps with Liszt. I now lost touch entirely with this
young friend, who in so many ways had endeared himself to me.
Before the close of the winter he left Zurich without seeing me
again.
During the months of January and February (1857) I completed the
first act of Siegfried, writing down the composition in full to
take the place of the earlier rough pencil draft, and immediately
set to work on the orchestration; but I probably carried out
Vaillant's instructions with too much zeal. Pursued by the fear
of a possible return of erysipelas, I sought to ward it off by a
repeated and regular process of sweating once a week, wrapped up
in towels, on the hydropathic system. By this means I certainly
escaped the dreaded evil, but the effort exhausted me very much,
and I longed for the return of the warm weather, when I should be
relieved from the severities of this treatment.
It was now that the tortures inflicted upon me by noisy and
musical neighbours began to increase in intensity. Apart from the
tinker, whom I hated with a deadly hatred, and with whom I had a
terrible scene about once a week, the number of pianos in the
house where I lived was augmented. The climax came with the
arrival of a certain Herr Stockar, who played the flute in the
room under mine every Sunday, whereupon I gave up all hope of
composing any more. One day my friends the Wesendoncks, who had
returned from wintering in Paris, unfolded to me a most welcome
prospect of the fulfilment of my ardent wishes in regard to my
future place of abode. Wesendonck had already had an idea of
having a small house built for me on a site I was to select for
myself. My own plans, elaborated with a deceptive skill, had been
already submitted to an architect. But the acquisition of a
suitable plot of land was and still remained a great difficulty.
In my walks I had long had my eye on a little winter residence in
the district of Enge, on the ridge of the hill that separates the
Lake of Zurich from Sihlthal. It was called Lavater Cottage, as
it had belonged to that famous phrenologist, and he had been in
the habit of staying there regularly. I had enlisted the services
of my friend Hagenbuch, the Cantonal Secretary, to use all his
influence to secure me a few acres of land at this spot as
cheaply as possible. But herein lay the great difficulty. The
piece of land I required consisted of various lots attached to
larger estates, and it turned out that in order to acquire my one
plot it would have been necessary to buy out a large number of
different owners. I put the difficulties of my case before
Wesendonck, and gradually created in him a desire to purchase
this wide tract of land, and lay out a fine site containing a
large villa for his own family. The idea was that I should also
have a plot there. However, the demands made upon my friend in
regard to the preliminaries and to the building of his house,
which was to be on a scale both generous and dignified, were too
many, and he also thought the enclosure of two families within
the same confines might lead in time to inconveniences on both
sides. There happened to be an unpretentious little country house
with a garden which I had admired, and which was only separated
from his estate by a narrow carriage drive; and this Wesendonck
decided to buy for me. I rejoiced beyond measure when I heard of
his intention. The shock experienced by the over-cautious buyer
was consequently all the greater when one day be discovered that
the present owner, with whom he had negotiated in too timid a
fashion, had just sold his piece of land to somebody else. Luckily
it turned out that the buyer was a mental specialist, whose sole
intention in making the purchase was to instal himself with his
lunatic asylum by the side of my friend. This information awakened
the most terrible anticipations in Wesendonck, and put the utmost
strain upon his energy. He now gave instructions that this piece
of land must be acquired at any price from the unfortunate
specialist. Thus, after many vexatious vicissitudes, it came into
the possession of my friend, who had to pay pretty heavily for it.
He allowed me to come into possession at Easter of this year,
charging me the same rent as I had paid for my lodging in the
Zeltweg, that is to say, eight hundred francs a year.
Our installation in this house, which occupied me heart and soul
at the beginning of the spring, was not achieved without many a
disappointment. The cottage, which had only been designed for use
in summer, had to be made habitable for the winter by putting in
heating apparatus and various other necessaries. It is true, that
most of the essentials in this respect were carried out by the
proprietor; but no end of difficulties remained to be solved.
There was not a single thing upon which my wife and I did not
constantly differ, and my position as an ordinary middle-class
man without a brass farthing of my own made matters no easier.
With regard to my finances, however, events took place from time
to time which were well calculated to inspire a sanguine
temperament with trustful confidence in the future. In spite of
the bad performances of my operas, Tannhauser brought me
unexpectedly good royalties from Berlin. From Vienna, too, I
obtained the wherewithal to give me breathing-space in a most
curious way. I was still excluded from the Royal Opera, and I had
been assured that so long as there was an imperial court, I was
not to dream of a performance of my seditious works in Vienna.
This strange state of affairs inspired my old director, Hoffmann
of Riga, now director of the Josephstadt Theatre, to venture on
the production of Tannhauser with a special opera company, in a
summer theatre built by himself on the Lerchenfeld outside the
boundary of Vienna. He offered me for every performance which I
would license a royalty of a hundred francs. When Liszt, whom I
informed of the matter, thought this offer was suspicious, I
wrote and told him that I proposed to follow Mirabeau's example
with regard to it. Mirabeau, when he failed to be elected by his
peers to the assembly of Notables, addressed himself to the
electors of Marseilles in the capacity of a linen-draper. This
pleased Liszt; and, indeed, I now made my way, by means of the
summer theatre on the Lerchenfeld, into the capital of the
Austrian empire. Of the performance itself the most wonderful
accounts reached me. Sulzer, who on one of his journeys had
passed through Vienna and had witnessed a performance, had
complained principally of the darkness of the house, which did
not allow him to read a single word of the libretto, also of its
having rained hard right into the middle of the audience. Another
story was told me some years later by the son-in-law of Mme.
Herold, the widow of the composer of that name. He had been in
Vienna at that period on his wedding tour, and had heard this
Lerchenfeld performance. The young man assured me that, in spite
of all superficial deficiencies, the production there had given
him genuine pleasure, and had been more deeply impressive than
the performance in the Berlin Court Theatre, which he had seen
afterwards, and found immeasurably inferior. The energy of my old
Riga Theatre director in Vienna brought me in two thousand francs
for twenty performances of Tannhauser. After such a curious
experience, offering clear proof of my popularity, I may perhaps
be excused for having felt confident about the future, and having
relied on incalculable results from my works, even with regard to
actual gain.
While I was thus occupied in arranging the little country house
for which I had longed so much, and working on the orchestration
of the first act of Siegfried, I plunged anew into the philosophy
of Schopenhauer and into Scott's novels, to which I was drawn
with a particular affection. I also busied myself with
elucidating my impressions of Liszt's compositions. For this
purpose I adopted the form of a letter to Marie Wittgenstein,
which was published in Brendel's musical journal.
When we moved to what I intended to be my permanent refuge for
life, I again set myself to consider the means of obtaining a
basis for the supply of the necessities of that life. Once again
I took up the threads of my negotiations with Hartel about the
Nibelungen, but I was obliged to put them down as unfruitful, and
little calculated to end in any success for this work. I
complained of this to Liszt, and openly told him how glad I
should be if he would bring this to the ears of the Grand Duke of
Weimar (who, from what my friend told me, wished himself still to
be regarded as the patron of my Nibelungen enterprise), so that
he might realise the difficulties I was encountering in the
matter. I added that if one could not expect a common bookseller
to assume the responsibility of such an extraordinary
undertaking, one might well hope that the Prince, whose idea was
to make it a point of honour, should take a share, and a serious
share, in the necessary preliminaries, among which the
development of the work itself must very properly be included. My
meaning was, that the Grand Duke should take the place of Hartel,
should purchase the work from me, and pay by instalments as the
score neared completion; he would thus become the owner, and,
later on, could if he liked cover his expenses through a
publisher. Liszt understood me very well, but could not refrain
from dissuading me from taking up such an attitude towards his
Royal Highness.
My whole attention was now directed to the young Grand Duchess of
Baden. Several years had passed since Eduard Devrient had been
transferred to Karlsruhe by the Grand Duke to be manager of the
court theatre there. Since my departure from Dresden I had always
kept in touch with Devrient, though our meetings were rare.
Moreover, he had written the most enthusiastic letters in
appreciation of my pamphlets, Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft and Oper
und Drama. He maintained that the Karlsruhe Theatre was so poorly
equipped, that he thought he could not well entertain the idea of
a performance of my operas in that house. All these conditions
were suddenly changed when the Grand Duke married, and the Crown
Princess's young daughter, who had been turned into a champion of
mine by my old friend Alwine Frommann, thus secured a position of
independence in Karlsruhe, and was eager in her demand for the
performance of my works. My operas were now being produced there
also, and Devrient in his turn had the pleasure of informing me
of the great interest shown in them by the young Princess, who
even frequently attended the rehearsals. This made a very
agreeable impression upon me. On my own initiative I expressed my
gratitude in an address which I directed to the Grand Duchess
herself, enclosing 'Wotan's Abschied' from the finale of the
Walkure as a souvenir for her album.
The 20th April was now drawing near, the day on which I was to
leave my lodging in the Zeltweg (which had already been let),
although I could not occupy the cottage, where the arrangements
were not yet complete. The bad weather had given us colds in the
course of our frequent visits to the little house, in which
masons and carpenters had made themselves at home. In the worst
of tempers we spent a week in the inn, and I began to wonder
whether it was worth while occupying this new piece of land at
all, for I had a sudden foreboding that it would be my fate to
wander further afield. Eventually we moved in at the end of
April, in spite of everything. It was cold and damp, the new
heating apparatus did not provide any warmth, and we were both
ill, and could hardly leave our beds. Then came a good omen: the
first letter that reached me was one of reconciliation and love
from Frau Julie Ritter, in which she told me that the quarrel,
brought about by her son's conduct, was at last ended. Beautiful
spring weather now set in; on Good Friday I awoke to find the sun
shining brightly for the first time in this house: the little
garden was radiant with green, the birds sang, and at last I
could sit on the roof and enjoy the long-yearned-for peace with
its message of promise. Full of this sentiment, I suddenly
remembered that the day was Good Friday, and I called to mind the
significance this omen had already once assumed for me when I was
reading Wolfram's Parsifal. Since the sojourn in Marienbad, where
I had conceived the Meistersinger and Lohengrin, I had never
occupied myself again with that poem; now its noble possibilities
struck me with overwhelming force, and out of my thoughts about
Good Friday I rapidly conceived a whole drama, of which I made a
rough sketch with a few dashes of the pen, dividing the whole
into three acts.
In the midst of arranging the house, a never-ending task, at
which I set to work with all my might, I felt an inner compulsion
to work: I took up Siegfried again, and began to compose the
second act. I had not made up my mind what name to give to my new
place of refuge. As the introductory part of this act turned out
very well, thanks to my favourable frame of mind, I burst out
laughing at the thought that I ought to call my new home
'Fafner's Ruhe,' to correspond with the first piece of work done
in it. It was not destined to be so, however. The property
continued to be called simply 'Asyl,' and I have designated it
under this title in the chart of dates to my works.
The miscarriage of my prospects of support for the Nibelungen
from the Grand Duke of Weimar fostered in me a continued
depression of spirits; for I saw before me a burden of which I
knew not how to rid myself. At the same time a romantic message
was conveyed to me: a man who rejoiced in the name of Ferreiro
introduced himself to me as the Brazilian consul in Leipzig, and
told me that the Emperor of Brazil was greatly attracted by my
music. The man was an adept in meeting my doubts about this
strange phenomenon in the letters which he wrote; the Emperor
loved everything German, and wanted me very much to come to him
in Rio Janeiro, so that I might conduct my operas in person. As
only Italian was sung in that country, it would be necessary to
translate my libretto, which the Emperor regarded as a very easy
matter, and actually an improvement to the libretto itself.
Strange to say, these proposals exercised a very agreeable
influence on me. I felt I could easily produce a passionate
musical poem which would turn out quite excellent in Italian, and
I turned my thoughts once more, with an ever-reviving preference,
towards Tristan und Isolde. In order in some way to test the
intensity of that generous affection for my works protested by
the Emperor of Brazil, I promptly sent to Senor Ferreiro the
expensively bound volumes containing the pianoforte versions of
my three earlier operas, and for a long time I indulged in the
hope of some very handsome return from their gracious and
splendid reception in Rio Janeiro. But of these pianoforte
versions, and the Emperor of Brazil and his consul Ferreiro, I
never heard a single syllable again as long as I lived. Semper,
it is true, involved himself in an architectonic entanglement
with this tropical country: a competition was invited for the
building of a new opera house in Rio; Semper had announced that
he would take part in it, and completed some splendid plans which
afforded us great entertainment, and appeared to be of special
interest, among others, to Dr. Wille, who thought that it must be
a new problem for an architect to sketch an opera house for a
black public. I have not learned whether the results of Semper's
negotiations with Brazil were much more satisfactory than mine;
at all events, I know that he did not build the theatre.
A violent cold threw me for a few days into a state of high
fever; when I recovered from it, my birthday had come. As I was
sitting once more in the evening on my roof, I was surprised at
hearing one of the songs of the Three Rhine Maidens, from the
finale of Rheingold, which floated to my ears from the near
distance across the gardens. Frau Pollert, whose troubles with
her husband had once stood in the way of a second performance in
Magdeburg of my Liebesverbot (in itself a very difficult
production), had again appeared last winter as a singer, and also
as the mother of two daughters, in the theatrical firmament of
Zurich. As she still had a fine voice, and was full of goodwill
towards me, I allowed her to practise the last act of Walkure for
herself, and the Rhine Maidens scenes from the Rheingold with her
two daughters, and frequently in the course of the winter we had
managed to give short performances of this music for our friends.
On the evening of my birthday the song of my devoted lady friends
surprised me in a very touching way, and I suddenly experienced a
strange revulsion of feeling, which made me disinclined to
continue the composition of the Nibelungen, and all the more
anxious to take up Tristan again. I determined to yield to this
desire, which I had long nourished in secret, and to set to work
at once on this new task, which I had wished to regard only as a
short interruption to the great one. However, in order to prove
to myself that I was not being scared away from the older work by
any feeling of aversion, I determined, at all events, to complete
the composition of the second act of Siegfried, which had only
just been begun. This I did with a right good will, and gradually
the music of Tristan dawned more and more clearly on my mind.
To some extent external motives, which seemed to me both
attractive and advantageous to the execution of my task, acted as
incentives to make me set to work on Tristan. These motives
became fully defined when Eduard Devrient came on a visit to me
at the beginning of July and stayed with me for three days. He
told me of the good reception accorded to my despatch by the
Grand Duchess of Baden, and I gathered that he had been
commissioned to come to an understanding with me about some
enterprise or other; I informed him that I had decided to
interrupt my work on the Nibelungen by composing an opera, which
was bound by its contents and requirements to put me once more
into relation with the theatres, however inferior they might be.
I should do myself an injustice if I said that this external
motive alone inspired the conception of Tristan, and made me
determine to have it produced. Nevertheless, I must confess that
a perceptible change had come over the frame of mind in which,
several years ago, I had contemplated the completion of the
greater work. At the same time I had come fresh from my writings
upon art, in which I had attempted to explain the reasons for the
decay of our public art, and especially of the theatre, by
seeking to establish some connection between these reasons and the
prevailing condition of culture. It would have been impossible
for me at that time to have devoted myself to a work which
compelled me to study its immediate production at one of our
existing theatres. It was only an utter disregard of these
theatres, as I have taken occasion to observe before, that could
determine me to take up my artistic work again. With regard to
the Nibelungen dramas, I was compelled to adhere without
flinching to the one essential stipulation that it could only be
produced under quite exceptional conditions, such as those I
afterwards described in the preface to the printed edition of the
poem. Nevertheless, the successful popularisation of my earlier
operas had so far influenced my frame of mind that, as I
approached the completion of more than half of my great work, I
felt I could look forward with growing confidence to the
possibility that this too might be produced. Up to this point
Liszt had been the only person to nourish the secret hope of my
heart, as he was confident that the Grand Duke of Weimar would do
something for me, but to judge from my latest experience these
prospects amounted to nothing, while I had grounds for hoping
that a new work of similar design to Tannhauser or Lohengrin
would be taken up everywhere with considerable alacrity. The
manner in which I finally executed the plan of Tristan shows
clearly how little I was thinking of our operatic theatres and
the scope of their capabilities. Nevertheless, I had still to
fight a continuous battle for the necessaries of life, and I
succeeded in deceiving myself so far as to persuade myself that
in interrupting the composition of the Nibelungen and taking up
Tristan, I was acting in the practical spirit of a man who
carefully weighs the issues at stake. Devrient was much pleased
to hear that I was undertaking a work that could be regarded as
practical. He asked me at which theatre I contemplated producing
my new work. I answered that naturally I could only have in view
a theatre in which it would be possible for me to superintend the
task of production in person. My idea was that this would either
be in Brazil or, as I was excluded from the territory of the
German Confederation, in one of the towns lying near the German
frontiers, which I presumed would be able to place an operatic
company at my disposal. The place I had in my mind was Strasburg,
but Devrient had many practical reasons for being wholly opposed
to such an undertaking; he was of opinion that a performance in
Karlsruhe could be arranged more easily and would meet with
greater success. My only objection to this was, that in that town
I should be debarred from taking a personal share in the study
and production of my work. Devrient, however, thought that, as
far as this was concerned, I might feel justified in entertaining
some hope, as the Grand Duke of Baden was so well disposed
towards me, and took an active interest in my work. I was highly
delighted to learn this. Devrient also spoke with great sympathy
of the young tenor Schnorr, who, besides possessing admirable
gifts, was keenly attracted by my operas. I was now in the best
of tempers, and acted the host to Devrient for all I was worth.
One morning I played and sang to him the whole of the Rheingold,
which seemed to give him great pleasure. Half seriously, and half
in joke, I told him that I had written the character of Mime
especially for him, and that if, when the work was ready, it was
not too late, he might have the pleasure of taking the part. As
Devrient was with me, he had, of course, to do his share of
reciting. I invited all the friends in our circle, including
Semper and Herwegh, and Devrient read us the Mark Antony scenes
from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. So happy was his interpretation
of the part, that even Herwegh, who had approached the recitation
from its outset in a spirit of ridicule, freely acknowledged the
success of the practised actor's skilful manipulation. Devrient
wrote a letter from my house to the Grand Duke of Baden, telling
him his impressions about me and what he had found me like. Soon
after his departure I received an autograph letter from the Grand
Duke, couched in very amiable terms, in which he first thanked me
most profusely for the souvenir I had presented to his wife for
her album, and at the same time declared his intention of
championing my cause, and, above all, of securing my return to
Germany.
From this time forward my resolve to produce Tristan had to be
seriously entertained, as it was written in plain letters in my
book of fate. To all these circumstances I was indebted for the
continuation of the favourable mood in which I now brought the
second act of Siegfried to a close. My daily walks were directed
on bright summer afternoons to the peaceful Sihlthal, in whose
wooded surroundings I listened long and attentively to the song
of the forest birds, and I was astonished to make the
acquaintance of entirely new melodies, sung by singers whose
forms I could not see and whose names I did not know. In the
forest scene of Siegfried I put down, in artistic imitation of
nature, as much as I could remember of these airs. At the
beginning of August I had carefully sketched the composition of
the second act. I was glad I had reserved the third act with the
awakening of Brunhilda for the time when I should again be able
to go on with the opera, for it seemed to me that all the
problems in my work were now happily solved, and that all that
remained was to get pure joy out of it.
As I firmly believed in the wisdom of husbanding my artistic
power, I now prepared to write out Tristan. A certain strain was
put upon my patience at this point by the arrival of the
excellent Ferdinand Prager from London. His visit, in other
respects, was a source of genuine pleasure to me, for I was bound
to recognise in him a faithful and life-long friend. The only
difficulty was, that he laboured under the delusion that he was
exceptionally nervous, and that he was persecuted by fate. This
was a source of considerable annoyance to me, as with the best
will in the world, I could not muster up any sympathy for him. We
helped ourselves out of the dilemma by an excursion to
Schaffhausen, where I paid my first visit to the famous Rhine
Falls, which did not fail to impress me duly.
About this time the Wesendoncks moved into their villa, which had
now been embellished by stucco-workers and upholsterers from
Paris. At this point a new phase began in my relations with this
family, which was not really important, but nevertheless
exercised considerable influence on the outward conduct of my
life. We had become so intimate, through being such near
neighbours in a country place, that it was impossible to avoid a
marked increase in our intimacy if only through meeting one
another daily. I had often noticed that Wesendonck, in his
straightforward open manner, had shown uneasiness at the way in
which I made myself at home in his house. In many things, in the
matter of heating and lighting the rooms, and also in the hours
appointed for meals, consideration was shown me which seemed to
encroach upon his rights as master of the house. It needed a few
confidential discussions on the subject to establish an agreement
which was half implied and half expressed. This understanding had
a tendency, as time wore on, to assume a doubtful significance in
the eyes of other people, and necessitated a certain measure of
precaution in an intimacy which had now become exceedingly close.
These precautions were occasionally the source of great amusement
to the two parties who were in the secret. Curiously enough, this
closer association with my neighbour coincided with the time when
I began to work out my libretto, Tristan und Isolde.
Robert Franz now arrived in Zurich on a visit. I was delighted by
his agreeable personality, and his visit reassured me that no
deep significance need be attached to the somewhat strained
relations which had sprung up between us since the time when he
took up the cudgels for me on the occasion of the production of
Lohengrin. The misunderstanding had been chiefly due to the
intermeddling of his brother-in-law Heinrich (who had written a
pamphlet about me). We played and sang together; he accompanied
me in some of his songs, and my compositions for the Nibelungen
seemed to please him. But one day, when the Wesendoncks asked him
to dinner to meet me, he begged that he might be alone with the
family without any other guests, because if I were there he would
not attain the importance by which he set so much store. We
laughed over this, and I did so the more heartily because I was
sometimes quite grateful to be saved the trouble of talking to
people so curiously uncommunicative as I found Franz to be. After
he left us, he never sent us a word of himself or his doings
again.
When I had almost finished the first act of Tristan, a newly
married couple arrived in Zurich, who certainly had a prominent
claim on my interest. It was about the beginning of September
that Hans von Bulow arrived with his young wife Cosima (a
daughter of Liszt's) at the Raben Hotel. I invited them to my
little house, so that they might spend the whole time of their
stay in Zurich with me, as their visit was mainly on my account.
We spent the month of September together most pleasantly. In the
meanwhile I completed the libretto of Tristan und Isolde, and at
the same time Hans made me a fair copy of each act. I read it
over, act by act, to my two friends, until at last I was able to
get them all together for a private reading, which made a deep
impression on the few intimate friends who composed the audience.
As Frau Wesendonck appeared to be particularly moved by the last
act, I said consolingly that one ought not to grieve over it, as,
under any circumstances, in a matter so grave things generally
turned out in this way, and Cosima heartily agreed. We also had a
good deal of music together, as in Billow I had at last found the
right man to play Klindworth's atrocious arrangement of my
Nibelungen scores. But the two acts of Siegfried, which had only
been written down as rough drafts, were mastered by Hans with
such consummate skill that he could play them as if they had
really been arranged for the piano. As usual, I took all the
singing parts; sometimes we had a few listeners, amongst whom
Mme. Wille was the most promising. Cosima listened silently with
her head bowed; if pressed for an expression of opinion, she
began to cry.
Towards the end of September my young friends left me to travel
back to their destination in Berlin, and begin their married life
like good citizens.
For the time being we had sounded a sort of funeral peal over the
Nibelungen by playing so much of it, and it was now completely
laid aside. The consequence was, that when later on we took it
out of its folio for similar gatherings, it wore a lack-lustre
look, and grew ever fainter, as if to remind us of the past. At
the beginning of October, however, I at once began to compose
Tristan, finishing the first act by the new year, when I was
already engaged in orchestrating the prelude. During that time I
developed a dreamy, timorous passion for retirement. Work, long
walks in all winds and weathers, evenings spent in reading
Calderon--such was my mode of life, and if it was disturbed, I
was thrown into the deepest state of irritation. My connection
with the world confined itself almost entirely to my negotiations
with the music-seller Hartel about the publication of Tristan. As
I had told this man that, by way of contrast to the immense
undertaking of the Nibelungen, I had in my mind a practicable
work, which, in its demands upon the producer, confined itself,
to all intents and purposes, to the engagement of a few good
singers, he showed such keenness to take up my offer that I
ventured to ask four hundred louis d'or. Thereupon Hartel
answered that I was to read his counter offer, made, in a sealed
letter which he enclosed, only on condition that I at once agreed
to waive my own demands entirely, as he did not think the work I
proposed to write was one which could be produced without
difficulties. In the sealed enclosure I found that he offered me
only one hundred louis d'or, but he undertook, after a period of
five years, to give me a half-share in the proceeds, with the
alternative of buying out my rights for another hundred louis
d'or. With these terms I had to comply, and soon set to work to
orchestrate the first act, so as to let the engraver have one
batch of sheets at a time.
Besides this, I was interested at that time in the expected
crisis of the American money market in the month of November, the
consequences of which, during a few fatal weeks, threatened to
endanger the whole of my friend Wesendonck's fortune. I remember
that the impending catastrophe was borne with great dignity by
those who were likely to be its victims; still the possibility of
having to sell their house, their grounds, and their horses cast
an unavoidable gloom over our evening meetings; and, after a
while, Wesendonck went away to make arrangements with various
foreign bankers.
During that time I spent the mornings in my house composing
Tristan, and every evening we used to read Calderon, which made a
deep and permanent impression upon me, for I had become fairly
familiar with Spanish dramatic literature, thanks to Schack. At
last the dreaded American crisis happily blew over, and it was
soon apparent that Wesendonck's fortune had considerably
increased. Again, during the winter evenings, I read Tristan
aloud to a wider circle of friends. Gottfried Keller was pleased
with the compact form of the whole, which really contained only
three full scenes. Semper, however, was very angry about it: he
objected that I took everything too seriously, and said that the
charm in the artistic construction of such material consisted in
the fact that the tragic element was broken up in such a way that
one could extract enjoyment even from its most affecting parts.
That was just what pleased him in Mozart's Don Juan, one met the
tragic types there, as if at a masquerade, where even the domino
was preferable to the plain character. I admitted that I should
get on much more comfortably if I took life more seriously and
art more lightly, but for the present I intended to let the
opposite relations prevail.
As a matter of fact people shook their heads. After I had
sketched the first act of the composition, and had developed the
character of my musical production more precisely. I thought with
a peculiar smile of my first idea of writing this work as a sort
of Italian opera, and I became less anxious at the absence of
news from Brazil. On the other hand, my attention was
particularly drawn at the end of this year to what was going on
in Paris in regard to my operas. A young author from that city
wrote asking me to entrust him with the translation of my
Tannhauser, as the manager of the Theatre Lyrique, M. Carvalho,
was taking steps to produce that opera in Paris. I was alarmed at
this, as I was afraid that the copyright of my works had not been
secured in France, and that they might dispose of them there at
their own sweet will. To this I most strongly objected. I was
well aware how this undertaking would be carried out, from an
account I had read a short time before of the performance of
Weber's Euryanthe at that very Theatre Lyrique, and of the
objectionable elaborations or rather mutilations which had been
effected for the purposes of production. As Liszt's elder
daughter Blandine had recently married the famous lawyer E.
Ollivier, and I could consequently rely on substantial help from
them, I made up my mind to go to Paris for a week, and look after
the matter about which I had been approached, and, at any rate,
secure my author's rights legally. In addition to this I was in a
very melancholy state of mind, to which overwork and constant
occupation on the kind of task that Semper had, perhaps with
justice, denounced as being too serious, had contributed by
reason of the strain on my mental powers.
If I remember rightly, I gave evidence of this state of mind
(which curiously enough led me to despise all worldly cares) in a
letter I wrote to my old friend Alwine Frommann on New Year's Eve
1857.
With the beginning of the new year 1858 the necessity for a break
in my work became so manifest, that I positively dreaded
beginning the instrumentation of the first act of Tristan und
Isolde, until I had allowed myself the trip for which I longed.
For at that moment, unfortunately, neither Zurich, nor my home,
nor the company of my friends afforded me any relaxation.
Even the agreeable and immediate proximity of the Wesendonck
family increased my discomfort, for it was really intolerable to
me to devote all my evenings to conversations and entertainments
in which my kind friend Otto Wesendonck felt obliged to take as
much part as myself and the rest of us. His apprehension that
everything in his house would very soon follow my lead instead of
his, gave him that peculiar aggressiveness with which a man who
believes himself neglected interpolates himself like an
extinguisher into every conversation carried on in his presence.
All this soon became oppressive and irksome to me, and no one who
did not realise my condition, and show signs of sympathising with
it, could excite my interest, and even then it was a very languid
one. So I made up my mind in the middle of the severe winter
weather, and notwithstanding the fact that for the present I was
quite unprovided with the necessary means, and was consequently
obliged to take all sorts of tiresome precautions, to carry out
my excursion to Paris. I felt a growing presentiment that I was
going away never to return. I reached Strasburg on the 15th of
January, too much upset to travel any further just then. From
there I wrote to Eduard Devrient at Karlsruhe, asking him to
request the Grand Duke to send an adjutant to meet me at Kehl on
my return from Paris, to accompany me on a visit to Karlsruhe, as
I particularly wanted to become acquainted with the artists who
were to sing in Tristan. A little later I was taken to task by
Eduard Devrient for my impertinence in expecting to have grand-
ducal adjutants at my disposal, from which I gathered that he had
attributed my request to a desire for some mark of honour,
whereas my idea had been that that was the only possible way in
which I, a political outlaw, could venture to visit Karlsruhe,
though my object was a purely professional one. I could not help
smiling at this strange misconception, but I was also startled at
this proof of shallowness in my old friend, and began to wonder
what he might do next.
I was trudging wearily along in the twilight through the public
promenade of Strasburg, to restore my overwrought nerves, when I
was suddenly taken aback by seeing on a theatre poster the word
TANNHAUSER. Looking at the bill more closely, I saw that it was
the Overture to Tannhauser that was to be given as a prelude to a
French play. The exact meaning of this I did not quite
understand, but of course I took my seat in the theatre, which
was very empty. The orchestra, looking all the larger from
contrast with the empty house, was assembled in a huge space and
was a very strong one. The rendering given of my overture under
the conductor's baton was really a very good one.
As I was sitting rather near the front in the stalls, I was
recognised by the man who was playing the kettledrum, as he had
taken part in my Zurich performances in 1853. The news of my
presence spread like wildfire through the whole orchestra until
it reached the ears of the conductor, and led to great
excitement. The small audience, who had evidently put in
appearance simply on account of the French play, and who were not
at all inclined to pay any particular attention to the overture,
were very much astonished when, at the conclusion of the
overture, the conductor and the whole orchestra turned round in
the direction of my stall, and gave vent to enthusiastic
applause, which I had to acknowledge with a bow. All eyes
followed me eagerly as I left the hall after this scene, to pay
my respects to the conductor. It was Herr Hasselmann, a native of
Strasburg, and apparently a very good-natured, amiable fellow. He
accompanied me to my hotel and, amongst other things, told me the
circumstances connected with the performance of my overture.
These somewhat surprised me. According to the terms of a legacy
left by a wealthy citizen of Strasburg, a great lover of music,
who had already contributed very largely to the building of the
theatre, the orchestra, whose flourishing condition was due to
his beneficence, had to give, during the usual theatrical
performances, one of the greater instrumental works with a full
band once a week. This time, as it happened, it was the turn for
the overture to Tannhauser. The feeling that was uppermost in my
mind was one of envy that Strasburg should have produced a
citizen whose like had never seen the light of day in any of the
towns in which I had been connected with music, and more
particularly Zurich.
Whilst I was discussing the state of music in Strasburg with
Conductor Hasselmann, Orsini's famous attempt on the life of the
Emperor took place in Paris. I heard some vague rumours of it on
my journey the following morning, but it was not until the 17th,
on my arrival in Paris, that I heard the full details of it from
the waiter in my hotel. I looked upon this event as a malicious
stroke of fate, aimed at me personally. Even at breakfast on the
following morning, I feared I should see my old acquaintance, the
agent of the Ministry of the Interior, walk in and demand my
instant departure from Paris as a political refugee. I presumed
that as a visitor at the Grand Hotel du Louvre, then newly
opened, I should be regarded by the police with greater respect,
than at the little hotel at the corner of the Rue des Filles St.
Thomas, where I had once stayed for the sake of economy. I had
originally intended to take up my quarters at an hotel I knew in
the Rue le Pelletier, but the outrage had been perpetrated just
at that spot, and the principal criminals had been pursued and
arrested there. It was a strange coincidence! Supposing I had
arrived in Paris just two days earlier, and had gone there!!!
After thus apostrophising the demon of my fate, I hunted up M.
Ollivier and his young wife. In the former I soon found a very
taking and active friend, who at once resolutely took in hand the
matter which was my chief object in Paris. One day we called on a
notary who was a friend of his, and who seemed to be under an
obligation to him. I there gave Ollivier a formal and carefully
considered power of attorney, to represent my proprietary rights
as author, and in spite of many official formalities in the way
of stamps I was treated with perfect hospitality, so that I felt
I was well sheltered under my friend's protection. In the course
of my walks with my friend Ollivier in the Palais de Justice and
in the Salle des pas perdus, I was introduced to the most
celebrated lawyers in the world strolling about there in their
berrettas and robes, and I was soon on such intimate terms with
them that they formed a circle around me, and made me explain the
subject of Tannhauser. This pleased me greatly. I was no less
delighted by my conversation with Ollivier regarding his
political views and position. He still believed in the Republic
which would come to stay after the inevitable overthrow of the
Napoleonic rule. He and his friends did not intend to provoke a
revolution, but they held themselves in readiness for the moment
when it should come, as it necessarily must, and fully resolved
this time not to give it up again to the plunder of base
conspirators. In principle he agreed with the logical conclusions
of socialism; he knew and respected Proudhon, but not as a
politician; he thought nothing could be founded on a durable
basis except through the initiative of political organisation. By
means of simple legislation, which had already passed several
enactments protecting the public good against the abuses of
private privilege, even the boldest demands for a commonwealth
based on equal rights for all would gradually be met.
I now noticed with great satisfaction that I had made
considerable progress in the development of my character, as I
could listen to and discuss these and other topics without
getting into a state of excitement, as I used formally to do in
similar discussions.
Blandine impressed me at the same time most favourably with her
gentleness, her cheerfulness, and a certain quiet wit added to a
quick mental perception. We very soon understood each other; the
slightest suggestion sufficed to create a mutual understanding on
any subject in which we were interested.
Sunday arrived, and with it a concert at the Conservatoire. As I
had hitherto been present only at rehearsals, and had never got
so far as the performances, my friends succeeded in procuring a
seat for me in the box of Mme. Herold, the widow of the composer,
a woman of sympathetic disposition, who at once declared herself
warmly in favour of my music. It is true her knowledge of it was
slight, but she had been won over to it by the enthusiasm of her
daughter and son-in-law, who, as I have previously mentioned, had
heard Tannhauser during their honeymoon in Vienna and Berlin.
This was really a pleasant surprise. Added to this, I now heard
for the first time in my life a performance of Haydn's Seasons,
which the audience enjoyed immensely, as they thought the steady
florid vocal cadences, which are so rare in modern music, but
which so frequently occur at the conclusion of the musical
phrases in Haydn's music, very original and charming. The rest of
the day was spent very pleasantly in the bosom of the Herold
family. Towards the end of the evening a man came in whose
appearance was hailed with marked attention. This was Herr Scudo,
who, I found out afterwards, was the famous musical editor of the
Revue des deux Mondes. His influence with other journals was
considerable, but so far it had certainly not been in my favour.
The kind hostess wished me to make his acquaintance, so that he
might have a good impression of me, but I told her such an object
could not be attained through the medium of a drawing-room
conversation, and later on I was confirmed in my opinion that the
reasons why a gentleman of this type, who possesses no knowledge
of the subject, declares himself hostile to an artist, having
nothing whatever to do with his convictions or even with his
approval or disapproval. On a subsequent occasion these good
people had to suffer for having interested themselves in me, as,
in a report of my concerts by Herr Scudo, they were held up to
ridicule as a family of strong democratic tendencies.
I now looked up my friend Berlioz, whose acquaintance I had
recently renewed in London, and on the whole I found him kindly
disposed.
I informed him that I had only just come to Paris on a short
pleasure trip. He was at that time busy composing a grand opera,
Die Trojaner. In order to get an impression of the work, I was
particularly anxious to hear the libretto Berlioz had written
himself, and he spent an evening reading it out to me. I was
disappointed in it, not only as far as it was concerned, but also
by his singularly dry and theatrical delivery. I fancied that in
the latter I could see the character of the music to which he had
set his words, and I sank into utter despair about it, as I could
see that he regarded this as his masterpiece, and was looking
forward to its production as the great object of his life.
I also received an invitation with the Olliviers from the Erard
family, at whose house I again met my old friend the widow of
Spontini. We spent a rather charming evening there, during which,
strange to say, I had to be responsible for the musical
entertainment at the piano. They declared they had thoroughly
entered into the spirit of the various selections I had played
from my operas in my now characteristic fashion, and that they
had enjoyed them immensely. At any rate, such intimate heartfelt
playing had never before been heard in that gorgeous drawing-
room. Apart from this, I made one great acquisition, through the
friendly courtesy of Mme. Erard and her brother-in-law Schaffer,
who since the death of her husband had carried on the business,
in the shape of a promise of one of the celebrated grand-pianos
of their manufacture. With this the gloom of my excursion to
Paris seemed to be turned into light, for I was so rejoiced at
it, that I looked upon every other result as chimerical, and upon
this as the only reality.
After that I left Paris on the 2nd of February in a more cheerful
frame of mind, and on my homeward journey went to look up my old
friend Kietz in Epernay, where M. Paul Chandon, who had known
Kietz since boyhood, had interested himself in the ruined painter
by taking him into his house, and giving him a number of
commissions for portraits. As soon as I arrived I was
irresistibly drawn into Chandon's hospitable house, and could not
refuse to remain there for a couple of days. I found in Chandon a
passionate admirer of my operas, particularly of Rienzi, the
first performance of which he had witnessed during his Dresden
days. I also visited the marvellous wine vaults at Champagne,
which extended for miles into the heart of the rocky ground.
Kietz was painting a portrait in oils, and the opinion
entertained by every one that it would very soon be finished
rather amused me.
After much superfluous entertainment I at last freed myself from
this unexpected hospitality and returned to Zurich on the 5th of
February, where I had arranged by letter for an evening party
immediately after my arrival, as I thought I had much to relate
which I could tell them all collectively instead of by means of
long and wearisome communications to individual friends. Semper,
who was one of the company, was annoyed that he had stayed in
Zurich whilst I had been in Paris, and he became quite furious
over my cheerful adventures and declared I was an impudent child
of fortune, while he looked upon it as the greatest calamity that
he should be chained to that wretched hole Zurich. How I smiled
inwardly at his envy of my fortune!
My affairs were making but little progress, as my operas had been
sold to almost every theatre and I had very little left out of
the proceeds. I now heard nothing about all these performances
except that they were yielding very little money. I resigned
myself to the fact of bringing out Rienzi, as it was just suited
to our inferior class of theatre. Before offering it for sale, it
was desirable to have it performed again in Dresden; but this, it
was said, was impossible on account of the impression created by
the Orsini outrage. So I worked on at the instrumentation of the
first act of Tristan, and during that time I could not help
feeling that most probably other objections, besides those of
political captiousness, would be raised against the spread of
this work. I therefore continued my work vaguely and somewhat
hopelessly.
In the month of March Frau Wesendonck informed me that she
thought of having a kind of musical entertainment in her house to
celebrate her husband's birthday. She had a predilection for a
little serenade music, which, with the help of eight
instrumentalists from Zurich, I had arranged during the winter
for the occasion of her own birthday. The pride of the Wesendonck
villa was a spacious hall which had been very elegantly decorated
by Parisian stucco-workers, and I had once remarked that music
would not sound at all badly there. We had tested it on a small
scale, but now it was to be tried on a larger one. I offered to
bring together a respectable orchestra to perform fragments of
the Beethoven symphonies, consisting mainly of the brighter
parts, for the entertainment of the company. The necessary
preparations required a good deal of time, and the date of the
birthday had to be overstepped. As it was, we had nearly reached
Easter, and our concert took place almost at the end of March.
The musical At Home was most successful. A full orchestra for the
Beethoven pieces played with the greatest eclat under my
conductorship, to the assembly of guests scattered about in the
surrounding rooms, selections from the symphonies. Such an
unprecedented home concert seemed to throw every one into a great
state of excitement.
The young daughter of the house presented me at the beginning of
the performance with an ivory baton, carved from a design by
Semper, the first and only complimentary one I ever received.
There was no lack of flowers and ornamental trees, under which I
stood when conducting, and when to suit my taste for musical
effect we concluded, not with a loud, but with a deeply soothing
piece, like the Adagio from the Ninth Symphony, we felt that
Zurich society had indeed witnessed something quite unique, and
my friends on whom I had bestowed this mark of distinction were
deeply touched by it.
This festival left on me the most melancholy impressions; I felt
as though I had reached the meridian of my life, that I had in
fact passed it, and that the string of the bow was over-
stretched. Mme. Wille told me afterwards that she had been
overcome by similar feelings on that evening. On the 3rd of April
I sent the manuscript of the score of the first act of Tristan
und Isolde to Leipzig to be engraved; I had already promised to
give Frau Wesendonck the pencil-sketch for the instrumentation of
the prelude, and I sent this to her accompanied by a note in
which I explained to her seriously and calmly the feelings that
animated me at the time. My wife had for some time been anxious
as to her relations with our neighbour; she complained with
increasing bitterness that she was not treated by her with the
attention due to the wife of a man whom Frau Wesendonck was so
pleased to welcome in her house, and that when we did meet, it
was rather by reason of that lady's visits to me than to her. So
far she had not really expressed any jealousy. As she happened to
be in the garden that morning, she met the servant carrying the
packet for Frau Wesendonck, took it from him and opened the
letter. As she was quite incapable of understanding the state of
mind I had described in the letter, she readily gave a vulgar
interpretation to my words, and accordingly felt herself
justified in bursting into my room and attacking me with the most
extraordinary reproaches about the terrible discovery she had
made. She afterwards admitted that nothing had vexed her so much
as the extreme calmness and apparent indifference with which I
treated her foolish conduct. As a matter of fact I never said a
word; I hardly moved, but simply allowed her to depart. I could
not help realising that this was henceforth to be the intolerable
character of the conjugal relations I had resumed eight years
before. I told her peremptorily to keep quiet and not be guilty
of any blunder either in judgment or in act, and tried to make
her realise to what a serious state of affairs this foolish
occurrence had brought us. She really seemed to understand what I
meant, and promised to keep quiet and not to give way to her
absurd jealousy. Unfortunately the poor creature was already
suffering from a serious development of heart disease, which
affected her temper; she could not throw off the peculiar
depression and terrible restlessness which enlargement of the
heart causes, and only a few days after she felt that she must
relieve her feelings, and the only possible way in which she
could think of doing so was by warning our neighbour, Frau
Wesendonck, with an emphasis she thought was well meant, against
the consequences of any imprudent intimacy with me.
As I was returning from a walk I met Herr Wesendonck and his wife
in their carriage just starting for a drive. I noticed her
troubled demeanour in contrast to the peculiarly smiling and
contented expression of her husband. I realised the position
clearly when I afterwards met my wife looking wonderfully
cheerful. She held out her hand to me with great generosity,
assuring me of her renewed affection. In answer to my question,
whether she had by any chance broken her promise, she said
confidently that like a wise woman she had been obliged to put
things into proper order. I told her she would very probably
experience some very unpleasant consequences through breaking her
word. In the first place, I thought it essential she should take
steps to improve her health as we had previously arranged, and
told her she had better go as soon as possible to the health
resort she had been recommended at Brestenberg on the Hallwyler
Lake. We had heard wonderful accounts of the cures of heart
disease which the doctor there had effected, and Minna was quite
prepared to submit to his treatment. A few days later, therefore,
I took her and her parrot to the pleasantly situated and well-
appointed watering-place which was about three hours distant.
Meantime, I avoided asking any questions as to what had taken
place in regard to our neighbours. When I left her at Brestenberg
and took my leave she quite seemed to realise the painful
seriousness of our position. I could say very little to comfort
her, except that I would try, in the interests of our future life
together, to mitigate the dreaded consequences of her having
broken her word.
On my return home I experienced the unpleasant effects of my
wife's conduct towards our neighbour. In Minna's utter
misconstruction of my purely friendly relations with the young
wife, whose only interest in me consisted in her solicitude for
my peace of mind and well-being, she had gone so far as to
threaten to inform the lady's husband. Frau Wesendonck felt so
deeply insulted at this, as she was perfectly unconscious of
having done any wrong, that she was absolutely astounded at me,
and said she could not conceive how I could have led my wife into
such a misunderstanding. The outcome of this disturbance was
that, thanks to the discreet mediation of our mutual friend Mme.
Wille, I was absolved from any responsibility for my wife's
conduct; still, I was given to understand that henceforth it
would be impossible for the injured lady to enter my house again,
or indeed to continue to have any intercourse with my wife. They
did not seem to realise, and would not admit, that this would
entail the giving up of my home and my removal from Zurich. I
hoped that although my relations with these good friends had been
disturbed, they were not really destroyed, and that time would
smooth things over. I felt that I must look forward to an
improvement in my wife's health, when she would admit her folly,
and thus be able to resume her intercourse with our neighbours in
a reasonable manner.
Some time elapsed, during which the Wesendonck family took a
pleasure trip of several weeks to Northern Italy.
The arrival of the promised Erard grand-piano made me painfully
conscious of what a tin kettle my old grand-piano from Breitkopf
und Hartel had been, and I forthwith banished it to the lower
regions, where my wife begged she might keep it as a souvenir 'of
old times.' She afterwards took it with her to Saxony, where she
sold it for three hundred marks. The new piano appealed to my
musical sense immensely, and whilst I was improvising I seemed to
drift quite naturally into the soft nocturnal sounds of the
second act of Tristan, the composition of which I now began to
sketch out. This was at the beginning of May. My work was
unexpectedly interrupted by the command of the Grand Duke of
Weimar to meet him on a certain day in Lucerne, where he was
staying after his return from Italy. I availed myself of this
opportunity to have a lengthy interview at the hotel in
Chamberlain von Beaulieu's room, with my former nominal patron
whose acquaintance I had made at the time of my flight.
From this interview with Karl Alexander I gathered that my
attitude towards the Grand Duke of Baden, in regard to the
performance of Tristan, in Karlsruhe, had made an impression on
the Weimar court, for while he made particular mention of that
matter, I gathered from what he said that he was also anxious
about my Nibelungen work, in which he declared he had always
taken the liveliest interest, and wanted my assurance that this
composition would be produced at Weimar. I had no serious
objection to that. Moreover, I was vastly entertained by the
personality of this free-and-easy good-natured Prince, who,
though he sat chatting next to me on a narrow sofa, was evidently
anxious by his singularly choice language to impress me as a man
of culture. I was much struck to find that his dignified bearing
was not in the least disturbed when Herr von Beaulieu, with the
object of amusing us, made some rather clumsy remarks which were
meant to be witty. After the Grand Duke had asked me in the most
guarded way my opinion of Liszt's compositions, I was surprised
to notice by his general bearing that he was not at all
uncomfortable when the chamberlain expressed the most
contemptuous opinions about the Grand Duke's famous friend,
saying that Liszt's composing was a mere mania on his part. This
gave me a strange insight into this royal friendship, and I had
some difficulty in keeping serious during the interview. I had to
pay the Grand Duke another visit on the following morning, but on
that occasion I saw him without his chamberlain, whose absence
certainly had a favourable effect on the Prince's remarks about
his friend.
Liszt, whose inspiring conversation and advice he loudly asserted
that he could not praise enough. I was surprised to see the Grand
Duchess walk in upon us, and was received by her with a most
condescending bow, the formality of which I have never forgotten.
I looked upon my meeting with these exalted personages as an
exceedingly amusing adventure in my travels. I have never heard
from them since. [Footnote: This was dictated in 1869] Later on,
when I called on Liszt at Weimar, just before he left there, he
could not even induce the Grand Duke to receive me!
A short time after my return from that expedition Karl Tausig
called with a letter of introduction from Liszt; he was then
sixteen years of age, and astonished everybody by his dainty
appearance and his unusual precocity of understanding and
demeanour. He had already been greeted in Vienna, on his public
appearance as a pianist, as a future Liszt. He gave himself all
the airs of a Liszt, and already smoked the strongest cigars to
such an extent that I felt a perfect horror of them. Otherwise I
was very glad he had made up his mind to spend some time in the
neighbourhood, all the more so as I could appreciate to the
utmost his amusing, half-childish, though very intelligent and
knowing personality, and, above all, his exceptionally finished
piano-playing and quick musical faculty. He played the most
complicated pieces at sight, and knew how to use his astonishing
facility in the most extravagant tricks for my entertainment. He
afterwards came to live quite near us; he was my daily guest at
all meals, and accompanied me on my usual walks to the Sihlthal.
He soon tried to wriggle out of these, however. He also went with
me on a visit to Minna at Brestenberg. As I had to repeat these
expeditions regularly every week, being anxious to watch the
result of the treatment, Tausig endeavoured to escape from these
also, as neither Brestenberg nor Minna's conversation seemed to
appeal to him. However, he could not avoid meeting her when,
feeling obliged to interrupt her cure for a few days to look
after her household affairs, she returned at the end of May. I
noticed by her manner that she no longer attached any importance
to the recent domestic upheaval; the view she took of the matter
was that there had been a little 'love affair' which she had put
straight. As she referred to this with a certain amount of
unpleasant levity, I was obliged, though I would willingly have
spared her on account of the state of her health, to explain
clearly and firmly, that in consequence of her disobedience and
her foolish conduct towards our neighbour, the possibility of our
remaining on the estate, where we had only just settled with so
much difficulty, was a matter of the most serious doubt, and I
felt bound to warn her that we must be prepared for the necessity
of a separation, as I was fully determined that if this dreaded
event took place, I would not agree to live under similar
domestic conditions elsewhere. The earnestness with which I dwelt
on the character of our past life together, on that occasion, so
impressed and shocked her that, fully realising it was through
her fault that the home it had cost us so much pain to build up
had been destroyed, she broke into a low wail of lamentation for
the first time in our lives. This was the first and only occasion
on which she gave me any token of loving humility, when late at
night she kissed my hand as I withdrew. I was deeply touched at
this, and the idea flashed across my mind that possibly a great
and decided change might take place in the character of the poor
woman, and this determined me to renew my hope of the possibility
of continuing the life we had resumed.
Everything contributed to the maintenance of this hope: my wife
returned to Brestenberg to complete the second part of her cure;
the most glorious summer weather favoured my disposition to work
at the second act of Tristan; the evenings with Tausig cheered me
up, and my relations with my neighbours, who had never borne me
any ill-will, seemed to me to favour the possibility of a
dignified and desirable understanding in the future. It was quite
probable that if my wife went on a visit to her friends in Saxony
after her cure, time would eventually cover the past with
oblivion, and her own future conduct as well as the changed
attitude of our deeply offended neighbour, would make it possible
to renew our mutual intercourse in a dignified way.
I was still further cheered by the prospect of the arrival of an
agreeable visitor, as well as by some satisfactory negotiations
with two of the most important German theatres.
In June the Berlin manager approached me about Lohengrin, and we
soon came to an agreement. In Vienna, too, the forced intrusion
of Tannhauser had produced its effect on the attitude of the
management of the court theatre. Just recently the well-known
conductor, Karl Eckert, had been entrusted with the technical
management of the Opera. He seized the happy opportunity afforded
by the possession of a very good company of singers, and by the
closing of the theatre for much needed restoration, to give the
company time to study Lohengrin, with the object of securing the
acceptance of this new and difficult work by the court
authorities. He thereupon made me his offers. I wanted to insist
on the author's rights on the same terms as those granted in
Berlin, but he would not agree to this, because the takings of
the house were very small, owing to the lack of space in the old
theatre. On the other hand, Conductor Esser called on me one day;
he had come from Vienna to make all arrangements, and in the name
of the management he offered me about two thousand marks, cash
down, for the first twenty performances of Lohengrin, and
promised me a further sum of two thousand marks on their
completion. The frank and genial manner of the worthy musician
won me over, and I closed with him at once. The result was that
Esser went through the score of Lohengrin with me there and then,
with great conscientiousness and zeal, and paid special attention
to all my wishes. With every confidence in a favourable result I
bid him farewell, and he hurried back to Vienna to set to work at
once.
I then completed the composition sketches for the second act of
Tristan in excellent spirits, and began the more detailed
execution of it, but I did not get quite through the first scene,
as I was exposed to continual interruptions. Tichatschek came to
pay me another visit, and took up his abode in my little spare
room, to recover, as he said, from the effects of his recent
exertions. He boasted that he had again introduced my operas,
which had been repeatedly forbidden, into the repertoire of the
Dresden theatre, and had also taken part in them himself with
great success.
Lohengrin was also to be produced there. Although this was very
gratifying, I did not in the least know what to do with the good
man at such close quarters. Fortunately I was able to hand him
over to Tausig, who understood my embarrassment, and kept
Tichatschek to himself pretty well the whole day, by playing
cards with him. The young tenor Niemann, of whose great talent I
had heard so much, soon arrived with his bride, the famous
actress Seebach, and owing to his almost gigantic frame, he
struck me as being just the man for Siegfried. The fact of having
two famous tenors with me at the same time gave rise to the
annoyance that neither of them would sing anything to me, as they
were ill at ease in each other's presence. I quite believed,
however, that Niemann's voice must be on a par with his imposing
personality. About that time (15th July) I fetched my wife from
Brestenberg. During my absence my servant, who was a cunning
Saxon, had thought fit to erect a kind of triumphal arch to
celebrate the return of the mistress of the house. This led to
great complications, as, much to her delight, Minna was convinced
that this flower-bedecked triumphal arch would greatly attract
the attention of our neighbours, and thought this would be
sufficient to prevent them from regarding her return home as a
humiliating one. She insisted with triumphant joy upon the
decorations remaining up for several days. About the same time
the Bulows, true to their promise, paid another visit. The
unfortunate Tichatschek again put off his departure, and
consequently continued to occupy our one small spare room, so I
was obliged to let my friends stay at the hotel several days
longer. However, the visits they paid to the Wesendoncks as well
as to me soon afforded me an opportunity of hearing, much to my
surprise, of the effect the triumphal arch had produced on our
neighbour's young wife, who was still nursing her injured
feelings. When I heard of her passionate protests I realised to
what a pass things had come, and immediately gave up all hope of
putting a peaceful end to the discordant situation. Those were
days of terrible anxiety. I wished myself in the most distant
desert, and yet was in the awkward position of having to keep my
house open to a succession of visitors. At last Tichatschek took
his departure, and I could at least devote the remainder of my
stay to the pleasant duty of entertaining favourite guests. The
Bulows really seemed to me to have been providentially sent for
the purpose of quelling the horrible excitement that prevailed in
the house. Hans made the best of things when, on the day of his
arrival, he caught me in the midst of a terrific scene with
Minna, as I had just told her plainly that from what I could see
of the present position of affairs, our stay here was no longer
possible, and that I was only deferring my departure until after
the visit of our young friends. This time, however, I had to
admit that she was not altogether to blame.
We spent another whole month together in the cottage, which, by
the way, I had unconsciously christened Asyl. It was an extremely
trying period, and the experiences I went through every day only
confirmed me in my decision to give up the house. Under the
circumstances my young guests also had to suffer, as my worry
communicated itself to all who were in sympathy with me.
Klindworth, who was coming on a visit from London, to add to the
gloom of this extraordinary menage, soon joined us. So the house
was suddenly filled, and the table surrounded by sad,
mysteriously depressed guests, whose wants were ministered to by
one who was shortly to leave her home for ever.
It seemed to me that there must be one human being in existence
specially qualified to bring light and reconciliation, or at
least tolerable order, into the gloom and trouble by which we
were all surrounded. Liszt had promised me a visit, but he was so
happily situated beyond the reach of these harassing conditions,
he had had such experience of the world, and possessed that
innate aplomb to such an extraordinary degree, that he did not
seem to me to be very likely to approach these misunderstandings
in a rational spirit. I almost felt inclined to make my final
decision dependent on the effect of his expected visit. It was in
vain that we begged of him to hasten his journey; he offered to
meet me at the Lake of Geneva a month later! Then my courage
failed. Intercourse with my friends now afforded me no
satisfaction, for although they could not understand why I should
be turned out of a home that suited me so well, yet it was
apparent to every one that I could not remain under these
conditions. We still had music every now and then, but it was in
a half-hearted and absent-minded fashion. To make matters worse,
we had a national vocal festival inflicted upon us, during which
I was obliged to face all kinds of demands; matters did not
always pass off without unpleasantness, as amongst others I had
to decline to see Franz Lachner, who had been specially engaged
for the festival, and did not return his call. Tausig certainly
delighted us by carolling Lachner's 'Old German Battle Song' in
the upper octave, which, thanks to his boyish falsetto, was
within his reach; however, even his pranks were no longer able to
cheer us. Everything, which under other circumstances would have
made this summer month one of the most stimulating in my life,
now contributed to my discomfort, as did also the stay of the
Countess d'Agoult, who, having come on a visit to her daughter
and son-in-law, attached herself to our party for the time being.
By way of filling up the house, Karl Ritter also came after much
grumbling and sulking, and once again proved himself to be very
interesting and original.
As the time for the general leave-taking at last drew near, I had
arranged all the details connected with the breaking up of my
home. I settled the necessary business part by a personal visit
to Herr Wesendonck, and in the presence of Bulow I took leave of
Frau Wesendonck, who, in spite of her ever-recurring
misconceptions on the matter, eventually reproached herself
bitterly when she saw that these misunderstandings had ended by
breaking up my home. My friends were much distressed at parting
from me, whilst I could only meet their expressions of sorrow
with apathy. On the 16th August the Bulows also left; Hans was
bathed in tears and his wife Cosima was gloomy and silent. I had
arranged with Minna that she should remain there for about a week
to clear up and dispose of our little belongings as she thought
best. I had advised her to entrust these unpleasant duties to
some one else, as I hardly thought it possible that she would be
fitted for such a wretched task, which, under the circumstances,
would be very trying to her. She replied reproachfully that 'it
would be a fine thing if, with all our misfortunes, we neglected
our property. Order there must be.' I afterwards learned to my
disgust that she carried out the removal and her own departure
with such formality, by advertising in the daily papers that the
effects would be sold cheaply owing to sudden departure, and
thereby exciting much curiosity, that perplexed rumours were
spread about giving the whole affair a scandalous signification,
which afterwards caused much unpleasantness both to me and the
Wesendonck family.
On the 17th August, the day after the departure of the Bulows
(whose stay had been the only reason for detaining me), I got up
at early dawn after a sleepless night, and went down into the
dining-room, where Minna was already expecting me to breakfast,
as I intended to start by the five o'clock train. She was calm;
it was only when accompanying me in the carriage to the station
that she was overpowered by her emotion under the trying
circumstances. It was the most brilliant summer day with a
bright, cloudless sky; I remember that I never once looked back,
or shed a tear on taking leave of her, and this almost terrified
me. As I travelled along in the train I could not conceal from
myself an increasing feeling of comfort; it was obvious that the
absolutely useless worries of the past weeks could not have been
endured any longer, and that my life's ambition demanded a
complete severance from them. On the evening of the same day I
arrived in Geneva; here I wished to rest a little and pull myself
together, so as to arrange my plan of life calmly. As I had an
idea of making another attempt to settle in Italy, I proposed,
after my former experience, to wait till the cooler autumn
weather, so as not to expose myself again to the malignant
influence of the sudden change of climate. I arranged to stay for
a month at the Maison Fazy, deluding myself into the idea that a
lengthy stay there would be very pleasant. I told Karl Ritter,
who was at Lausanne, of my intention of going to Italy, and to my
surprise he wrote saying that he also intended to give up his
home and go to Italy alone, as his wife was going to Saxony for
the winter on account of family affairs. He offered himself as my
travelling companion. This suited me excellently, and as Ritter
also assured me that he knew, from a previous visit, that the
climate of Venice was quite agreeable at this season, I was
induced to make a hasty departure. I had, however, to arrange
about my passport. I expected that the embassies in Berne would
corroborate the fact that as a political refugee I should have
nothing to fear in Venice, which, although belonging to Austria,
did not form part of the German Confederation. Liszt, to whom I
also applied for information on this point, advised me on no
account to go to Venice; on the other hand, the report that some
of my friends in Berne obtained from the Austrian ambassador
pronounced it as quite safe; so, after barely a week's stay in
Geneva, I informed Karl Ritter of my readiness to start, and
called for him at his villa in Lausanne, so that we might begin
the journey together.
We did not talk much on the way, but gave ourselves up silently
to our impressions. The route was over the Simplon to Lake
Maggiore, where I again visited the Borromean Islands from
Baveno. There, on the terrace garden of Isola Bella, I spent a
wonderful late summer morning in the company of my young friend,
who was never obtrusive, but, on the contrary, inclined to be too
silent. For the first time I felt my mind entirely at rest, and
filled with the hope of a new and harmonious future. We continued
our journey by coach through Sesto Calende to Milan; and Karl was
filled with such a longing for his beloved Venice, that he could
barely grant me time to admire the famous Duomo; but I had no
objection to being hurried with this object in view. As we were
looking from the railway dike at Venice rising before us from the
mirror of water, Karl lost his hat out of the carriage owing to
an enthusiastic movement of delight; I thought that I must follow
suit, so I too threw my hat out; consequently we arrived in
Venice bareheaded, and immediately got into a gondola to go down
the Grand Canal as far as the Piazzetta near San Marco. The
weather had suddenly become gloomy, and the aspect of the
gondolas quite shocked me; for, in spite of what I had heard
about these peculiar vessels draped in black, the sight of one
was an unpleasant surprise: when I had to go under the black
awning, I could not help remembering the cholera-scare some time
earlier. I certainly felt I was taking part in a funeral
procession during a pestilence. Karl assured me that every one
felt the same at first, but that one soon got accustomed to it.
Next came the long sail through the twists and turns of the Grand
Canal. The impression that everything made on me here did not
tend to dispel my melancholy frame of mind. Where Karl, on
looking at the ruined walls, only saw the Ca d'Oro of Fanny Elser
or some other famous palace, my doleful glances were completely
absorbed by the crumbling ruins between these interesting
buildings. At last I became silent, and allowed myself to be put
down at the world-famous Piazzetta, and to be shown the palace of
the Doges, though I reserved to myself the right of admiring it
until I had freed myself from the extremely melancholy mood into
which my arrival in Venice had thrown me.
Starting on the following morning from the Hotel Danieli, where
we had found only a gloomy lodging, I began by looking for a
residence that would suit me for my prolonged stay. I heard that
one of the three Giustiniani palaces, situated not far from the
Palazzo Foscari, was at present very little patronised by
visitors, on account of its situation, which in the winter is
somewhat unfavourable. I found some very spacious and imposing
apartments there, all of which they told me would remain
uninhabited. I here engaged a large stately room with a spacious
bedroom adjoining. I had my luggage quickly transferred there,
and on the evening of 30th August I said to myself, 'At last I am
living in Venice.' My leading idea was that I could work here
undisturbed. I immediately wrote to Zurich asking for my Erard
'Grand' and my bed to be sent on to me, as, with regard to the
latter, I felt that I should find out what cold meant in Venice.
In addition to this, the grey-washed walls of my large room soon
annoyed me, as they were so little suited to the ceiling, which
was covered with a fresco which I thought was rather tasteful. I
decided to have the walls of the large room covered with hangings
of a dark-red shade, even if they were of quite common quality.
This immediately caused much trouble; but it seemed to me that it
was well worth surmounting, when I gazed down from my balcony
with growing satisfaction on the wonderful canal, and said to
myself that here I would complete Tristan. I also had a little
more decorating done; I arranged to have dark-red portieres, even
if they were of the cheapest material, to cover the common doors
which the Hungarian landlord had had put into the ruined palace
in place of the original valuable ones, which had probably been
sold. In addition, the host had contrived to get some showy
furniture, such as a few gilded chairs, covered with common
cotton plush; but the most prominent article was a finely carved
gilded table-pedestal, on which was placed a vulgar pinewood top
which I had to cover with a plain red cloth. Finally the Erard
arrived; it was placed in the middle of the large room, and now
wonderful Venice was to be attacked by music.
However, the dysentery I had previously suffered from in Genoa
laid hold of me again, and rendered me incapable of any
intellectual activity for weeks. I had already learned to
appreciate the matchless beauty of Venice, and I was full of hope
that my joy in it would give me back my power to satisfy my
reviving artistic yearnings. On one of my first promenades on the
Riva I was accosted by two strangers, one of whom introduced
himself as Count Edmund Zichy, the other as Prince Dolgoroukow.
They had both left Vienna barely a week before, where they had
been present at the first performances of my Lohengrin; they gave
me the most satisfactory reports about the result of it, and by
their enthusiasm I could see that their impressions were very
favourable. Count Zichy left Venice soon afterwards, but Prince
Dolgoroukow decided to stay on for the winter. Although I
certainly intended to avoid company, this Russian, who was about
fifty years of age, soon managed to make me yield to his
persuasions. He had an earnest and extremely expressive face (he
prided himself on being of direct Caucasian descent), and showed
remarkable culture in every respect, a wide knowledge of the
world, and above all a taste for music, in the literature of
which he was also so well versed that it amounted to a passion. I
had at first explained to him that owing to the state of my
health I was bound to renounce all society, and that I needed
quiet more than anything. Apart from the difficulty of avoiding
him altogether on the limited walks in Venice, the restaurant at
Albergo San Marco where I joined Ritter every day for meals led
to inevitable meetings with this stranger, to whom I eventually
became sincerely attached. He had taken up his abode in that
hotel, and I could not prevent him from taking his meals there.
During my stay in Venice we met almost daily, and continued to be
on very friendly terms. On the other hand I had a great surprise,
on returning to my apartments one evening, to be informed that
Liszt had just arrived. I rushed eagerly to the room pointed out
to me as his, and there, to my horror, saw Winterberger the
pianist, who had introduced himself to my host as a mutual friend
of myself and of Liszt, and in the confusion of the moment the
host had concluded that the new arrival was Liszt himself. As a
matter of fact I had recently got to know this young man as a
follower of Liszt during his comparatively long stay in Zurich;
he was considered an excellent organist, and was also called into
requisition as second at the piano when there were arrangements
for two pianofortes. Except for some foolish behaviour on his
part I had not noticed anything particular about him. I was
surprised, however, that he should have selected my address as
his lodging in Venice. He told me that he was merely the
precursor of a certain Princess Galitzin, for whom he had to
arrange winter quarters in Venice; that he knew nobody there, but
having heard in Vienna that I was staying here, it was very
natural he should apply first at my hotel. I argued with him that
this was not an hotel, and announced that if his Russian Princess
thought of taking up her abode next to me, I should move out at
once. He then reassured me, by telling me that he had only wanted
to make a good impression on the host by mentioning the Princess,
as he thought she had already engaged rooms elsewhere. As I again
asked what he thought of doing in this palace, and drew his
attention to the fact that it was very expensive, and that I put
up with the large outlay simply because it was most essential
that I should be undisturbed, and have no neighbours, and hear no
piano, he tried to pacify me by the assurance that he would
certainly not be a burden to me, and that I could make my mind
easy about his presence in the same house until he could arrange
to move elsewhere. His next attempt was to work his way into the
good graces of Karl Ritter; they both discovered a living-room in
the palace at a sufficient distance from mine to be out of
earshot. In this way I consented to put up with his proximity,
although it was a long time before I allowed Ritter to bring him
to me of an evening.
A Venetian piano-teacher, Tessarin by name, was more successful
than Winterberger in winning favour with me. He was a typical
handsome Venetian, with a curious impediment in his speech; he
had a passion for German music, and was well acquainted with
Liszt's new compositions, and also with my own operas. He
admitted that having regard to his surroundings he was a 'white
raven' in matters musical. He also succeeded in approaching me
through Ritter, who seemed to be devoting himself in Venice to
the study of human nature rather than to work. He had taken a
small and extremely modest dwelling on the Riva dei Schiavoni,
which, being in a sunny position, required no artificial heating.
This was in reality less for himself than for his scanty luggage,
as he was hardly ever at home, but was running about in the
daytime after pictures and collections; in the evening, however,
he studied human nature in the cafes on the Piazza San Marco. He
was the only person I saw regularly every day; otherwise I
rigorously avoided any other society or acquaintance. I was
repeatedly asked by the Princess Galitzin's private physician to
call upon that lady, who came to Venice very shortly and appeared
to be living in grand style. Once, when I wanted the piano scores
of Tannhauser and Lohengrin, and had heard that the Princess was
the only person in Venice who possessed them, I was bold enough
to ask her for them, but I did not feel it incumbent on me to
call on her for that purpose. On only one occasion did any
stranger succeed in interrupting my seclusion, and then it was
because his appearance had pleased me when I had met him in the
Albergo San Marco; this was Rahl the painter, from Vienna. I once
went so far as to arrange a sort of soiree for him, Prince
Dolgoroukow, and Tessarin the pianoforte teacher, at which a few
of my pieces were played. It was then that Winterberger made his
debut.
All my social experiences during the seven months I spent in
Venice were limited to these few attempts at friendly
intercourse, and apart from these my days were planned out with
the utmost regularity during the whole time. I worked till two
o'clock, then I got into the gondola that was always in waiting,
and was taken along the solemn Grand Canal to the bright
Piazzetta, the peculiar charm of which always had a cheerful
effect on me. After this I made for my restaurant in the Piazza
San Marco, and when I had finished my meal I walked alone or with
Karl along the Riva to the Giardino Pubblico, the only pleasure-
ground in Venice where there are any trees, and at nightfall I
came back in the gondola down the canal, then more sombre and
silent, till I reached the spot where I could see my solitary
lamp shining from the night-shrouded facade of the old Palazzo
Giustiniani. After I had worked a little longer Karl, heralded by
the swish of the gondola, would come in regularly at eight
o'clock for a few hours' chat over our tea. Very rarely did I
vary this routine by a visit to one of the theatres. When I did,
I preferred the performances at the Camploi Theatre, where
Goldoni's pieces were very well played; but I seldom went to the
opera, and when I did go it was merely out of curiosity. More
frequently, when bad weather deprived us of our walk, we
patronised the popular drama at the Malibran Theatre, where the
performances were given in the daytime. The admission cost us six
kreuzers. The audiences were excellent, the majority being in
their shirt-sleeves, and the pieces given were generally of the
ultra-melodramatic type. However, one day to my great
astonishment and intense delight I saw there Le Baruffe
Chioggiote, the grotesque comedy that had appealed so strongly to
Goethe in his day, at this very theatre. So true to nature was
this performance that it surpassed anything of the kind I have
ever witnessed.
There was little else that attracted my attention in the
oppressed and degenerate life of the Venetian people, and the
only impression I derived from the exquisite ruin of this
wonderful city as far as human interest is concerned was that of
a watering-place kept up for the benefit of visitors. Strangely
enough, it was the thoroughly German element of good military
music, to which so much attention is paid in the Austrian army,
that brought me into touch with public life in Venice. The
conductors in the two Austrian regiments quartered there began
playing overtures of mine, Rienzi and Tannhauser for instance,
and invited me to attend their practices in their barracks. There
I also met the whole staff of officers, and was treated by them
with great respect. These bands played on alternate evenings amid
brilliant illuminations in the middle of the Piazza San Marco,
whose acoustic properties for this class of production were
really excellent. I was often suddenly startled towards the end
of my meal by the sound of my own overtures; then, as I sat at
the restaurant window giving myself up to impressions of the
music, I did not know which dazzled me most, the incomparable
piazza magnificently illuminated and filled with countless
numbers of moving people, or the music that seemed to be borne
away in rustling glory to the winds. Only one thing was wanting
that might certainly have been expected from an Italian audience:
the people were gathered round the band in thousands listening
most intently, but no two hands ever forgot themselves so far as
to applaud, as the least sign of approbation of Austrian military
music would have been looked upon as treason to the Italian
Fatherland. All public life in Venice also suffered by this
extraordinary rift between the general public and the
authorities; this was peculiarly apparent in the relations of the
population to the Austrian officers, who floated about publicly
in Venice like oil on water. The populace, too, behaved with no
less reserve, or one might even say hostility, to the clergy, who
were for the most part of Italian origin. I saw a procession of
clerics in their vestments passing along the Piazza San Marco
accompanied by the people with unconcealed derision.
It was very difficult for Ritter to induce me to interrupt my
daily arrangements even to visit a gallery or a church, though,
whenever we had to pass through the town, the exceedingly varied
architectonic peculiarities and beauties always delighted me
afresh. But the frequent gondola trips towards the Lido
constituted my chief enjoyment during practically the whole of my
stay in Venice. It was more especially on our homeward journeys
at sunset that I was always over-powered by unique impressions.
During the first part of our stay in the September of that year
we saw on one of these occasions the marvellous apparition of the
great comet, which at that time was at its highest brilliancy,
and was generally said to portend an imminent catastrophe. The
singing of a popular choral society, trained by an official of
the Venetian arsenal, seemed like a real lagoon idyll. They
generally sang only three-part naturally harmonised folk-songs.
It was new to me not to hear the higher voice rise above the
compass of the alto, that is to say, without touching the
soprano, thereby imparting to the sound of the chorus a manly
youthfulness hitherto unknown to me. On fine evenings they glided
down the Grand Canal in a large illuminated gondola, stopping
before a few palaces as if to serenade (when requested and paid
for so doing, be it understood), and generally attracted a number
of other gondolas in their wake. During one sleepless night, when
I felt impelled to go out on to my balcony in the small hours, I
heard for the first time the famous old folk-song of the
gondolieri. I seemed to hear the first call, in the stillness of
the night, proceeding from the Rialo to about a mile away like a
rough lament, and answered in the same tone from a yet further
distance in another direction. This melancholy dialogue, which
was repeated at longer intervals, affected me so much that I
could not fix the very simple musical component parts in my
memory. However, on a subsequent occasion I was told that this
folk-song was of great poetic interest. As I was returning home
late one night on the gloomy canal, the moon appeared suddenly
and illuminated the marvellous palaces and the tall figure of my
gondolier towering above the stern of the gondola, slowly moving
his huge sweep. Suddenly he uttered a deep wail, not unlike the
cry of an animal; the cry gradually gained in strength, and
formed itself, after a long-drawn 'Oh!' into the simple musical
exclamation 'Venezia!' This was followed by other sounds of which
I have no distinct recollection, as I was so much moved at the
time. Such were the impressions that to me appeared the most
characteristic of Venice during my stay there, and they remained
with me until the completion of the second act of Tristan, and
possibly even suggested to me the long-drawn wail of the
shepherd's horn at the beginning of the third act.
These sensations, however, did not manifest themselves very
easily or consecutively. Bodily sufferings and my usual cares,
that never quite left me, often considerably hindered and
disturbed my work. I had scarcely settled down comfortably in my
rooms, the northerly aspect of which exposed them to frequent
gusts of wind (from which I had practically no protection in the
form of heating appliances), and had barely got over the
demoralising effect of dysentery, when I fell a victim to a
specific Venetian complaint, namely a carbuncle on my leg, as the
result of the extreme change of climate and of air. This happened
just when I was intending to resume the second act, that had been
so cruelly interrupted. The malady, which I had first regarded as
slight, soon increased and became exceedingly painful, and I was
obliged to call in a doctor, who had to treat me carefully for
nearly four weeks. It was in the late autumn, towards the end of
November, that Ritter left me to pay a visit to his relations and
friends in Dresden and Berlin; I therefore remained quite alone
during this long illness, with no other society than that of the
servants of the house. Incapable of work, I amused myself by
reading the History of Venice by Count Daru, in which I became
much interested, as I was on the spot. Through it I lost some of
my popular prejudices against the tyrannical mode of government
in ancient Venice. The ill-famed Council of Ten and the State
Inquisition appeared to me in a peculiar, although certainly
horrible, light; the open admission that in the secrecy of its
methods lay the guarantee of the power of the state, seemed to me
so decidedly in the interests of each and every member of the
marvellous republic, that the suppression of all knowledge was
very wisely considered a republican duty. Actual hypocrisy was
entirely foreign to this state constitution; moreover the
clerical element, however respectfully treated by the government,
never exercised an unworthy influence on the development of the
character of the citizens as in other parts of Italy. The
terrible selfish calculations of state reasons were turned into
maxims of quite an ancient heathen character, not really evil in
themselves, but reminiscent of similar maxims among the
Athenians, which, as we read in Thucydides. were adopted by them
in all simplicity, as the foundations of human morality. In
addition to this I once more took up, by way of a restorative, as
I had often done before, a volume of Schopenhauer, with whom I
became on intimate terms, and I experienced a sensation of relief
when I found that I was now able to explain the tormenting gaps
in his system by the aids which he himself provided.
My few associations with the outer world now became calmer, but
one day I was distressed by a letter from Wesendonck in which he
informed me of the death of his son Guido, who was about four
years old; it depressed me to think that I had refused to stand
godfather to him, on the pretext that I might bring him bad luck.
This event touched me deeply, and as I was longing for a thorough
rest, I mapped out for myself a short journey across the Alps,
with the idea that I might spend Christmas with my old friends,
and offer them my condolences. I informed Mme. Wille of this
idea, and in reply received, strange to say, from her husband
instead of from herself, some quite unexpected particulars
regarding the extremely unpleasant curiosity which my sudden
departure from Zurich had caused, especially in reference to the
part my wife had played in it, and at which the Wesendonck family
had been so much annoyed. As I also heard how skilfully
Wesendonck had treated the matter, some agreeable communications
followed couched in conciliatory terms. It was much to Minna's
credit that in her relations towards me she had by her letters
proved herself wise and considerate, and while staying in
Dresden, where she met her old friends, she lived quietly, and I
always provided for her amicably. By so doing she strengthened
the impression she had made on me at the time of that touching
nocturnal scene, and I willingly put before her the possibility
of a domestic reunion, provided that we could establish a home
that promised to be a permanent one, which at that time I could
only picture to myself as feasible in Germany, and if possible in
Dresden. To obtain some idea as to whether it was possible to
carry out such an arrangement, I lost no time in applying to
Luttichau, as I had received favourable reports from Minna about
his kindly feeling and warm attachment to me. I really went so
far as to write to him cordially and in detail. It was another
lesson for me when in return I received occasionally a few dry
lines in a businesslike tone, in which he pointed out that at
that moment nothing could be done with respect to my desired
return to Saxony. On the other hand, I learned through the police
authorities in Venice, that the Saxon ambassador in Vienna
ardently wished to drive me even out of Venice. This proved
unsuccessful, however, as I was sufficiently protected by a Swiss
passport, which to my great delight the Austrian authorities duly
respected. The only hope I had with regard to my longed-for
return to Germany was based on the friendly efforts of the Grand
Duke of Baden. Eduard Devrient, to whom I also applied for more
definite information respecting our project of a first
performance of Tristan, informed me that the Grand Duke looked
upon my presence at the performance as an understood thing;
whether he was taking any steps on his own account against the
League, in case his direct efforts to obtain the King of Saxony's
permission should be fruitless, or whether he intended to
accomplish it in some other way, he did not know. Consequently I
realised that I could not count on the possibility of an early
settlement in Germany.
A great deal of my time was taken up in correspondence with the
object of procuring the necessary means of subsistence, which at
that time, owing to the divided household, made no small calls
upon my purse. Fortunately a few of the larger theatres had not
yet come to terms about my operas, so I might still expect some
fees from them, whereas those from the more active theatres had
already been spent. The Stuttgart Court Theatre was the last to
apply for Tannhauser. At that time I had a particular affection
for Stuttgart, owing to the reasons I have already mentioned;
this was also true of Vienna, which had been the first place to
produce Lohengrin, and, in consequence of its success, thought it
necessary to secure Tannhauser. My negotiations with Eckert, who
was director at that time, quickly led to satisfactory results.
All this happened during the course of the winter and early
spring of 1859. Otherwise I lived very quietly and with great
regularity, as I have described. After recovering the use of my
leg, I was able in December to begin my regular gondola trips to
the Piazzetta again and the return journeys in the evening, and
also to give myself up for some time uninterruptedly to my
musical work. I spent Christmas and New Year's Eve quite alone,
but in my dreams at night I often found myself in society, which
had a very disturbing effect on my rest.
At the beginning of 1859 Karl Ritter suddenly turned up again at
my rooms for his usual evening visits. His anxiety about the
performance of a dramatic piece he had written had taken him to
the shores of the Baltic. This was a work he had completed a
short time before ARMIDA, much of which again showed his great
talent. The tendency of the whole play is to show terrible
glimpses of the poet's soul, and these prevent one from passing a
favourable judgment on some parts of the piece, but other parts,
notably the meeting of Rinaldo with Armida, and the violent birth
of their love, are depicted by the author with real poetic fire.
As is the case with all such works, which are in reality always
hampered by the superficiality of the dilettante, much should
have been altered and rewritten for stage effect. Karl would not
hear of this; on the contrary, he thought he had discovered, in
an intelligent theatrical manager in Stettin, the very man who
would lay aside any such considerations as were peculiar to me.
He had, however, been disappointed in this hope, and had come
back to Venice intending to carry out his fond desire of living
aimlessly. To wander through Rome clad in the garb of a capuchin,
studying the treasures of art from hour to hour, was the kind of
existence he would have preferred to any other.
He would not hear of a remodelled version of ARMIDA, but declared
his intention to set to work on some new dramatic material which
he had taken from Machiavelli's FLORENTINE HISTORIES. He would
not specify what this material was more definitely, lest I should
dissuade him from using it, inasmuch as it contained only
situations, and absolutely no indication of any purpose. He
seemed no longer to have any desire to give himself up to musical
work, although even in this respect the young man showed himself
to me in a thoroughly interesting light by a fantasy for the
piano which he had written soon after his arrival in Venice.
Nevertheless he displayed a more highly intelligent appreciation
than before of the development of the second act of Tristan, in
which I had at last made regular progress. In the evening I
frequently played to him, Winterberger and Tessarin, the portions
I had completed during the day, and they were always deeply
moved. During the previous interruption in my work, which had
lasted rather a long time, Hartel had engraved the first act of
the score, and Bulow had arranged it for the piano. Thus a
portion of the opera lay before me in monumental completeness,
while I was still in a fruitful state of excitement with regard
to the execution of the whole. And now in the early months of the
year the orchestration of this act, which I continued to send in
groups of sheets to the publisher to be engraved, also neared
completion. By the middle of March I was able to send off the
last sheets to Leipzig.
It was now necessary to make new decisions for my plan of life.
The question presented itself as to where I was going to compose
the third act; for I wished to begin it only in a place where I
had a prospect of finishing it undisturbed. It seemed as if this
was not destined to be the case in Venice. My work would have
occupied me until late into the summer, and on account of my
health I did not think I dared spend the hot weather in Venice.
Its climate about this time of the year did not commend itself to
me. Already I had found great disadvantages and anything but
favourable results from the fact that it was not possible to
enjoy the invigorating recreation of rambling about in this
place. Once in the winter, when I wanted a good walk, I had gone
by train to Viterbo to take my fill of exercise by tramping
inland for several miles towards the mountains. Inhospitable
weather had opposed my progress, and this, added to other
unfavourable circumstances, resulted in my bringing away from my
excursion nothing more valuable than a favourable opinion of the
city of lagoons, to which I fled as to a place of refuge against
the dust of the streets and the spectacle of horses being cruelly
used. Moreover, it now turned out that my further stay in Venice
no longer depended wholly on my own will. I had been recently
cited (very politely) before a commissioner of police, who
informed me, without mincing the matter, that there had been an
incessant agitation on the part of the Saxon embassy in Vienna
against my remaining in what was a part of the Austrian Empire.
When I explained that I only wished to extend my stay to the
beginning of spring, I was advised to obtain permission to do so
from the Archduke Maximilian, who as viceroy resided in Milan,
preferring my request on the ground of ill-health as alleged by a
doctor's certificate. I did this, and the Archduke issued
immediate instructions by telegram to the Administrative
Government of Venice, to leave me in peace.
But soon it became clear to me that the political situation,
which was putting Austrian Italy into a state of ferment, might
develop into an occasion for renewing active precautionary
measures against strangers. The outbreak of war with Piedmont and
France became more and more imminent, and the evidence of deep
agitation in the Italian population grew more unmistakable every
moment. One day, when I was sauntering up and down the Riva with
Tessarin, we came upon a fairly large crowd of strangers, who,
with a mixture of respect and curiosity, were watching the
Archduke Maximilian and his wife as they were taking the air
during a short visit to Venice. The situation was rapidly
conveyed to me by my Venetian pianist, who nudged me violently
and sought to drag me away from the spot by my arm: in order
that, as he explained, I might be spared the necessity of raising
my hat to the Archduke. Seeing the stately and very attractive
figure of the young Prince passing along, I slipped by my friend
with a laugh, and took honest pleasure in being able by my
greeting to thank him for his protection, although, of course, he
did not know who I was.
Soon, however, everything began to assume a more serious aspect,
and to look gloomy and depressing. Day by day the Riva was so
crowded with troops newly disembarked, that it became quite
unavailable for a promenade. The officers of these troops, on the
whole, made a very favourable impression on me, and their homely
German tongue, as they chatted harmlessly with one another,
reminded me pleasantly of home. In the rank and file, on the
other hand, I could not possibly feel any confidence, for in them
I saw chiefly the dull servile features of certain leading Slav
races in the Austrian monarchy. One could not fail to recognise
in them a certain brute force, but it was no less clear that they
were entirely devoid of that naive intelligence which is such an
attractive characteristic of the Italian people. I could not but
grudge the former race their victory over the latter. The facial
expression of these troops recurred forcibly to my memory in the
autumn of this year in Paris, when I could not avoid comparing
the picked French troops, the Chasseurs de Vincennes and the
Zouaves, with these Austrian soldiers; and without any scientific
knowledge of strategy, I understood in a flash the battles of
Magenta and Solferino. For the present I learned that Milan was
already in a state of seige and was almost completely barred to
foreigners. As I had determined to seek my summer refuge in
Switzerland on the Lake of Lucerne, this news accelerated my
departure; for I did not want to have my retreat cut off by the
exigencies of war. So I packed up my things, sent the Erard once
more over the Gotthard, and prepared to take leave of my few,
acquaintances. Ritter had resolved to remain in Italy; he
intended to go to Florence and Rome, whither Winterberger, with
whom he had struck up a friendship, had hurried in advance.
Winterberger declared that he was provided by a brother with
money enough to enjoy Italy--an experience which he declared
necessary for his recreation and recovery, from what disease I do
not know. Ritter therefore counted upon leaving Venice within a
very short time. My leave-taking with the worthy Dolgoroukow,
whom I left in great suffering, was very sincere, and I embraced
Karl at the station, probably for the last time, for from that
moment I was left without any direct news of him, and have not
seen him to this day.
On the 24th of March, after some adventures caused by the
military control of strangers, I reached Milan, where I allowed
myself to stay three days to see the sights. Without any official
guide to help me, I contented myself with following up the
simplest directions I could obtain to the Brera, the Ambrosian
Library, the 'Last Supper' of Leonardo da Vinci, and the
cathedral. I climbed the various roofs and towers of this
cathedral at all points. Finding, as I always did, that my first
impressions were the liveliest, I confined my attention in the
Brera chiefly to two pictures which confronted me as soon as I
entered; they were Van Dyck's 'Saint Anthony before the Infant
Jesus' and Crespi's 'Martyrdom of Saint Stephen.' I realised on
this occasion that I was not a good judge of pictures, because
when once the subject has made a clear and sympathetic appeal to
me, it settles my view, and nothing else counts. A strange light,
however, was shed on the effect made by the purely artistic
significance of a masterpiece, when I stood before Leonardo da
Vinci's 'Last Supper' and had the same experience as every one
else. This work of art, although it is almost entirely destroyed
as a picture, produces such an extraordinary effect on the mind
of the spectator, that even after a close examination of the
copies hanging beside it representing it in a restored state,
when he turns to the ruined picture the fact is suddenly revealed
to the eye of his soul that the contents of the original are
absolutely inimitable. In the evening I made all haste to get to
the Italian comedy again. I grew very fond of it, and found it
had installed itself here in the tiny Teatro Re for the benefit
of a small audience of the lower orders. The Italians of to-day
unfortunately despise it heartily. Here, too, the comedies of
Goldoni were played with, as it seemed to me, considerable and
ingenious skill. On the other hand, it was my fate to be present
at a performance in the Scala Theatre, where, in a setting of an
external magnificence that was extraordinary, it was proved true
that Italian taste was degenerating sadly. Before the most
brilliant and enthusiastic audience one could wish for, gathered
together in that immense theatre, an incredibly worthless fake of
an opera by a modern composer, whose name I have forgotten, was
performed. The same evening I learned, however, that although the
Italian public was passionately fond of song, it was the ballet
which they regarded as the main item; for, obviously, the dreary
opera, at the beginning was only intended to prepare the way for
a groat choreographic performance on a subject no less pretentious
than that of Antony and Cleopatra. In this ballet I saw even the
cold politician Octavianus, who until now had not so far lost his
dignity as to appear as a character in any Italian opera, acting
in pantomime and contriving fairly successfully to maintain an
attitude of diplomatic reserve. The climax, however, was reached
in the scene of Cleopatra's funeral. This afforded the immense
staff of the ballet an opportunity for displaying the most varied
picturesque effects in highly characteristic costumes.
After receiving these impressions all by myself, I travelled to
Lucerne one brilliant spring day by way of Como, where everything
was in full blossom, through Lugano, which I knew already, and
the Gotthard, which I had to cross in small open sledges along
towering walls of snow. When I reached Lucerne the weather was
bitterly cold, in contrast with the genial spring I had enjoyed
in Italy. The allowance of money I had made for my stay in
Lucerne was based on the assumption that the big Hotel
Schweizerhof was quite empty from about this time until the
summer season began, and that without further preliminaries I
should be able to find a lodging there both spacious and free
from noise. This hope had not been entertained in vain. The
courteous manager of the hotel, Colonel Segesser, allotted to me
a whole floor in the annexe on the left, to occupy at my
pleasure. I could make myself quite comfortable here in the
larger rooms at a moderate price. As the hotel at this time of
the year had only a very small staff of servants, it was left to
me to make arrangements for some one to wait upon me. For this
purpose I found a careful woman well suited to look after my
comfort. Many years afterwards, remembering the good services she
had rendered me, especially later on when the number of guests
had increased, I engaged her as my housekeeper.
Soon my things arrived from Venice. The Erard had been obliged to
cross the Alps again when the snow was on the ground. When it was
set up in my spacious drawing-room, I said to myself that all
this trouble and expense had been incurred to enable me at last
to complete the third act of Tristan und Isolde. There were times
when this seemed to me to be an extravagant ambition; for the
difficulties in the way of finishing my work seemed to make it
impossible. I compared myself to Leto who, in order to find a
place in which to give birth to Apollo and Artemis, was hunted
about the world and could find no resting-place until Poseidon,
taking compassion on her, caused the island of Delos to rise from
the sea.
I wished to regard Lucerne as this Delos. But the terrible
influence of the weather, which was intensely cold and
continuously wet, weighed upon my spirits in a most unfriendly
fashion until the end of May. As such great sacrifice had been
made to find this new place of refuge, I thought every day had
been uselessly frittered away which had not contributed something
to my work of composing. For the greater part of my third act I
was occupied with a subject sad beyond words; it came to such a
pass that it is only with a shudder that I can recall the first
few months of this emigration to Lucerne.
A few days after my arrival I had already visited the Wesendoncks
in Zurich. Our meeting was melancholy, but in no way embarrassed.
I spent some days in my friends' house, where I saw my old Zurich
acquaintances again, and felt as though I were passing from one
dream to another. In fact, everything assumed an air of
unsubstantiality for me. Several times in the course of my stay
in Lucerne I repeated this visit, which was twice returned to me,
once on the occasion of my birthday.
Besides the work on which I was now somewhat gloriously engaged,
I was also heavy with cares about keeping myself and my wife
alive. Of my own accord and out of necessary respect for the
circumstances in which my friends the Ritters were placed, I had
already in Venice felt myself for the future obliged to decline
their voluntary support. I was beginning to exhaust the little
that I could contrive to extract with difficulty from those of my
operas which up to this period it had been possible to produce.
It was settled that I should take up the Nibelungen work when
Tristan was finished, and I thought it my duty to find out some
way of making my future existence easier. This Nibelungen work
spurred me to the attempt. The Grand Duke of Weimar still kept up
his interest in it, to judge from the communications I had
received from him during the previous year. I therefore wrote to
Liszt and repeated my request that he would make a serious
proposal to the Grand Duke to buy the copyright of the work and
arrange for its publication, with the right of disposing of it to
a publisher on his own terms. I enclosed my former negotiations
with Hartel, which had been broken off, and which were now
intended to serve as a fair basis for what may be called the
business arrangement that Liszt was to enter into with the Grand
Duke. Liszt soon gave me an embarrassed hint that his Royal
Highness was not really keen on it. This was quite enough for me.
On the other hand, I was driven by circumstances to come to an
agreement with Meser in Dresden about the unfortunate copyright
of my three earlier operas. The actor Kriete, one of my principal
creditors, was making piteous demands for the return of his
capital. Schmidt, a Dresden lawyer, offered to put the matter
right, and after a long and heated correspondence it was arranged
that a certain H. Muller, successor to Meser, who had died a
short time before, should enter into possession of the copyright
of these publications. On this occasion I heard of nothing but of
the costs and expenditure to which my former agent had been put;
but it was impossible to get any clear account of the receipts he
had taken from my works beyond the fact that the lawyer admitted
to me that the late Meser must have put aside some thousands of
thalers, which, however, it would not be possible to lay hands
on, as he had not left his heirs any funds at all.
In order to pacify the woeful Kriete, I was eventually obliged to
agree to sell my rights in the works Meser had published for nine
thousand marks, which represented the exact sum I owed to Kriete
and another creditor who held a smaller share. With regard to the
arrears of interest still owing on the money at compound rate, I
remained Kriete's personal debtor; the joint sum amounted in the
year 1864 to five thousand four hundred marks, which were duly
claimed of me about this time with all the pressure of the law.
In the interests of Pusinelli, my chief creditor, who could only
be provided under this arrangement with inadequate payment, I
reserved to myself the French copyright of these three operas, in
the event of this music being produced in France through my
efforts at finding a publisher to purchase it in that country.
According to the contents of a letter from the lawyer Schmidt,
this reservation of mine had been accepted by the present
publisher in Dresden. Pusinelli in a friendly spirit forbore to
take advantage of the benefits accruing to him from this
arrangement, in regard to the capital he had formerly lent me. He
assured me he would never claim it. Thus one possibility remained
open to me for the future: that if my operas could make their way
into France, although there would be no question of any profit
coming to me through those works of mine, I should be reimbursed
for the capital I had spent on them and for that which I had been
obliged to guarantee. When, later on, my Paris publisher Flaxland
and I came to make out an agreement, Meser's successor in Dresden
announced himself as absolute proprietor of my operas, and
actually succeeded in putting so many obstacles in Flaxland's way
in the conduct of his French business, that the latter was
compelled to purchase peace at the price of six thousand francs.
The natural result of this was that Flaxland was placed in the
position of being able to deny that it was I who owned the French
copyright of my work. Upon this I made repeated appeals to Adolph
Schmidt, the lawyer, to give evidence in my favour, asking
nothing more of him than that he should forward to me a copy of
the correspondence referring to the rights I had reserved, which
had become valid in the Lucerne transaction. To all the letters
addressed to him on this subject, however, he obstinately refused
an answer, and I learned later on from a Viennese lawyer that I
must give up hoping to get this kind of evidence, as I had no
legal means in my possession to force the advocate to give it, if
he were not so inclined.
While, owing to this, I had little opportunity of improving my
prospects for the future, I had at least the satisfaction of
seeing the score of Tannhauser engraved at last. As the stock of
my earlier autograph copies had come to an end, chiefly through
the wasteful management of Meser, I had already persuaded Hartel
when I was in Venice to have the score engraved. Meser's
successor had acquired the complete rights of this work, and
therefore regarded it as a point of honour not to give up the
score to another publisher; consequently he took over the task of
producing it at his own cost. Unluckily fate demanded that just a
year later I had to revise and reconstruct the first two scenes
completely. To this day it is a subject of regret to me not to
have been able to introduce this fresh piece of work into the
engraved score.
The Hartels, never faltering in their assumption that Tristan
might provide good food for the theatre, set their men busily to
work upon engraving the score of the second act, while I was at
work on the third. The process of registering corrections, while
I was in the throes of composing the third act--one long ecstasy-
-wielded over me a strange, almost uncanny influence; for in the
first scenes of this act it was made clear to me that in this
opera (which had been most unwarrantably assumed to be an easy
one to produce), I had embodied the most daring and most exotic
conception in all my writings. While I was at work on the great
scene of Tristan, found myself often asking whether I was not mad
to want to give such work to a publisher to print for the
theatre. And yet I could not have parted with a single accent in
that tale of pain, although the whole thing tortured me to the
last degree.
I tried to overcome my gastric troubles by using (among other
things) Kissingen water in moderate doses. As I was fatigued and
made incapable of work by the early walks I had to take during
this treatment, it occurred to me to take a short ride instead.
For this purpose the hotel manager lent me a horse, aged twenty-
five, named Lise. On this animal I rode every morning as long as
it would carry me. It never conveyed me very far, but turned back
regularly at certain spots without taking the slightest notice of
my directions.
Thus passed the months of April, May, and the greater part of
June, without my completing even half of my composition for the
third act, and all the while I was contending with a mood of the
deepest melancholy. At last came the season for the visitors to
arrive; the hotel with its annexes began to fill, and it was no
longer possible to think of maintaining my exceptional privilege
with regard to the use of such choice quarters. It was proposed
to move me to the second storey of the main building, where only
travellers who spent the night on their way to other places in
Switzerland were put up, whereas in the annexes people were
lodged who came to make a long stay, and who used their rooms day
and night. As a matter of fact, this arrangement answered
admirably. From this time forward I was completely undisturbed
during the hours of my work in my little sitting-room with its
adjoining bedchamber, as the rooms engaged for the night by
strangers in this storey were perfectly empty in the daytime.
Really splendid summer weather set in eventually, lasting a good
two months with a continuously cloudless sky. I enjoyed the
curious charm of protecting myself against the extremes of the
sun's heat by carefully keeping my room cool and dark, and going
out on to my balcony only in the evening to surrender myself to
the influence of the summer air. Two good horn-players gave me
great pleasure by providing a performance of simple folk-songs
almost regularly in a skiff on the lake. In my work, too, I had
now luckily passed the critical point, and in spite of its
sorrowful character, the more subdued mood of that part of my
poem which I had still to master, threw me into a sincere
spiritual ecstasy, during which I completed the composition of
the whole work by the beginning of August, fragments only
remaining to be orchestrated.
Lonely as was my life, the exciting events of the Italian war
provided me plenty of interest. I followed this struggle, as
unexpected as it was significant, through the thrilling course of
its successes and reverses. Still I did not remain entirely
without company. In July, Felix Drasecke, whom I had not known
before, came to Lucerne for a lengthy visit. After hearing a
performance of the prelude to Tristan und Isolde conducted by
Liszt, he had almost immediately determined to make himself
personally acquainted with me. I was completely terrified by his
arrival, and was at a loss to know what to do with him. Moreover,
as his talk was in a certain facetious vein, overflowing with
stories of persons and circumstances for which I was gradually
losing all appreciation, he soon began to bore me, a fact which
astonished him, and which he recognised so clearly that he
thought he had better leave after a few days. This made me in my
turn embarrassed, and I now took special care to deprive him of
the bad opinion he had formed of me. I soon learned to like him,
and for a considerable time, until shortly before his departure
from Lucerne, he was my daily companion, from whose intercourse I
derived much pleasure, as he was a highly gifted musician and by
no means a prig. But Drasecke was not my only visitor.
Wilhelm Baumgartner, my old Zurich acquaintance, came to spend a
few weeks in Lucerne out of kindness to me. And lastly Alexander
Seroff from St. Petersburg came to stay some time in the
neighbourhood. He was a remarkable man, of great intelligence,
and openly prepossessed in favour of Liszt and myself. He had
heard my Lohengrin in Dresden and wanted to know more of me--an
ambition I was obliged to satisfy by playing Tristan to him in
the rough-and-ready fashion which was peculiar to me. I went up
Mount Pilatus with Drasecke, and again had to look after a
companion who suffered from giddiness. To celebrate his departure
I invited him to take an excursion to Brunnen and the Grutli.
After this we took leave of each other for the time being, as his
moderate resources did not permit him to remain any longer, and I
too was seriously thinking of taking my departure.
The question now arose as to where I was to go. I had addressed
letters, first through Eduard Devrient, and finally direct to the
Grand Duke of Baden, asking the latter for a guarantee that I
might settle, if not in Karlsruhe itself, at least in some small
place in the neighbourhood. This would suffice to set at rest a
craving, which could no longer be suppressed, for intercourse now
and then with an orchestra and a company of singers, if only to
hear them play. I learned later that the Grand Duke had really
bestirred himself in the matter by writing to the King of Saxony.
But the view still prevailed in that quarter that I could not be
granted an amnesty, but could only hope to receive an act of
grace; it being assumed, of course, that I would first have to
report myself to a magistrate for examination. Thus the
fulfilment of my wish remained impossible, and I shrank in dismay
before the problem of how to secure a performance of my Tristan
which I could superintend in person, as I had determined to do. I
was assured that the Grand Duke would know what measures to
resort to in order to meet the situation. But the question was,
where was I to turn for a place in which to settle with some
prospect of being able to remain there. I longed for a permanent
home again. After due consideration I decided that Paris was the
only place where I could make sure of now and then hearing a good
orchestra and a first-class quartette. Without these stimulating
influences Zurich at last became unbearable, and in no other city
but Paris, where I could stay undisturbed, could I safely reckon
on being able to obtain artistic recreation of a sufficiently
high standard.
At last I had to bestir myself to come to a decision about my
wife. We had now been apart from each other for a whole year.
After the hard lessons she had received from me, and which,
according to her letters, had left a deep impression upon her, I
was justified in assuming that the renewal of our life in common
might be made tolerable; especially as it would remove the grave
difficulty of her maintenance. I therefore agreed with her that
she should join me late in the autumn in Paris. In the meantime I
was willing to look for a possible abode there, and undertook to
arrange for the removal of our furniture and household goods to
the French capital. In order to carry out this plan financial
assistance was imperative, as the means at my disposal were quite
inadequate. I then made to Wesendonck the same offer in regard to
my Nibelungen that I had made to the Grand Duke of Weimar, that
is to say, I proposed that he should buy the copyright for
publishing the work. Wesendonck acceded to my wishes without
demur, and was ready to buy out each of the completed portions of
my work in turn for about the same sum as it was reasonable to
suppose a publisher would pay for it later on. I was not able to
fix my departure, which took place on the 7th of September, when
I went for a three days' visit to my friends in Zurich. I spent
these days at the Wesendonck's, where I was well looked after and
saw my former acquaintances, Herwegh, Semper, and Gottfried
Keller. One of the evenings I spent with them was marked by an
animated dispute with Semper over the political events of the
time. Semper professed to recognise, in the recent defeat of
Austria, the defeat of the German nationality; in the Romance
element represented by Louis Napoleon, he recognised a sort of
Assyrian despotism which he hated both in art and politics. He
expressed himself with such emphasis that Keller, who was
generally so silent, was provoked into a lively debate. Semper in
his turn was so aggravated at this, that at last in a fit of
desperation he blamed me for luring him into the enemy's camp, by
being the cause of his invitation to the Wesendonck's. We made it
up before we parted that night, and met again on several
occasions after this, when we took care never again to let our
discussions become so passionate. From Zurich I went to
Winterthur to visit Sulzer. I did not see my friend himself, but
only his wife and the boy she had borne to him since my last
visit; the mother and child made a very touching and friendly
impression on me, particularly when I realised that I must now
regard my old friend in the light of a happy father.
On the 15th of September I reached Paris. I had intended to fix
my abode somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Champs Elysees,
and with this object in view at once looked out for temporary
lodgings in that district, which I found eventually in the Avenue
de Matignon. My main object was to discover my desired peaceful
place of refuge in some small house remote from the
thoroughfares. I at once bestirred myself to find this, and
thought it my duty to make use of every acquaintance I could call
to mind. The Olliviers were not in Paris at the time; Countess
d'Agoult was ill, and was also busy arranging her departure for
Italy, and unable to receive me. She referred me to her daughter
the Countess Charnace, upon whom I called, but without being able
to explain to her the purpose I had in view. I also looked up the
Herold family, who had received me in such a friendly way on my
last visit to Paris; but I found Mme. Herold in a strange and
morbidly excitable state of mind, the result of ill-health, so
that instead of discussing my views with her, my only thought was
to keep her calm and avoid upsetting her by even the slightest
appeal for help. In my passionate longing to find a home I
decided to get no further information, but set about the matter
myself. At last I discovered in the Rue Newton near the Barriere
de l'Etoile, a side street off the Champs Elysees, not yet
completed in accordance with a former plan of Paris, a nice
little villa with a small garden. I took this on a three-years'
agreement at a rent of four thousand francs a year. Here, at all
events, I might look for complete quiet and total isolation from
the noise of the streets. This fact alone prepossessed me very
much in taking the little house, the late occupier of which had
been the well-known author Octave Feuillet, who was at that time
under the patronage of the imperial court. But I was puzzled that
the building, in spite of my being unable to detect anything old
in its structure, had been so neglected inside. The proprietor
could in no way be induced to do anything to restore the place
and make it habitable, even if I had consented to pay a higher
rent. The reason of this I discovered some time afterwards: the
estate itself was doomed in consequence of the plans for the
rebuilding of Paris; but the time had not yet come to make the
official announcement of the government's intentions to the
proprietors, because, had this been done, their claims to
compensation would have become valid at once. I consequently
laboured under the pleasant delusion that whatever I was obliged
to spend on interior decoration and on restoring the property
would, in the course of years, prove to be money well invested. I
therefore proceeded to give the necessary instructions for the
work without hesitating, and ordered my furniture to be sent from
Zurich, thinking that as fate had driven me to my choice, I could
regard myself as a resident of Paris for the rest of my life.
While the house was being prepared, I tried to get my bearings as
to what could be extracted for my future existence out of the
popularity of my artistic works. The first thing I did was to
look up M. de Charnal and to get information from him about the
translation of the libretto of my Rienzi with which he had been
entrusted. It turned out that M. Carvalho, the director of the
Theatre Lyrique, would hear of absolutely nothing but Tannhauser.
I prevailed upon Carvalho to visit me to talk the matter over. He
declared that he was most certainly inclined to produce one of my
operas, only it must be Tannhauser, because, as he explained,
this opera was identified with me among the Parisians, who would
think it ridiculous to produce any other work under the name of
'Wagner.' As to my choice of a translator for the poem of this
opera he seemed to entertain grave doubts: he asked whether I had
not made a mistake, whereupon I tried to get more definite
information about the capabilities of M. de Charnal, and
discovered to my horror that this charming young man, who boasted
that he had collaborated in a melodrama called Schinderhannes,
which he thought was a German romantic subject, had not had the
slightest conception of the character of the work he was
handling.
As his enthusiasm moved me, I tried to shape some verses with him
and make them practicable for musical purposes; but I failed
utterly, and all my trouble was in vain. Bulow had once drawn my
attention to Auguste de Gasperini, a young doctor who had ceased
to practise, and whose acquaintance he had made in Baden-Baden,
where he discovered that he was extraordinarily fond of my music.
I called upon him without loss of time, and as he was not in
Paris, I wrote to him. This man sent his friend Leroy to me with
a letter of recommendation. He was a well-educated Parisian
music-master, who won my esteem by his attractive personality. My
confidence in him was aroused, because he at once dissuaded me
from associating myself with an obscure journalist on a
theatrical newspaper (in which character M. de Charnal finally
disclosed himself), and advised me to go to Roger, a highly
gifted and experienced operatic singer, who had been a favourite
with the Parisian public and was master of the German language.
This lifted a load from my heart: I accepted the invitation which
Leroy arranged for me through another friend, who took me down to
Roger's country place one day to meet him. I have forgotten the
name of this large estate which was occupied by the Paris tenor,
whose fame had been so celebrated up to that time; the chateau
had once belonged to a marquis, and was built in a very sumptuous
style and surrounded by extensive hunting-grounds. It was the
desire to handle a gun and make use of these grounds (which he
loved) that, only a short time before, had landed this charming
singer in a terrible disaster which had shattered his right arm.
I found Roger, some months after the accident, completely
recovered; but the forearm had had to be amputated. The question
now was whether a famous mechanician, who had promised to make
him a perfect substitute for the lost limb even in the matter of
free gesticulation, would be able to carry out his task. He
succeeded fairly well, as I saw with my own eyes some time later,
when I witnessed Roger act in a benefit performance which the
Grand Opera had given him, and use his arm so ingeniously that he
received great applause for this reason alone. In spite of this
he had to accept the fact that he was regarded as 'disabled,' and
that his career at the Grand Opera in Paris had come to a close.
For the time being he seemed to be glad to secure for himself
some sort of literary occupation, and accepted with much pleasure
my proposal that he should make a translation of Tannhauser for
practical use. He sang to me the French text of some of the main
themes which he had already translated, and they seemed to me
good. After I had spent a day and a night with the singer, who
had once been such a popular favourite, and was now condemned to
look forward to a sad decline, I felt in very good spirits and
full of hope, more especially as his intelligent way of
approaching my opera gave me a pleasing idea of the extent to
which it was possible to cultivate the French mind. In spite of
this I had soon to give up the notion of Roger's working for me,
as for a long time he was entirely absorbed in trying to make
secure the position into which he had fallen through his terrible
accident. He was so busy with his own affairs that he could
hardly give me an answer to my inquiries, and for the time being
I lost sight of him altogether.
I had come to this arrangement with Roger more by chance than out
of necessity, as I continued to adhere firmly to my plan simply
to seek a suitable pied-a-terre in Paris. My serious artistic
enterprises, on the other hand, were still directed to Germany,
from which, from another point of view, I was an enforced exile.
Soon, however, the whole aspect of affairs changed: the proposed
performance of Tristan in Karlsruhe, on which I had continued to
keep an eye, was finally announced as abandoned. I had to remain
uncertain as to the precise reason why this undertaking had been
given up, which at an earlier stage had apparently been pursued
with so much zeal. Devrient pointed out to me that all his
attempts to secure an appropriate representation of the rule of
Isolde had been shattered by my deciding against the singer
Garrigues (who had already married young Schnorr), and that he
felt his incapacity to offer advice on the rest of the business
all the more keenly because Schnorr, the tenor, whose devotion to
me was so great, had himself despaired of being able to execute
the last portion of the task assigned to him. I realised at once
that this was an obstacle which I should have been able to
overcome, together with all its disastrous consequences, if I had
been permitted, even for a brief space of time, to visit
Karlsruhe. But the mere expression of this wish seemed, as soon
as it was reiterated, to arouse the bitterest feelings against
me. Devrient expressed his opinion on the matter with so much
violence and brutality that I could not help seeing that what
kept me from Karlsruhe was mainly his personal disinclination to
have me there, or to be interfered with in the conduct of his
theatre.
A less potent factor in the situation I found in the painful
feeling now aroused in the Grand Duke at the prospect of not
being able to fulfil the promise he had once held out to me, that
I should visit him in Karlsruhe, where he was in residence; if
the main object for the visit were to subside under pressure of
other considerations, he could only regard this circumstance in
the light of an almost desirable event. At the same time I
received from Bulow, who had gone several times to Karlsruhe,
fairly broad hints as to what Devrient was aiming at. Full light
was shed on the affair at a later stage; for the present it was a
matter of the utmost importance for me to face the fact that I
was entirely cut off from Germany, and must think of a fresh
field for the production of Tristan, which lay so near my heart.
I rapidly sketched a plan for starting a German theatre in Paris
itself, such as had existed in bygone years with the co-operation
of Schroder-Devrient. I thought I could safely rely on the
possibility of doing so, as the most eminent singers of the
German theatre were known to me, and would gladly follow me if I
were to summon them to Paris on such a mission. I received
messages of ready acceptance, in the event of my succeeding in
founding a German opera season in Paris on a solid basis, from
Tichatschek, Mitterwurzer, Niemann the tenor, and also Luise
Meyer in Vienna. My immediate and besetting care was then to
discover in Paris a suitable man for the task, who would
undertake the execution of my plan at his own risk. My object was
to secure the Salle Ventadour for a spring season of two months
after the close of the Italian opera. There would then be
performances of my operas, Tannhauser, Lohengrin, and finally
Tristan, by a chosen company and chorus of German singers, for
the benefit of the Parisian public in general and myself in
particular.
With this purpose in mind, my anxieties and endeavours now took a
totally different direction from that towards which they had
tended when I first settled again in Paris; to cultivate
acquaintances, especially among those who had influence, was now
of the utmost importance to me. For this reason I was glad to
hear that Gasperini had arrived in Paris for good. Although I had
only known him very slightly before, I now immediately
communicated my plans to him, and was introduced in the
friendliest way to a rich man who was well disposed towards him,
a M. Lucy, who, so I was told, was not without influence, and was
at that time Receiver-General in Marseilles. Our deliberations
convinced us that the most necessary, and indeed indispensable,
thing was to find some one to come forward and finance our
enterprise. My friend Gasperini could not but agree that, on the
strength of the opinions he had himself advanced, it was natural
I should look upon M. Lucy as the very man we wanted; but he
thought it advisable to put our wishes before his friend with
some caution, for though Lucy had much chaleur de coeur, he was
principally a man of business and understood but little of music.
Above all, it was necessary that my compositions should become
well known in Paris, so that further enterprises might be founded
on the results thus obtained. With this object in view I decided
to arrange a few important concerts. To effect this I had to
welcome my old friend Belloni, Liszt's former secretary, into the
circle of my closer acquaintances. He immediately enlisted a
companion of his in our cause, a highly intelligent man called
Giacomelli, whom I never knew to be anything but good-natured. He
was the editor of a theatrical journal and was cordially
recommended to me by Belloni, as much for his excellent French as
for his exceptional capabilities in other respects. My new
protector's strange editorial office became from this time one of
my most important places of rendezvous, which I frequented almost
daily, and where I met all the curious creatures with whom, for
the purpose of theatrical and similar matters, one is obliged to
mix in Paris. The next thing to be considered was how to obtain
the most suitable hall for my intended concerts. It was evident
that I should appear to greatest advantage before the Parisian
public if I could secure the theatre and orchestra of the Grand
Opera.
For this I had to address myself to the Emperor Napoleon, which I
did in a concise letter composed for me by Gasperini. The
hostility of Fould, who was at that time the Minister of the
Household to Napoleon, would probably have to be reckoned with,
on account of his friendly relations to Meyerbeer. The injurious
and dreaded influence of this personage we hoped to counteract by
that of M. Mocquard, Napoleon's secretary, who, as Ollivier
declared, composed all the imperial speeches. In an elan of fiery
generosity Lucy decided to appeal to the friend of his youth, for
as such he regarded Mocquard, in a letter of recommendation to
him on my behalf. As even this communication received no answer
from the Tuileries, I and my more practical friends, Belloni and
Giacomelli, with whom I held consultations, grew more doubtful
every day of our own power as opposed to that of the Minister of
the Household, and we therefore entered into negotiations with
Calzado, the director of the Italian Opera, instead. We met with
a direct refusal in this quarter, whereupon I finally decided to
seek a personal interview with the man. By a power of persuasion
which astonished even myself, and, above all, by holding out the
prospect of my Tristan at the Italian Opera possibly proving a
huge success, I actually succeeded in at last obtaining his
consent to let the Salle Ventadour for three evenings with a
week's interval between each. But even my passionate eloquence,
which Giacomelli extolled on our way home, could not persuade him
to lower the rent, which he fixed at four thousand francs an
evening, merely for the hire and lighting of the hall.
After this the most important point was to get a first-class
orchestra for my concerts, and my two agents had, for the time
being, more than enough to do in this respect. In consequence of
their endeavours on my behalf I now began to notice the first
signs of a hostile, and hitherto unsuspected, attitude towards me
and my undertaking on the part of my old friend Berlioz. Full of
the favourable impression he had made upon me when we met in
London in 1855, which was strengthened by a friendly
correspondence he had kept up for a time, I had called at his
house as soon as I arrived in Paris. As he was not in I turned
back into the street, where I met him on his way home, and
noticed that the sight of me occasioned a convulsive movement of
fright, which showed itself in his whole physiognomy and bearing
in a way which was almost gruesome. I saw at a glance how matters
stood between us, but concealed my own uneasiness under an
appearance of natural concern about his state of health, which he
immediately assured me was one of torture, and that he could only
bear up against the most violent attacks of neuralgia with the
help of electric treatment, from which he was just returning. In
order to allay his suffering I offered to leave him immediately,
but this made him so far ashamed of his attitude that he pressed
me to return with him to his house. Here I succeeded in making
him feel somewhat more friendly towards me by disclosing my real
intentions in Paris: even the concerts I proposed giving were
merely to serve the purpose of so far attracting public attention
as to make it possible to establish German opera here, so that
when I wished to do so I could superintend the representation of
such of my own works I had not yet heard; while, on the other
hand, I completely renounced the idea of a French production of
Tannhauser, such as the manager Carvalho had seemed to
contemplate. In consequence of these explanations I was
apparently for a time on quite a friendly footing with Berlioz. I
consequently thought that, with regard to the engagement of
musicians for the proposed concerts, I could not on this occasion
do better than refer my agents to this experienced friend, whose
advice would certainly prove invaluable. They afterwards informed
me that Berlioz had at first shown himself sympathetically
inclined, but his manner had suddenly changed one day when Mme.
Berlioz entered the room where they were discussing matters, and
exclaimed in a tone of angry surprise, 'Comment, je crois que
vous donnez des conseils pour les concerts de M. Wagner?' Belloni
then discovered that this lady had just accepted a valuable
bracelet sent her by Meyerbeer. Being a man of the world he said
to me, 'Do not count upon Berlioz,' and there the whole matter
ended.
From this time forward Belloni's bright face was clouded over
with an expression of the deepest anxiety. He thought he had
discovered that the whole Parisian press was exceedingly hostile
towards me, which he had not the slightest doubt was due to the
tremendous agitation Meyerbeer had set on foot from Berlin. He
discovered that an urgent correspondence had been carried on from
there with the editors of the principal Paris journals, and that
amongst others the famous Fiorentino had already taken advantage
of Meyerbeer's alarm at my Parisian enterprise, to threaten him
with praise of my music, thus naturally exciting Meyerbeer to
further bribery. This increased Belloni's anxiety, and he advised
me, above all, to try and find financial support for my plans, or
if I had no prospect of this, to rely on the imperial power
alone. He pointed out that it was absolutely impossible for me to
carry out the concerts entirely on my own responsibility without
financial support, and his arguments had the effect of making me
decide to be careful; for what with my journey to Paris and my
installation there, my funds were thoroughly exhausted. So I was
again forced to enter into negotiations with the Tuileries about
the letting of the Opera House and its orchestra free of charge.
Ollivier now came forward with judicious advice and
introductions, which brought me into touch with all kinds of
people, and, amongst others, with Camille Doucet (a leading
member of Fould's ministry and also a dramatic author). By this
means I hoped to penetrate into the presence of Meyerbeer's
admirer, the unapproachable and terrible Minister of State. One
result of these introductions, however, was that I formed a
lasting friendship with Jules Ferry, though our acquaintance
proved quite useless to the immediate purpose in hand. The
Emperor and his secretary remained obstinately silent, and this
even after I had obtained the Grand Duke of Baden's consent to
the intercession of his ambassador in Paris on my behalf, and
also that of the Swiss ambassador, Dr. Kern, whose combined
forces were to try and enlighten me, and possibly also the
Emperor, about Fould's manoeuvres. But it was useless--all
remained silent as before.
Under these circumstances I regarded it as a freak of fate that
Minna should announce her readiness to join me in Paris, and that
I should have to expect her arrival shortly. In the selection as
well as in the arrangement of the little house in the Rue Newton
I had had particular regard to our future existence together. My
living-room was separated from hers by a staircase, and I had
taken care that the part of the house to be occupied by her
should not be wanting in comfort. But, above all, the affection
which had been revived by our last reunion in Zurich had prompted
me to furnish and decorate the rooms with special care, so that
they might have a friendly appearance and make life in common
with this woman, who was becoming quite a stranger to me, more
possible to bear. On account of this I was afterwards reproached
with a love of luxury. There was also a possibility of arranging
a drawing-room in our house, and though I had not intended to be
extravagant, I finally discovered that, in addition to the
trouble of negotiations with unreliable Parisian workmen, I was
drawn into expenses I had not counted upon. But I comforted
myself with the reflection that, as it could not be helped now,
Minna would at least be pleased when she entered the house she
was henceforth to manage. I also thought it necessary to get a
maid for her, and a particularly suitable person was recommended
me by Mme. Herold. I had also engaged a man-servant as soon as I
arrived, and although he was rather a thick-headed Swiss from
Valais, who had at one time belonged to the Pope's bodyguard, he
soon became quite devoted to me. In addition to these two
servants there was my wife's former cook, whom she had taken with
her from Zurich, and by whom she was accompanied when at last I
was able to go and meet her at the station on the 17th of
November. Here Minna immediately handed me the parrot and her dog
Fips, which involuntarily reminded me of her arrival in the
harbour of Rorschach ten years ago. Just as she had done on that
occasion also, she now immediately gave me to understand that she
did not come to me out of need, and that if I treated her badly
she knew quite well where to go. Moreover, there was no denying
that since then a not unimportant change had taken place in her;
she owned that she was filled with a similar anxiety and fear
like a person feels who is about to enter a new situation, and
did not know whether she would be able to stand it. Here I sought
to divert her thoughts by acquainting her with my public
position, which as my wife she would naturally share.
Unfortunately she could not understand this at all, and it failed
to make any appeal to her, while her attention was immediately
absorbed by the interior arrangement of our house. The fact of my
having taken a man-servant merely filled her with scorn; but
that, under the title of lady's maid, I should have provided her
with what I had really considered a very necessary attendant,
made her furious. This person, whom Mme. Herold had recommended
to me with the assurance that she had shown angelic patience in
the care of her sick and aged mother, speedily became so
demoralised by Minna's treatment of her that, at the end of a
very short time, I of my own accord hurriedly dismissed her, and
in doing so was violently reproached by my wife for giving the
woman a small tip. To an even greater extent did she succeed in
spoiling my man-servant, who finally refused to obey her orders,
and when I found fault with him became so impertinent towards me
also that I had to send him away at the shortest notice. He left
a very good complete set of livery behind, which I had just
bought at great expense, and which remained on my hands, as I
felt no inclination ever to have a man-servant again. On the
other hand, I cannot but bear the highest testimony in favour of
the Swabian Therese, who from this time forward performed the
entire service of the household alone during the whole of my
sojourn in Paris. This woman, who was gifted with unusual
penetration, at once grasped my painful position towards her
mistress, and understanding my wife's faults, succeeded by her
indefatigable activity in turning matters to the best advantage
for me as well as for the household, and thus neutralising their
bad effect.
So in this last reunion with Minna I once more entered upon a
state of existence which I had repeatedly lived through before,
and which it seemed was now to start afresh. This time it was
almost a blessing that there could be no question of quiet
retirement, but that, on the contrary, it was necessary to enter
upon an endless succession of worldly relations and activities,
to which I was again driven by fate entirely against my choice
and inclination.
With the opening of the year 1860 a very unexpected turn of
affairs made it seem possible that I should succeed in carrying
out my plans. The musical director Esser in Vienna informed me
that Schott, the music publisher of Mayence, wished to obtain a
new opera by me for publication. I had nothing to offer at
present but the Rhieingold; the peculiar composition of this
work, meant only as a prelude to the Nilielungen trilogy I meant
to write, made it difficult for me to offer it as an opera
without adding any further explanation. However, Schott's
eagerness, at all costs, to have a work of mine to add to his
catalogue of publications was so great that I no longer
hesitated, and, without concealing from him the fact that he
would have great difficulty in propagating this work, I offered
to place it at his disposal for the sum of ten thousand francs,
promising him at the same time the option of purchasing the three
main operas which were to follow at the same price for each. In
the event of Schott accepting my offer, I immediately formed a
plan of spending the sum thus unexpectedly acquired for the
furthering of my Paris undertaking.
Tired out with the obstinate silence maintained by the imperial
cabinet, I now commissioned my agents to close with Signor
Calzado for three concerts to be given at the Italian Opera, as
well as to obtain the necessary orchestra and singers. When the
arrangements for this had been set in motion, I was again made
anxious by Schott's tardy offers of lower terms; in order not to
alienate him, however, I wrote to the musical director Schmidt in
Frankfort commissioning him to continue the negotiations with
Schott on considerably reduced terms, to which I gave my consent.
I had scarcely sent off this letter when an answer from Schott
reached me, in which he at last expressed his willingness to pay
me the sum of ten thousand francs for which I had asked. I
thereupon sent a telegram to Schmidt promptly cancelling the
commission with which I had just charged him.
With renewed courage I and my agents now followed up our plans,
and the necessary preparations for the concerts engaged my whole
attention. I had to look out for a choir, and for this I thought
it necessary to reinforce the expensively paid company of the
Italian Opera by a German society of singers who had been
recommended to me and who were under the direction of a certain
Herr Ehmant. In order to ingratiate myself with its members, I
had one evening to visit their meeting-place in the Rue du
Temple, and cheerfully accommodate myself to the smell of beer
and the fumes of tobacco with which the atmosphere was laden, and
in the midst of which sturdy German artists were to reveal their
capabilities to me. I was also brought into contact with a M.
Cheve, the teacher and director of a French national choral
society, whose rehearsals took place in the Ecole de Medecine. I
there met an odd enthusiast, who, by his method of teaching
people to sing without notes, hoped to bring about the
regeneration of the French people's genius. But the worst trouble
was occasioned by the necessity of my having the different
orchestral parts of the selections I was going to have played
copied out for me. For this task I hired several poor German
musicians, who remained at my house from morning till night, in
order to make the necessary arrangements, which were often rather
difficult, under my direction.
In the midst of these absorbing occupations Hans von Bulow looked
me up. He had come to Paris for some length of time, as it turned
out, more to assist me in my undertaking than to follow his own
pursuit as a concert virtuoso. He was staying with Liszt's
mother, but spent the greater part of the day with me, in order
to give help wherever it was needed, as, for instance, with the
immediate preparation of the copies. His activity in all
directions was extraordinary, but he seemed, above all, to have
set himself the task of making certain social connections, that
he and his wife had formed during their visit to Paris the year
before, useful to my undertaking. The result of this was felt in
due course, but for the present he helped me to arrange the
concerts, the rehearsals for which had begun.
The first of these took place in the Herz Hall, and led to such
an agitation on the part of the musicians against me that it was
almost as bad as a riot. I had continually to remonstrate with
them about habits on their part, which I on my side felt unable
to overlook, and tried to prove, on common-sense grounds, how
impossible it was to give way to them. My 6/8 time, which I took
as 4/4 time, particularly incensed them, and with tumultuous
protestations they declared it should be taken alla-breva. In
consequence of a sharp call to order and an allusion on my part
to the discipline of a well-drilled orchestra, they declared they
were not 'Prussian soldiers,' but free men.
At last I saw that one of the chief mistakes had lain in the
faulty setting up of the orchestra, and I now formed my plan for
the next rehearsal. After a consultation with my friends I went
to the concert-room on the next occasion the first thing in the
morning and superintended the arranging of the desks myself, and
ordered a plentiful lunch for the musicians to which, at the
beginning of the rehearsal, I invited them in the following
manner. I told them that on the result of our meeting of that day
depended the possibility of my giving my concerts; that we must
not leave the concert-room till we were quite clear about it. I
therefore requested the members to rehearse for two hours, then
to partake of a frugal lunch prepared for them in the adjoining
salon, whereupon we would immediately hold a second rehearsal for
which I would pay them. The effect of this proposal was
miraculous: the advantageous arrangement of the orchestra
contributed to the maintenance of the general good-humour, and
the favourable impression made upon every one by the prelude to
Lohengrin, which was then played, rose to enthusiasm, so that at
the conclusion of the first rehearsal both players and audience,
amongst whom was Gasperini, were delighted with me. This friendly
disposition was most agreeably displayed at the principal
rehearsal, which took place on the stage of the Italian Opera
House. I had now gained sufficient control to allow me to dismiss
a careless cornet-player from the orchestra with a severe
reproof, without incurring any difficulties owing to their esprit
de corps.
At last the first concert took place on the 25th of January
(1860); all the pieces which I had chosen from my various operas,
including Tristan und Isolde, met with an entirely favourable,
nay enthusiastic, reception from the public, and I even had the
experience of one of my pieces, the march from Tannhauser, being
interrupted by storms of applause. The pleasure thus expressed
was aroused, it seems, because the audience was surprised to find
that my music, of which there had been so many contradictory
reports, contained such long phrases of connected melody. Well
satisfied as I was, both with the way in which the concert had
been carried out and its enthusiastic reception, I had on the
following days to overcome contrary impressions caused by the
papers giving vent to their feelings against me. It was now clear
that Belloni had been quite right in supposing that they were
hostile to me, and his foresight, which had led us to omit
inviting the press, had merely roused our opponents to greater
fury. As the whole undertaking had been arranged more for the
stimulation of friends than to excite praise, I was not so much
disturbed by the blustering of these gentlemen as by the absence
of any sign from the former. What caused me most anxiety was that
the apparently well-filled house should not have brought us
better returns than was found to be the case. We had made from
five to six thousand francs, but the expenses amounted to eleven
thousand francs. This might be partially covered if, in the case
of the two less expensive concerts still to come, we could rely
on considerably higher returns. Belloni and Giacomelli shook
their heads, however; they thought it better not to close their
eyes to the fact that concerts were not suited to the taste of
the French people, who demanded the dramatic element as well,
that is to say, costumes, scenery, the ballet, etc., in order to
feel satisfied. The small number of tickets sold for the second
concert, which was given on the 1st of February, actually put my
agents to the necessity of filling the room artificially, so as
at least to save appearances. I had to allow them to do as they
thought best in this matter, and was afterwards astonished to
learn how they had managed to fill the first places in this
aristocratic theatre in such a way as to deceive even our
enemies. The real receipts amounted to little over two thousand
francs, and it now required all my determination and my contempt
for the miseries that might result not to cancel the third
concert to be given on the 8th of February. My fees from Schott,
a part of which, it is true, I had to devote to the household
expenses of my troubled domestic existence, were all spent, and I
had to look round for further subsidies. These I obtained with
great difficulty, through Gasperini's mediation, from the very
man to win whose assistance in a much wider sense had been the
whole object of the concerts. In short, we had to have recourse
to M. Lucy, the Receiver-General of Marseilles, who was to come
to Paris at the time my concerts were being given, and upon whom
my friend Gasperini had assumed that an important Parisian
success would have the effect of making him declare his readiness
to finance my project of establishing German opera in Paris. M.
Lucy, on the contrary, did not appear at the first concert at
all, and was only present at a part of the second, during which
he fell asleep. The fact that he was now called upon to advance
several thousands of francs for the third concert naturally
seemed to him to protect him against any further demands on our
part, and he felt a certain satisfaction at being exempt from all
further participation in my plans, at the price of this loan.
Although, as a matter of fact, this concert now seemed useless,
it nevertheless gave me great pleasure, as much through the
spirited performance itself as on account of its favourable
reception by the audience, which, it is true, my agents had again
to supplement in order to give the appearance of a full hall, but
which, nevertheless, showed a marked increase in the number of
tickets paid for.
The realisation of the deep impression I had made on certain
people had more effect upon me at this time than the dejection I
felt at having to all outward appearances failed in this
enterprise. It was undeniable that the sensation I had produced
had directly, as the comments of the press had indirectly,
aroused extraordinary interest in me. My omission to invite any
journalists seemed to be regarded on all sides as a wonderful
piece of audacity on my part. I had foreseen the attitude likely
to be adopted by the majority of reporters, but I was sorry that
even such men as M. Franc-Marie, the critic of the Patrie, who at
the end of the concert had come forward to thank me with deep
emotion, should have found themselves forced to follow the lead
of the others, without compromising, and even to go so far as to
deny their true opinion of me. Berlioz aroused a universal
feeling of anger amongst my adherents, by an article which began
in a roundabout way, but ended with an open attack on me which he
published in the Journal des Debats. As he had once been an old
friend, I was determined not to overlook this treatment, and
answered his onslaught in a letter which, with the greatest
difficulty, I managed to get translated into good French, and
succeeded, not without trouble, in having it inserted in the
Journal des Debats. It so happened that this very letter had the
effect of drawing those on whom my concerts had already made an
impression more enthusiastically towards me. Amongst others a M.
Perrin introduced himself to me; he had formerly been director of
the Opera Comique, and was now a well-to-do bel esprit and
painter, and later became director of the Grand Opera. He had
heard Lohengrin and Tannhauser performed in Germany, and
expressed himself in such a way as led me to suppose that he
would make it a point of honour to bring these operas to France
should he at any time be in a position to do so. A certain Count
Foucher de Careil had also become acquainted with my operas in
the same way, through seeing them performed in Germany, and he
too became one of my distinguished and lasting friends. He had
made a name by various publications on German philosophy, and
more especially through a book on Leibnitz, and it could not but
prove interesting to me to be brought through him into touch with
a form of the French genius as yet unknown to me.
It is impossible to record all the passing acquaintances with
whom I was brought in contact at this time, amongst whom a
Russian Count Tolstoi was conspicuously kind; but I must here
mention the excellent impression made upon me by the novelist
Champfleury's amiable pamphlet, of which I and my concerts formed
the subject. In a series of light and airy aphorisms he displayed
such a comprehension of my music, and even of my personality,
that I had never again met with such a suggestive and masterly
appreciation, and had only come across its equal once before in
Liszt's lucubrations on Lohengrin and Tannhauser. My personal
acquaintance with Champfleury, which followed, brought me face to
face with a very simple and in a certain sense easy-tempered
individual, such as one seldom meets, and belonging to a type of
Frenchman fast becoming extinct.
The advances made me by the poet Baudelaire were in their way
still more significant. My acquaintance with him began with a
letter in which he told me his impressions of my music and the
effect it had produced upon him, in spite of his having thought
till then that he possessed an artistic sense for colouring, but
none for sound. His opinions on the matter, which he expressed in
the most fantastic terms and with audacious self-assurance,
proved him, to say the least, a man of extraordinary
understanding, who with impetuous energy followed the impressions
he received from my music to their ultimate consequences. He
explained that he did not put his address to his letter in order
that I might not be led to think that he wanted something from
me. Needless to say, I knew how to find him, and had soon
included him among the acquaintances to whom I announced my
intention of being at home every Wednesday evening.
I had been told by my older Parisian friends, amongst whom I
continued to count the faithful Gasperini, that this was the
right thing to do in Paris; and so it came about that, in
accordance with the fashion, I used to hold a salon in my small
house in the Rue Newton, which made Minna feel that she occupied
a very dignified position, though she only knew a few scraps of
French, with which she could barely help herself out. This salon,
which the Olliviers also attended in a friendly way, was crowded
for a time by an ever-growing circle. Here an old acquaintance of
mine, Malwida von Meysenburg, again came across me, and from that
time forth became a close friend for life. I had only met her
once before; this was during my visit to London in 1855, when she
had made herself known to me by a letter in which she
enthusiastically expressed her agreement with the opinions
contained in my book Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft. The occasion on
which we had met in London had been at an evening party at the
house of a family called Althaus, when I found her full of the
desires and projects for the future perfection of the human race
to which I had given expression in my book, but from which, under
the influence of Schopenhauer and a profound realisation of the
intense tragedy of life and the emptiness of its phenomena, I had
turned away with almost a feeling of irritation. I found it very
painful in discussing the question, not to be understood by this
enthusiastic friend and to have to appear to her in the light of
a renegade from a noble cause. We parted in London on very bad
terms with one another. It was almost a shock to me to meet
Malwida again in Paris. Very soon, however, all unpleasant
recollections of our discussion in London were wiped out, as she
at once explained to me, that our dispute had had the effect of
making her decide to read Schopenhauer at once. When, by earnest
study, she had made herself acquainted with his philosophy, she
came to the conclusion that the opinions she had at that time
expressed and eagerly maintained concerning the happiness of the
world must have vexed me on account of their shallowness. She
then declared herself to be one of my most zealous followers in
the sense that she, from now, became a true friend who was ever
anxious for my welfare. When the laws of propriety compelled me
to introduce her as a friend of mine to my wife, she could not
help noticing at the first glance the misery of our merely
nominal life in common, and realising the discomfort resulting
from it; made it her business to interpose with affectionate
solicitude. She also quickly saw the difficult position in which
I was placed in Paris with my almost purposeless enterprises and
the absence of all material security. The tremendous expenses I
had incurred in giving the three concerts had not remained a
secret from any of those concerned about me. Malwida also soon
guessed the difficulties in which I found myself, since no
prospect was opened on any side which could be looked upon as a
practical result of my enterprise and a compensation for the
sacrifices I had made. Entirely of her own accord she felt it her
duty to try and obtain help for me, which she endeavoured to get
from a certain Mme. Schwabe, the widow of a rich English
tradesman, in whose house she had found shelter as governess to
the eldest daughter, and whom she now proposed to introduce to
me. She did not conceal from herself or from me what a
disagreeable task the cultivation of this acquaintance might be
to me; nevertheless she relied on the kindness she thought this
somewhat grotesque woman possessed, as well as on her vanity,
which would prompt her to repay me for the distinction she
obtained by frequenting my salon. As a matter of fact I was
entirely at the end of my resources, and I only found courage to
deny my poverty-stricken condition in public on account of the
horror I felt when I learned that a collection was being made for
me amongst the Germans in Paris to indemnify me for the expense I
had incurred in giving the three concerts. When the news of this
reached me I immediately interfered with the declaration that the
idea that I was in distress in consequence of the losses I had
sustained was founded on a false report, and that I should be
obliged to refuse all efforts made on my behalf. On this
supposition Mme. Schwabe, who regularly attended my soirees and
as regularly fell asleep while any music was going on, was
however induced, through the solicitations of Malwida, to offer
me her personal assistance. She gave me about three thousand
francs, of which at this moment I was certainly in the greatest
need; as I did not wish to accept this money as a gift, I gave
the lady, who in no way exacted it, a written agreement of my own
accord, by which I undertook to return this sum at the end of a
year. She good-naturedly accepted this, not as a security but
merely in order to satisfy my feelings. When, at the end of this
time, I found it impossible to meet my obligation, I turned to
Malwida, who was still in Paris, and asked her to tell Mme.
Schwabe, who had left, how matters stood, and to obtain her
consent to the renewal of the agreement for another year. Malwida
earnestly assured me I need not take the trouble to ask for a
renewal, as Mme. Schwabe had never looked upon the sum given me
as anything but a contribution towards rny undertaking, in which
she flattered herself that she took great interest. We shall see
later on how the case really stood.
During this stirring time I was deeply moved and surprised to
receive a present from an admirer in Dresden called Richard
Weiland; it was an artistic silver ornament representing a sheet
of music surrounded by a crown of laurels; upon the sheet were
engraved the first bars from the principal themes of my various
operas up to Rheingold and Tristan. The modest fellow once paid
me a visit afterwards and told me that he had gone regularly to
different places in order to see the productions of my operas,
which had given him the opportunity of comparing the
representation of Tannhauser in Prague, in which the overture had
lasted twenty minutes, with the one in Dresden, which, under my
direction, had only taken twelve minutes.
My acquaintance with Rossini also proved agreeably stimulating to
me in another way; a comic writer had attributed an anecdote to
him according to which, when his friend Caraffa declared himself
an admirer of my music, he had served him his fish without sauce
at dinner, and explained in so doing that his friend liked music
without melody. Rossini openly protested against this in an
article in which he designated the story as a mauvaise blague and
at the same time declared that he would never allow himself such
a jest at the expense of a man who was trying to extend his
influence in the artistic world. When I heard of this, I did not
for a moment hesitate to pay Rossini a visit, and was received by
him in the friendliest manner, which I afterwards described in a
memorandum devoted to reminiscences of him. I was also glad to
hear that my old acquaintance Halevy, during the controversy
occasioned by my music, had taken my part in a kindly way, and I
have already described my visit to him and our conversation on
that occasion.
In spite of all these pleasant and stimulating events, nothing
occurred to make my position less uncertain. I was still kept in
doubt as to whether I should receive an answer from the Emperor
Napoleon to my request for the use of the Opera House for the
repetition of my concerts. Only by obtaining this, and having no
preliminary expenses in consequence, could I gain the benefit
which was becoming more and more necessary to me. It remained an
understood thing that the Minister Fould was assiduously using
his influence to turn the Emperor against me. As, on the other
hand, I had made the surprising discovery that Marshal Magnan had
been present at all three of my concerts, I hoped to enlist this
gentleman's sympathy, which might be turned to good account, as
the Emperor was particularly indebted to him since the events of
the 2nd of December. I was anxious to circumvent Fould's
intrigues, as the man had become most obnoxious to me, and I
consequently introduced myself to the Marshal, and was one day
surprised to see a hussar ride up to my door, who got down from
his horse, rang the bell, and handed my astonished man-servant a
letter from Magnan, in which he summoned me to his presence.
I was therefore duly received at the Commandant's residence by
this military man, whose bearing struck me as stately, almost to
the point of rudeness. He chatted very intelligently with me,
frankly confessing his delight in my music, and listening very
attentively to the report of my flagrantly futile addresses to
the Emperor, as well as to my expressions of suspicion regarding
Fould. I was told later that he spoke very plainly to Fould that
very evening at the Tuileries on my behalf.
This much at least is certain, that from that moment I noticed
that my affairs took a more favourable turn in that quarter. Yet
the deciding factor was found at last in a movement on my behalf
from a source I had hitherto entirely disregarded. Bulow,
arrested by his interest in the outcome of these matters,
continued to prolong his stay in Paris. He had come with letters
of introduction from the Princess-Regent of Prussia to the
Ambassador, Count Pourtales. His hope that the latter might
eventually express a desire to have me presented to him had so
far remained unfulfilled. In order, therefore, to compel him to
make my acquaintance, he finally adopted the plan of inviting the
Prussian Ambassador and his attache, Count Paul Hatzfeld, to
lunch at Vachette's, a first-class restaurant, where I was to
accompany him. The result of this meeting was certainly
everything that could be desired. Not only did Count Pourtales
charm me with the simplicity and undisguised warmth of his
conversation and attitude towards me, but from this time forward
Count Hatzfeld used to visit me and also frequented my Wednesday
evening At Homes, and at last brought me the news that there was
a distinct movement in my favour at the Tuileries. Finally, one
day he requested me to go with him to call on the Emperor's
military chamberlain, Count Bacciochi, and from this official I
received the first hints of a reply to my earlier application to
his Imperial Majesty, who now expressed a wish to know why I
wanted to give a concert in the Grand Opera House. No one, he
said, took any serious interest in such enterprises, and it could
do me no good. He thought it might perhaps be better if he were
to persuade M. Alphonse Royer, the director of this imperial
institution, to come to some understanding with me respecting the
composition of an opera written on purpose for Paris. As I would
not agree to his suggestion, this and other subsequent interviews
remained for the time being without result. On one of these
occasions Bulow accompanied me, and we were both struck by a
ridiculous habit peculiar to this singular old man, whom Belloni
said he had known in his youth as a box-office clerk at the Scala
Theatre in Milan. He suffered from involuntary spasmodic
movements of the hands, the result of certain not very creditable
physical infirmities, and probably to conceal these he
continually toyed with a small stick, which he tossed to and fro
with seeming affectation. But even after I had at last succeeded
in gaining access to the imperial officials, it seemed as though
next to nothing would be done on my behalf, when suddenly one
morning Count Hatzfeld overwhelmed me with news that on the
preceding evening the Emperor had given orders for a performance
of my Tannhauser. The decisive word had been spoken by Princess
Metternich. As I happened to be the subject of conversation near
the Emperor, she had joined the circle, and on being asked for
her opinion, she said she had heard Tannhauser in Dresden, and
spoke in such enthusiastic terms in favour of it that the Emperor
at once promised to give orders for its production. It is true
that Fould, on receiving the imperial command the same evening,
broke out into a furious rage, but the Emperor told him he could
not go back upon his promise, as he had pledged his word to
Princess Metternich. I was now once more taken to Bacciochi, who
this time received me very seriously, but first of all made the
singular inquiry as to what was the subject of my opera. This I
had to outline for him, and when I had finished, he exclaimed
with satisfaction, 'Ah! le Pape ne vient pas en scene? C'est bon!
On nous avait dit que vous aviez fait paraitre le Saint Pere, et
ceci, vous comprenez, n'aurait pas pu passer. Du reste, monsieur,
on sait a present que vous avez enormement de genie; l'Empereur a
donne l'ordre de representer votre opera.' He moreover assured me
that every facility should be placed at my disposal for the
fulfilment of my wishes, and that henceforth I must make my
arrangements direct with the manager Royer. This new turn of
affairs put me into a state of vague agitation, for at first my
inner conviction could only make me feel that singular
misunderstandings would be sure to arise. For one thing, all hope
of being able to carry out my original plan of producing my work
in Paris with a picked German company was now at an end, and I
could not conceal from myself that I had been launched upon an
adventure which might turn out well or badly. A few interviews
with the manager Royer sufficed to enlighten me as to the
character of the enterprise entrusted to me. His chief anxiety
was to convince me of the necessity of rearranging my second act,
because according to him it was absolutely necessary for a grand
ballet to be introduced at this point. To this and similar
suggestions I hardly deigned to reply, and as I went home asked
myself what I should do next, in case I decided to refuse to
produce my Tannhauser at the Grand Opera.
Meanwhile other cares, more immediately connected with my
personal affairs, pressed heavily upon me, and compelled me to
devote every effort to their removal. With this object in view I
decided at once to carry out an undertaking suggested to me by
Giacomelli, namely, a repetition of my concerts in Brussels. A
contract had been made with the Theatre de la Monnaie there for
three concerts, half the proceeds of which, after the deduction
of all expenses, was to be mine. Accompanied by my agent, I
started on 19th March for the Belgian capital, to see whether I
could not manage to recoup the money lost on my Paris concerts.
Under the guidance of my mentor I found myself compelled to call
upon all sorts of newspaper editors and, among other Belgian
worthies, a certain M. Fetis pere. All I knew about him was that,
years before, he had allowed himself to be bribed by Meyerbeer to
write articles against me, and I now found it amusing to enter
into conversation with this man, who, although he assumed great
airs of authority, yet in the end declared himself entirely of my
opinion.
Here also I made the acquaintance of a very remarkable man, the
Councillor of State Klindworth, whose daughter, or, as some said,
his wife, had been recommended to me by Liszt when I was in
London. But I had not seen her on that occasion, and I now had
the pleasant surprise of being invited to call upon her in
Brussels. While she, on her part, showed the greatest cordiality
towards me, M. Klindworth provided me with inexhaustible
entertainment by the narrative of his wonderful career as a
diplomatist in numerous transactions of which I had hitherto
known nothing. I dined with them several times, and met Count and
Countess Condenhoven, the latter being a daughter of my old
friend Mme. Kalergis. M. Klindworth showed a keen and lasting
interest in me, which even prompted him to give me a letter of
recommendation, to Prince Metternich, with whose father he said
he had been on very familiar terms. He had a strange habit of
interlarding his otherwise frivolous conversation with continual
references to an omnipotent Providence, and when, during one of
our later interviews, I once hazarded a risky retort, he quite
lost his temper, and I fancied he was going to break off our
connection. Fortunately this fear was not realised, either at
that time or afterwards.
But except for these interesting acquaintances, I gained nothing
in Brussels but anxiety and fruitless exertion. The first
concert, for which season-tickets were suspended, drew a large
audience. But, owing to my misconception of a clause in our
agreement, the cost of musical accompaniment, which was put down
to me alone, was reckoned at so high a figure by the managers,
that next to nothing was left over by way of profit. This
deficiency was to be recouped from the second concert, to which,
however, season-ticket holders were admitted free. But beyond
these persons, who, I was told, almost filled the house, there
were few single-ticket holders, so that there was not enough left
to pay my travelling and hotel expenses, which had been increased
by the inclusion of my agent and servant. I consequently gave up
the idea of having a third concert, and set off once more for
Paris in a not very cheerful frame of mind, but with the gift of
a vase of Bohemian glass from Mme. Street, Klindworth's daughter
whom I have already mentioned. Nevertheless, my stay in Brussels,
including a short trip from there to Antwerp, had served to
distract my thoughts a little. As I did not at that moment feel
at all inclined to devote my precious time to looking at works of
art, I contented myself in Antwerp with a cursory glance at its
outward aspect, which I found less rich in antiquities than I had
anticipated. The situation of its famous citadel proved
peculiarly disappointing. In view of the first act of my
Lohengrin I had presumed that this citadel, which I imagined as
the ancient keep of Antwerp, would from the opposite side of the
Scheldt be a prominent object to the eye. Instead of which,
nothing whatever was to be seen but a monotonous plain, with
fortifications sunk into the earth. After this, whenever I saw
Lohengrin again, I could not restrain a smile at the scene-
painter's castle, perched aloft in the background on its stately
mountain.
On returning to Paris at the end of March my sole anxiety was how
to repair my impecunious and therefore hopeless position. The
pressure of these monetary cares seemed all the more incongruous
from the fact that the notoriety of my position had made my
house, where, of course, I allowed no signs of poverty to appear,
exceedingly popular. My Wednesday receptions became more
brilliant than ever. Interesting strangers sought me out, in the
hope that they, too, might attain to equal fortune through
knowing me. Fraulein Ingeborg Stark, who afterwards married young
Hans von Bronsart, put in an appearance among us, a vision of
bewitching elegance, and played the piano, in which she was
modestly assisted by Fraulein Aline Hund of Weimar. A highly
gifted young French musician, Camille Saint-Saens, also played a
very agreeable part in our musical entertainments; a noteworthy
addition to my other French acquaintances was made in the person
of M. Frederic Villot. He was Conservateur des Tableaux du
Louvre, an exceedingly polished and cultured man, whom I met for
the first time in Flaxland's music-shop, where I did a good deal
of business. To my surprise I happened to overhear him asking
about the score of Tristan, which he had ordered. On being
introduced to him I learned, in reply to my inquiry, that he
already possessed the scores of my earlier operas; and when I
then asked whether he thought it possible for me to make my
dramatic compositions pay, as I could not understand how he,
without any knowledge of the German language, could rightly
appreciate the music, which was so closely allied to the sense of
the poetry, he answered wittily that it was precisely my music
which afforded him the best guidance to a comprehension of the
poem itself. This reply strongly attracted me to the man, and
from that time I found great pleasure in keeping up an active
correspondence with him. For this reason, when I brought out a
translation of my operatic poems, I felt that its very detailed
preface could not be dedicated to any worthier man. As he was not
able to play the scores of my operas himself, he had them
performed for him by Saint-Saens, whom he apparently patronised.
I thus learned to appreciate the skill and talent of this young
musician, which was simply amazing. With an unparalleled sureness
and rapidity of glance with regard to even the most complicated
orchestral score, this young man combined a not less marvellous
memory. He was not only able to play my scores, including Tristan,
by heart, but could also reproduce their several parts, whether
they were leading or minor themes. And this he did with such
precision that one might easily have thought that he had the
actual music before his eyes. I afterwards learned that this
stupendous receptivity for all the technical material of a work
was not accompanied by any corresponding intensity of productive
power; so that when he tried to set up as a composer I quite lost
sight of him in the course of time.
I now had to enter into closer communication with the manager of
the Opera House, M. Royer, with regard to the production of
Tannhauser, which he had been commissioned to prepare. Two months
passed before I was able to make up my mind whether to say yes or
no to the business. At no single interview did this man fail to
press for the introduction of a ballet into the second act. I
might bewilder him, but with all the eloquence at my command I
could never convince him on the point. At last, however, I could
no longer refuse to consider the advisability of preparing a
suitable translation of the poem.
Arrangements for this work had so far progressed very slowly. As
I have already said, I had found M. de Charnal altogether
incompetent, Roger had permanently disappeared from my sight, and
Gasperini showed no real desire for the work. At last a certain
Herr Lindau came to see me, who protested that with the aid of
young Edmond Roche he could produce a faithful translation of
Tannhauser. This man Lindau was a native of Magdeburg, who had
fled to escape the Prussian military service. He had first been
introduced to me by Giacomelli on an occasion when the French
singer engaged by him to sing 'L'Etoile du Soir' at one of my
concerts had disappointed us, and he had recommended Lindau as a
very efficient substitute. This man promptly declared his
readiness to undertake this song, with which he was quite
familiar, without any rehearsal, an offer which led me to regard
him as a genius sent down from heaven on purpose for me. Nothing
could, therefore, equal my amazement at the unbounded impudence
of the man; for on the evening of the concert he executed his
task with the most amateurish timidity; he did not enunciate a
single note of the song clearly, and nothing but astonishment at
so unprecedented a performance appeared to restrain the audience
from breaking out into marked disapproval. Yet, in spite of this,
Lindau, who had all sorts of explanations and excuses to offer
for his short-comings, contrived to insinuate himself into my
house, if not as a successful singer, at least as a sympathetic
friend. There, thanks to Minna's partiality, he soon became an
almost daily guest. In spite of a certain inward repugnance
towards him, I treated him with tolerant good-nature, not so much
because of the 'enormous connection' he said he could influence,
but because he really showed himself to be a most obliging fellow
on all sorts of occasions.
But the fact that finally induced me to grant him a share in the
translation of Tannhauser was his suggestion that young Roche
should also participate in the work.
I had become acquainted with Roche immediately after my arrival
in Paris (in the September of the previous year), and this in a
somewhat remarkable and flattering way. In order to receive my
furniture on its arrival from Zurich I had to go to the Custom
House, where I was referred to a pale, seedy-looking young man,
who appeared full of life, however, with whom I had to settle my
business. When I wished to give him my name, he enthusiastically
interrupted me with the exclamation, 'O, je connais bien Monsieur
Richard Wagner, puisque j'ai son portrait suspendu au-dessus de
mon piano.' Much astonished, I asked what he knew about me, and
learned that by careful study of my pianoforte arrangements he
had become one of my most fervent admirers. After he had helped
me with self-sacrificing attentions to complete my tiresome
business with the Custom House, I made him promise to pay me a
visit. This he did, and I was able to obtain a clearer insight
into the necessitous position of the poor fellow, who, so far as
I was able to judge, showed signs of possessing great poetic
talent. He further informed me that he had tried to eke out a
precarious living as a violinist in the orchestras of the smaller
vaudeville theatres, but that being a married man he would, for
the sake of his family, much prefer a situation in some office
with a fixed salary and prospects of promotion. I soon found that
he thoroughly understood my music, which, he assured me, gave him
the only pleasure he had in his hard life. As regards his power
of poetical composition, I could only gather from Gasperini and
other competent judges that he could, at any rate, turn out very
good verse. I had already thought of him as a translator for
Tannhauser, and now that the only obstacle to his doing the work,
his ignorance of the German language, was removed by Lindau's
proffered collaboration, the possibility of such an arrangement
at once decided me to accept the latter's offer.
The first thing on which we agreed was that a fair prose
translation of the whole subject should be taken in hand, and
this task I naturally entrusted to Lindau alone. A serious delay,
however, intervened before this was delivered to me, which was
subsequently explained by the fact that Lindau was quite unable
to provide even this dry version, and had pressed the work on
another man, a Frenchman who knew German, and whom he induced to
undertake it by holding out hopes of a fee, to be squeezed out of
me later on. At the same time Roche turned a few of the leading
stanzas of my poem into verse, with which I was well contented.
As I was thus satisfied about the ability of my two helpers, I
visited Royer in order to make my position secure by obtaining
his authority for a contract with the two men. He did not seem to
like my placing the work in the hands of two perfectly unknown
people; but I insisted that they should at least have a fair
trial. As I was obstinately resolved not to withdraw the work
from Roche, but soon realised Lindau's complete inefficiency, I
joined in the task myself at a cost of much exertion. We
frequently spent four hours together in my room in translating a
few verses, during which time I often felt tempted to kick Lindau
out, for although he did not even understand the German text, he
was always ready with the most impudent suggestions. It was only
because I could not think of any other way of keeping poor Roche
in the business that I endured such an absurd association.
This irritating and laborious work lasted for several months,
during which I had to enter into fuller negotiations with Royer
respecting his preparations for the production of Tannhauser, and
particularly with regard to the cast and distribution of the
parts. It struck me as odd that hardly any of the leading singers
of the Opera were suggested by him. As a matter of fact none of
them aroused my sympathy, with the sole exception of Mme.
Gueymard, whom I would gladly have secured for Venus, but who,
for reasons I never clearly understood, was refused me. In order
to form an honest opinion of the company at my disposal, I now
had to attend several performances of such operas as La Favorita,
Il Trovatore, and Semiramis, on which occasions my inner
conviction told me so clearly that I was being hopelessly led
astray, that each time I reached home I felt I must renounce the
whole enterprise. On the other hand, I found continual
encouragement in the generous way in which M. Royer, in obedience
to authority, now offered to secure me any singer I might choose
to designate. The most important item was a tenor for the title-
role. I could think of no one but Niemann of Hanover, whose fame
reached me from every quarter. Even Frenchmen such as Foucher de
Careil and Perrin, who had heard him in my operas, confirmed the
report of his great talent. The manager also regarded such an
acquisition as highly desirable for his theatre, and Niemann was
accordingly invited to come to Paris with a view of being
engaged. Besides him, M. Royer wished me to agree to his securing
a certain Mme. Tedesco, a tragedienne, who, on account of her
beauty, would be a very valuable addition to the repertoire of
his theatre, protesting that he could think of no woman better
fitted for the part of Venus. Without knowing the lady I gave my
consent to this excellent proposal, and moreover agreed to the
engagement of a Mlle. Sax, a still unspoiled young singer with a
very beautiful voice, as well as of an Italian baritone, Morelli,
whose sonorous tones, as contrasted with the sickly French
singers of this class, had greatly pleased me during my visits to
the Opera. When these arrangements were concluded, I thought I
had done all that was really necessary, though I did not cherish
any very firm conviction on the matter.
Amid these labours I passed my forty-seventh birthday in a far
from happy frame of mind, to which, however, on the evening of
this day, the peculiarly bright glow of Jupiter gave me an omen
of better things to come. The beautiful weather, suitable to the
time of year, which in Paris is never favourable to the conduct
of business, had only tended to increase the stringency of my
needs. I was and still continued to be without any prospect of
meeting my household expenses, which had now become very heavy.
As I was ever anxious, amid all my other discomforts, to find
some relief from this burden, I had made an agreement with the
music-dealer Flaxland for the sale of all my French rights in the
Fliegender Hollander, Tannhauser, and Lohengrin for whatever they
would fetch. Our contract stipulated that for each of these three
operas he was to pay me a sum of one thousand francs down, and
further payments on their being performed in a Paris theatre,
namely, one thousand francs after the first ten performances, and
the same amount for the following performances up to the
twentieth. I at once notified my friend Pusinelli of this
contract, having made this condition in his favour when selling
my operas to Meser's successors. This I did by way of
guaranteeing him the repayment of the capital advanced for their
publication. I begged him, however, to allow me to retain
Flaxland's first instalment on account, as otherwise I should be
stranded in Paris without the means of bringing my operas to the
point of being profitable. My friend agreed to all my
suggestions. The Dresden publisher, on the contrary, was just as
disagreeable, and complained at once that I was infringing his
rights in France, and so worried Flaxland that the latter felt
justified in raising all sorts of difficulties against me.
I had almost become involved in fresh complications in
consequence, when one day Count Paul Hatzfeld appeared at my
house with a request that I would visit Mme. Kalergis, who had
just arrived in Paris, to receive certain communications from
her. I now saw the lady again for the first time since my stay in
Paris with Liszt in 1853. She greeted me by declaring how much
she regretted not having been present at my concerts in the
preceding winter, as she had thereby missed the chance of helping
me in a time of great stress. She had heard that I had suffered
great losses, the account of which she had been told ran to ten
thousand francs, and she now begged me to accept that sum from
her hand. Although I had thought it right to deny these losses to
Count Hatzfeld, when an application was made to the Prussian
embassy on behalf of the odious subscription-list, yet I had now
no reason whatever for hiding the truth from this noble-hearted
woman. I felt as though something were now being fulfilled which
I had always been entitled to expect, and my only impulse was an
immediate desire to show my gratitude to this rare lady by at
least doing something for her. All the friction which disturbed
our later intercourse sprang solely from my inability to fulfil
this desire, in which I felt ever more and more confirmed by her
singular character and restless, unsettled life. For the present
I endeavoured to do something for her which should prove the
reality of my feeling of obligation. I improvised a special
performance of the second act of my Tristan, in which Mme.
Viardot was to share the singing parts with myself, and on which
occasion my friendship for the latter received a considerable
impetus; while for the pianoforte accompaniment I summoned
Klindworth at my own expense from London. This exceedingly select
performance took place in Mme. Viardot's house. Besides Mme.
Kalergis, in whose honour alone it was given, Berlioz was the
only person present. Mme. Viardot had specially charged herself
with securing his presence, apparently with the avowed object of
easing the strained relations between Berlioz and myself. I was
never clear as to the effect produced upon both performers and
listeners by the presentation under such circumstances of this
extraordinary selection. Mme. Kalergis remained dumb. Berlioz
merely expressed himself warmly on the chaleur of my delivery,
which may very well have afforded a strong contrast to that of my
partner in the work, who rendered most of her part in low tones.
Klindworth seemed particularly stirred to anger at the result.
His own share was admirably executed; but he declared that he had
been consumed with indignation at observing Viardot's lukewarm
execution of her part, in which she was probably determined by
the presence of Berlioz. By way of set-off to this, we were very
pleased by the performance, on another evening, of the first act
of the Walkure, at which, in addition to Mme. Kalergis, the
singer Niemann was present. This man had now arrived in Paris, at
the request of the manager Royer, to arrange a contract. I
confess I was astounded at the pose he assumed, and the airs with
which he presented himself at my door with the question, 'Well,
do you want me or do you not?' Nevertheless, when we went to the
manager's office he pulled himself together, so as to make a good
effect. In this he succeeded admirably, for every one was amazed
to meet a tenor of such extraord |
