Dearest Friend: Thanks for your beautiful London notice, which I have just read in Brendel’s “Zeitschrift.” As I am thoroughly acquainted with all the circumstances, I pronounce it excellent; in short, so important, and so always hitting the mark, that were I not the leading subject I should have much less restraint in praising it.Be assured that the remembrance I seem to have left with you will always remain one of my most cherished thoughts. That I was so fortunate to create a good opinion in you, is to me exhilarating and touching. After all, what a lot of trouble we both had to endure. Be content with these few words, written immediately after reading your notice, and just before taking my accustomed stroll, and be assured that they contain much joy.Farewell, dearest Ferdinand, and continue to love me.Yours,Richard Wagner.Many, many hearty greetings for sister Léonie and the god-child!Adieu.Zurich, 15th January, 1856.
Dearest Friend: Thanks for your beautiful London notice, which I have just read in Brendel’s “Zeitschrift.” As I am thoroughly acquainted with all the circumstances, I pronounce it excellent; in short, so important, and so always hitting the mark, that were I not the leading subject I should have much less restraint in praising it.
Be assured that the remembrance I seem to have left with you will always remain one of my most cherished thoughts. That I was so fortunate to create a good opinion in you, is to me exhilarating and touching. After all, what a lot of trouble we both had to endure. Be content with these few words, written immediately after reading your notice, and just before taking my accustomed stroll, and be assured that they contain much joy.
Farewell, dearest Ferdinand, and continue to love me.
Yours,Richard Wagner.
Many, many hearty greetings for sister Léonie and the god-child!
Adieu.
Zurich, 15th January, 1856.
Again was Wagner laid upon a sick-bed. One anxiety seems to have possessed his mind—the longing to complete the “Walküre.” The following letter is of importance, since it shows the composer’s frame of mind during the composition of the above work, a state of “pure despair” which, says Wagner, could alone have created it:—
THE “WALKÜRE” POETRY.
Best thanks, dearest friend for your letters. You are right; I have again been laid on a sick-bed, and when at last I became convalescent I was in a perfect rage to get to the score of my “Walküre” (in the composition of which I have been hindered for the last year). So much do I long to finish it that I have entirely ceased letter-writing. Altogether, the older one grows, that is to say, in sense and reason, the more the worldly events of every-day life dwindle away into nothingness. That which one experiences in the inward heart becomes more and more difficult to explain. I do not mean to say that the events one has passed through, and which have touched you most intimately, cease to exist to live on; no, no; therefore I assure you that you and your family are ever vividly before me, yet as soon as one commences to write one finds after all there is nothing of real worth to put down. On the whole, we can only agree with each other, then there remains nothing but actual occurrences, views, and intentions to discuss. In these my life at present is as poor as my art creations are prolific, and which, indeed, are surging to the surface and becoming richer and richer. When you come to me, and I play my works to you, you will agree with me. In so far as the world has a claim upon me I can point solely to my work. I have nothing else to offer to it.If you read the poetry of the “Walküre” again, you will find such a superlative of sorrow, pain, and despair expressed therein, that you will understand me when I say the music terribly excites me. I could not again accomplish a similar work. When it is once finished, much will then appear quite different (looking at the work as an art whole), and will afford enjoyment, whereas nothing but pure despair could have created it. But we shall see!Altogether I live so secluded and retired that I feel at a loss when I am anxious to talk to you about it. I look forward to the time of Liszt’s coming to me as a bracing up of my heart. Alas! on account of illness, I was compelled last winter to put off the visit. About the illness in your little family I take a hearty interest. In your new garden I picture you gambolling with your children. How I wish that I had a little house with a little garden attached; alas! an enjoyment hitherto unattainable.At first I was tolerably indifferent about the sad conflagration,[21]but when I thought of Sainton it became painful to me. Now I hear that Gye has managed to continue his opera notwithstanding, and therefore Sainton’s income, no doubt, will not be endangered,and the misfortune overcome! That he now plays under Wylde amuses me much. It was ridiculous that he had to resign the Old Philharmonic. After all, Costa has succeeded in this! When I recall my London visit, I find I do not remember much except the friends I left there; they are all that remind me of it—happily!But now try and come to visit me. For my operas wait until you hear them produced by me. Now you can get a very inadequate impression of them. If, therefore, you desire more of me, come to me yourself; in so doing you will give me great pleasure. I remain here during the summer. If I can arrange it, I intend going in the autumn with Semper to Rome; at least, such is my present hope. But continue to give me frequent news of you, and be assured that in so doing you give the greatest gratification toYourRichard Wagner.Greet your dear wife heartily for me; she is to continue to hold me in good remembrance. Happiness and prosperity to my godchild!Kiss poor Lüders a thousand times; I shall soon inquire more precisely after Bumpus.Adieu,R. W.ZURICH, 28th March, 1856.
Best thanks, dearest friend for your letters. You are right; I have again been laid on a sick-bed, and when at last I became convalescent I was in a perfect rage to get to the score of my “Walküre” (in the composition of which I have been hindered for the last year). So much do I long to finish it that I have entirely ceased letter-writing. Altogether, the older one grows, that is to say, in sense and reason, the more the worldly events of every-day life dwindle away into nothingness. That which one experiences in the inward heart becomes more and more difficult to explain. I do not mean to say that the events one has passed through, and which have touched you most intimately, cease to exist to live on; no, no; therefore I assure you that you and your family are ever vividly before me, yet as soon as one commences to write one finds after all there is nothing of real worth to put down. On the whole, we can only agree with each other, then there remains nothing but actual occurrences, views, and intentions to discuss. In these my life at present is as poor as my art creations are prolific, and which, indeed, are surging to the surface and becoming richer and richer. When you come to me, and I play my works to you, you will agree with me. In so far as the world has a claim upon me I can point solely to my work. I have nothing else to offer to it.
If you read the poetry of the “Walküre” again, you will find such a superlative of sorrow, pain, and despair expressed therein, that you will understand me when I say the music terribly excites me. I could not again accomplish a similar work. When it is once finished, much will then appear quite different (looking at the work as an art whole), and will afford enjoyment, whereas nothing but pure despair could have created it. But we shall see!
Altogether I live so secluded and retired that I feel at a loss when I am anxious to talk to you about it. I look forward to the time of Liszt’s coming to me as a bracing up of my heart. Alas! on account of illness, I was compelled last winter to put off the visit. About the illness in your little family I take a hearty interest. In your new garden I picture you gambolling with your children. How I wish that I had a little house with a little garden attached; alas! an enjoyment hitherto unattainable.
At first I was tolerably indifferent about the sad conflagration,[21]but when I thought of Sainton it became painful to me. Now I hear that Gye has managed to continue his opera notwithstanding, and therefore Sainton’s income, no doubt, will not be endangered,and the misfortune overcome! That he now plays under Wylde amuses me much. It was ridiculous that he had to resign the Old Philharmonic. After all, Costa has succeeded in this! When I recall my London visit, I find I do not remember much except the friends I left there; they are all that remind me of it—happily!
But now try and come to visit me. For my operas wait until you hear them produced by me. Now you can get a very inadequate impression of them. If, therefore, you desire more of me, come to me yourself; in so doing you will give me great pleasure. I remain here during the summer. If I can arrange it, I intend going in the autumn with Semper to Rome; at least, such is my present hope. But continue to give me frequent news of you, and be assured that in so doing you give the greatest gratification to
YourRichard Wagner.
Greet your dear wife heartily for me; she is to continue to hold me in good remembrance. Happiness and prosperity to my godchild!
Kiss poor Lüders a thousand times; I shall soon inquire more precisely after Bumpus.
Adieu,R. W.
ZURICH, 28th March, 1856.
TROUBLED BY SCHOPENHAUER.
The next letter is again dated from Zurich:—
That’s right, dearest Ferdinandus, to determine to leave Richard Wagner of the future to come to the R. W. of the present. Myalter egowill not regret it. When you are here I will hammer out the “Walküre” to you, and I hope it will force its way from ear to heart. Then there is a bit of the “Siegfried,” and that, too, must I sing to you. How my head is full of projects for work!Minna is very delighted at the prospect of seeing you, and says she will treat you as a brother. I have told her how heartily you enter into the mysteries of household matters, and are of just that temperament to agree with her, and appreciate that domestic skill for which I am totally unfitted. To me also your presence will be a delight, for I can talk to you with open heart, and have much tosay to you. Now see that you do not let anything intervene that shall prevent your coming. I am just now full of work, and when you are here I shall work all the same. Some hours during the morning shall be devoted to work while you shall be sent upstairs to deeply study Schopenhauer, and then shall we not argue and discuss like orators in the old Athenian lyceum! Two months, and you will be with me! ah! that is good! Then bring all your brain-power, all your keen penetration, for you shall explain to me some obscure passages in that best of writers, Schopenhauer, which now torment me exceedingly. He will, perhaps, cause you many researches of the heart, so you must come fully equipped with all your intellectual faculties in the full vigorous glow of health, and then I promise myself some happy hours. And what shall be your reward? Well, the “Walküre” shall entreat you, and man, the original man, “Siegfried” shall show you what he is! Now, good, dear friend, come!Mind, now, no English restraint and propriety; bother that invisible old lady, Mrs. Grundy, that hovers over the English horizon, ruling with a rod of iron what is supposed to be proper and virtuous!Heartiest greetings to dear sister Léonie, and tell her that her son, Richard Wagner the elder, sends his best affection to the younger, and inquires whether he has yet been taught how to make money.Yours,Richard Wagner.P.S. Ferdinand, bring me a packet of snuff from that shop in Oxford Street, you know, where you got it before for me.R. W.Zurich, May, 1856.
That’s right, dearest Ferdinandus, to determine to leave Richard Wagner of the future to come to the R. W. of the present. Myalter egowill not regret it. When you are here I will hammer out the “Walküre” to you, and I hope it will force its way from ear to heart. Then there is a bit of the “Siegfried,” and that, too, must I sing to you. How my head is full of projects for work!
Minna is very delighted at the prospect of seeing you, and says she will treat you as a brother. I have told her how heartily you enter into the mysteries of household matters, and are of just that temperament to agree with her, and appreciate that domestic skill for which I am totally unfitted. To me also your presence will be a delight, for I can talk to you with open heart, and have much tosay to you. Now see that you do not let anything intervene that shall prevent your coming. I am just now full of work, and when you are here I shall work all the same. Some hours during the morning shall be devoted to work while you shall be sent upstairs to deeply study Schopenhauer, and then shall we not argue and discuss like orators in the old Athenian lyceum! Two months, and you will be with me! ah! that is good! Then bring all your brain-power, all your keen penetration, for you shall explain to me some obscure passages in that best of writers, Schopenhauer, which now torment me exceedingly. He will, perhaps, cause you many researches of the heart, so you must come fully equipped with all your intellectual faculties in the full vigorous glow of health, and then I promise myself some happy hours. And what shall be your reward? Well, the “Walküre” shall entreat you, and man, the original man, “Siegfried” shall show you what he is! Now, good, dear friend, come!
Mind, now, no English restraint and propriety; bother that invisible old lady, Mrs. Grundy, that hovers over the English horizon, ruling with a rod of iron what is supposed to be proper and virtuous!
Heartiest greetings to dear sister Léonie, and tell her that her son, Richard Wagner the elder, sends his best affection to the younger, and inquires whether he has yet been taught how to make money.
Yours,Richard Wagner.
P.S. Ferdinand, bring me a packet of snuff from that shop in Oxford Street, you know, where you got it before for me.
R. W.
Zurich, May, 1856.
INthe summer of 1856 I spent two months under Wagner’s roof at Zurich. As it was holiday time for me, and Wagner had no engagements of any importance, we passed the whole period in each other’s society debating, in a most earnest, philosophical, logical manner, art matters, most of our discussions taking place during our rambles upon the mountains.
One figure I found in that quiet, tastily arranged chalet, who filled a large portion of Wagner’s life; to whom, first, Wagner owed an unpayable debt, and then that wide world of countless ones which has been enriched by the artist’s creations. But that solitary, heroic Minna is, it seems—judging from the many writings which have appeared of the master—likely to be forgotten. Her glory is obscured by the more brilliant luminary that succeeded her. Still a domestic picture of the creator of the “Walkyrie,” whilst that work was actually in hand, is of interest, as herein we see the man, the actual man, the human being, with his irritabilities and good humour, all under the gentle sway of a soft-hearted, brave woman.
CHARACTER OF MINNA.
Nor should the reader think that the worth of Wagner’s first wife is here over-estimated through partiality. There is another witness to her good qualities, who certainlywill not be suspected of friendly feeling, viz. Count von Beust, the Saxon minister, who vigorously and unrelentingly persecuted the so-called revolutionist in 1849. Beust knew Minna in Dresden, and what he then learnt of the chapel master’s wife was not obliterated by forty years active participation in the diplomatic subtleties of European politics. In his autobiography,[22]published the latter end of 1886, he speaks of Minna’s amiable character, and describes her as an excellent woman.
Minna may be spoken of as a comely woman. Gentle and active in her movements, unobtrusive in speech and bearing, possessing a forethought akin to divination, she administered to her husband’s wants before he knew them himself. It was this lovable foresight of the woman which caused such a horrible vacancy in Wagner’s life when, later, Minna left him, a break which he so bitterly bemoaned, and which all the adoration and wealth of Louis of Bavaria could not atone for. As a housewife she was most efficient. In their days of distress she cheerfully performed what are vulgarly termed menial services. In this she is as fitting a parallel of Mrs. Carlyle, as Wagner is of Carlyle. Both the men were thinkers, aye, and “original” thinkers (which in Carlyle’s estimation was “the event of all others,” a fact of superlative importance). They both elected hard fare, nay, actual deprivation, to submission to the unrealities, and both are educators of our teachers: and Minna’s efforts in the house and sustaining Wagner in the dark days is the pendant of Mrs. Carlyle’s scrubbingthe floors of the little house at Scotsbrig in the wilds of Scottish moors. But though Minna was not the intellectual equal of this cultured Scottish lady, she is not to be confounded with the German housewife, so often erroneously spoken of as a sort of head cook. She was eminently practical, and full of remedies for sickness.
NOT A TRUE PESSIMIST.
In art, however, Minna could not comprehend the gifts of her husband. He was an idealist; she, a woman alive to our mundane existence and its necessities. She worshipped afar off, receiving all he said without inquiry. In their early years their common youth glossed over difficulties. Moreover, Wagner was not in the full possession of his wings. He knew not his own power. For him exile was the turning-point of his greatness, the crucible wherein was destroyed the dross of his art, the fire from which he emerged, the teacher of a purified art. Exile was the period of his literary achievements. There was the test of his greatness. “A man thinks he has something to say. He indulges in an abundance of spoken language, but when in the quiet of his study he seeks to transfix on paper the fleeting theories of his brain, then is he face to face with himself, with actualities. And in exile Wagner first sought to set down in writing the theories which hitherto, in a limited manner only, had governed his work.”[23]From this self-examination Wagner rose up nobler and stronger. And here it was that Minna failed to keep pace with him. She had been a singer and an actress, and could, in a manner, interpret his work, but the meaning of it lay deep, hidden from her. It was not her fault, yet she was to suffer for it. Still I must point out that all Wagner’s works werecreated during the period of his first marriage. His union with Cosima von Bülow is dated 25th August, 1870, since which time “Götterdämmerung” (a poem written in 1848) and “Parsifal” only, have been given to the world.
While I was with Wagner it was his invariable habit to rise at the good hour of half-past six in the morning. If Minna was not about, he would go to the piano, and soon would be heard, at first softly, then with odd harmonies, full orchestral effects, as it were, “Get up, get up, thou merry Swiss-boy.” That was his fun. Early breakfast would be served in the garden, after which Wagner would hand me “Schopenhauer,” with my allotted task for the morning study. This plan, though Wagner’s, was one which coincided happily with my own inclinations. I was, as it were, ordered up to my room, there to ponder over the arguments of the pessimistic philosopher, and so be well prepared for discussion at the dinner-table, or later, during our regular daily stroll.
Now to me Schopenhauer was not the original great thinker that Wagner considered him. Some of his most prominent points I had found enunciated already by Burke, that eloquent and vigorous writer, in his “Enquiring into the Origin of our Ideas on the Sublime and Beautiful.” The personally well attested statement that “the ideas of pain are much more powerful than those which enter on the part of pleasure,” was so well reasoned by Burke, that Wagner induced me to read the whole of that author’s work to him.
Wagner a pessimist! So he would have had every one believe then, and for some time later too. But my impression then and now is that, as with a good manypeople, pessimism is only pre-eminent when fortune fails to favour. This feeling is confirmed by an extract recently published from certain manuscripts found after Wagner’s death: “He who does not strive to find joy in life is unworthy to live.” Certainly this was not the utterance of Wagner in the dark days of his work. While on this subject I may recall one incident which has remained prominently with me because of the locality where it occurred. We were on the top of one of the heights overlooking the Zurich Lake, discussing the much debated Schopenhauer, when I observed that pessimism, in a well-balanced mind, could only lead to optimism, on the ground that, “what cannot be cured must be endured,” and jocularly cited from Brant’s “Narrenschiff,” written in the quaint language of the fifteenth century:—
Wer sorget ob die genss gaut blos,Und fegen will all goss und stross,Und eben machen berg und talDer hat keyn freyd, raw überal.He who shall fret that the geese have no dress,The sweeper will be of street, road and mess.He who would level both valley and hillShall have of life’s gifts no joy, but the ill.
Wer sorget ob die genss gaut blos,Und fegen will all goss und stross,Und eben machen berg und talDer hat keyn freyd, raw überal.
He who shall fret that the geese have no dress,The sweeper will be of street, road and mess.He who would level both valley and hillShall have of life’s gifts no joy, but the ill.
Wagner stopped, shouted with exultation, and then commenced probing my knowledge of one of our earliest German poets. He assumed the part, as it were, of a schoolmaster, and so when we arrived home, in a boyish manner, he, delighted, called aloud to Minna before the garden gate was opened, “Ach, Ferdinand knows all about my pet poets.”
THE BIRTH OF “TRISTAN.”
Every morning after breakfast he would read to Minna her favourite newspaper, “Das Leipziger Tageblatt,” a paper renowned for its prosy character. Imagination and improvisation played her some woeful tricks. With a countenance blameless of any indication of the improviser, he would recite a story, embellishing the incidents until their colouring became so overcharged with the ludicrous, that Minna would exclaim, “Ah, Richard, you have again been inventing.”
He had spoken to me of Godfrey von Strassburg, saying, “To-morrow I will read you something good.” He did next day read me “Tristan” in his study, and we spoke long and earnestly as to its adaptability for operatic treatment. Events have shown it to have been the ground-work of the music-drama of the same name. But at the time he spoke, it appeared to me he had no thought of utilizing it as a libretto. This intention only presented itself to his mind while we three were at breakfast on the following day. He was reading the notices in the Leipzic paper with customary variation, when, without any indication, he dropped the paper onto his knees, gazed into space, and seemed as though he were in a trance, nervously moving his lips. What did this portend? Minna had observed the movement, and was about to break the silence by addressing Wagner. Happily, she caught my warning glance and the spell remained unbroken. We waited until Wagner should move. When he did, I said, “I know what you have been doing.” “No,” he answered, somewhat abruptly, “how can you?” “Yes; you have been composing the love-song we were speaking of yesterday, and the story is going to shape itself into a drama!” “You areright as to the composition, but—the libretto—I will reflect.” Such is the history of the first promptings of that wondrous creation, “Tristan and Isolde.”
But how, how did this Titanic genius compose? Did he, like dear old papa Haydn, perform an elaborate toilet, donning his best coat, and pray to be inspired before setting himself to his writing-table away from the piano? or were his surroundings and method akin to those of Beethoven?—a room given over to muddle and confusion, the Bonn master writing, erasing, re-writing, and again scratching out, whileatthe piano! Well, distinctly, Wagner had nothing in common with Haydn. The style of Beethoven is far removed from him as regards the state of his working-room. I am desirous there should be no misunderstanding on Wagner’s method of composing, because I find that my testimony is in conflict with some published statements on this subject, from those whose names carry some weight.
WORKING AT THE PIANO.
Wagner composed at the piano, in an elegantly well arranged study. With him composing was a work of excitement and much labour. He did not shake the notes from his pen as pepper from a caster. How could it be otherwise than labour with a man holding such views as his? Listen to what he says: “For a work to live, to go down to future generations, it must be reflective,” and again in “Opera and Drama,” written about this time, “A composer, in planning and working out a great idea, must pass through a kind of parturition.” Mark the word “parturition.” Such it was with him. He laboured excessively. Not to find or make up a phrase; no, he did not seek his ideas at the piano. He went to the piano with his idea alreadycomposed, and made the piano his sketch-book, wherein he worked and reworked his subject, steadily modelling his matter until it assumed the shape he had in his mind. The subject of representative themes was discussed much by us, and he explained to me that he felt chained to the piano until he had found precisely that which shaped itself before his mental vision. I had one morning retired to my room for the Schopenhauer study, when the piano was pounded—yes, pounded is the exact word—more vigorously than usual. The incessant repetition of one theme arrested my attention. Schopenhauer was discarded. I came down stairs. The theme was being played with another rhythm. I entered the room. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “you have been listening!” “Who could help it?” was my answer. “Your vigorous playing fascinated me more than skilful philosophical dialectics!” And then I inquired as to the reason of the change of rhythm. The explanation astonished me. Wagner was engaged on a portion of “Siegfried,” the scene where Mime tells Siegfried of his murderous intentions whilst under the magic influence of the tarn helm. “But how did you come to change the rhythm?” “Oh,” he said, “I tried and tried, thought and thought, until I got just what I wanted.” And that it was perseverance with him, and not spontaneity, is borne out by another incident. The Wesendoncks were at the chalet. Wagner was at the piano, anxious to shine, doubtless, in the presence of a lady who caused such unpleasantness in his career later on. He was improvising, when, in the midst of a flowing movement, he suddenly stopped, unable to finish. I laughed. Wagner became angry, but I jocularly said,“Ah, you got into acul-de-sacand finisheden queue de poisson.” He could not be angry long, and joined in the laugh too, confessing to me that he was only at his best when reflecting.
The morning’s work over, Wagner’s practice was to take a bath immediately. His old complaint, erysipelas, had induced him to try the water cure, for which purpose he had been to hydropathic establishments, and he continued the treatment with as much success as possible in the chalet.
THE RHINE MAIDENS’ MUSIC.
The animal spirits and physical activity of Wagner have before been referred to by me. He really possessed an unusual amount of physical energy, which, at times, led him to perform reckless actions. One day he said to Minna, “We must do something to give Praeger some pleasure, to give him a joyful memento of his visit; let us take him to Schaffhausen,” and though I remonstrated with him on account of his work, he insisted, and so we went. We stayed there the night. Breakfast was to be in the garden of the hotel. The hour arrived, but Wagner was not to be found. Search in all directions, without results. We hear a shout from a height. Behold! Wagner, the agile, mounted on the back of a plaster lion, placed on the top of a giddy eminence! And how he came down! The recklessness of a school-boy was in all his movements. We were in fear; he laughed heartily, saying he had gone up there to get an appetite for breakfast. The whole incident was a repetition of Wagner’s climbing the roof of the Dresden school-house when he was a lad. Going to and returning from Schaffhausen, Wagner took first-class railway tickets. Now in Switzerland, first-class travellingis confined to a very few, and those only the wealthiest, so that Minna expostulated with him. This was typical. As he described himself, he was more luxurious than Sardanapalus, though he lived then on the generosity of his friends to enjoy such comfort. Minna was the housewife, and strove to curb the unlimited desires of a man who had not the wherewithal to purchase his excess. And Wagner was not to be controlled, for he not only travelled first-class, but also telegraphed to Zurich to have a carriage in waiting for us.
At Zurich Wagner had a sense of his growing power, and he cared not for references to his early youthful struggles. I remember an old Magdeburg singer, with her two daughters, calling to see her old comrade. The mother and her daughters sang the music of the Rhine maidens, Wagner accompanying, and they acquitted themselves admirably. But when the old actress familiarly insisted on taking a pinch of snuff from Wagner’s box, and told stories of the Magdeburg days, then did Wagner resent the familiarity in a marked manner.
When they finished singing, Minna asked me: “Is it really so beautiful as you say? It does not seem so to me, and I am afraid it would not sound so to others.” Such observations as these show where Minna was unable to follow Wagner, and the estrangement arising from uncongeniality of artistic temperament.
When I was at Zurich, Wagner showed me two letters from august personages. First, the Duke of Coburg offered him a thousand dollars and two months’ residence in the palace, if he would score an opera for him. The offer was refused, for he said, “Look, now,though I want the money sadly, yet I cannot and will not score the duke’s opera.”
The second letter was from a count, favourite of the emperor of Brazil. The emperor was an unknown admirer of Wagner’s, it appears, and was desirous of commissioning Wagner to compose an opera, which he would undertake should be performed at the Italian opera house, Rio Janeiro, under his own special direction. Wagner did not care to expatriate himself to this extent, but the offer spurred him on to compose an opera, which he said, “shall be full of melody.” He did write his opera, and it was “Tristan and Isolde.”
How was Wagner as a revolutionist at this time? Well, one of his old Dresden friends came to see him, Gottfried Semper. We spoke of the sad May days, and poor August Roeckel. Again did Wagner evade the topic, or speak slightly of it. The truth is, he was ready to pose as the saviour of a people, but was not equally ready to suffer exile for patriotic actions, and so he sought to minimize the part he had played in 1849. It appears from “The Memoires of Count Beust,” to which I have before alluded, that Wagner also sought to minimize his May doings, by speaking of them as unfortunate, when he called upon the minister after his exile had been removed, on which Beust retorted, “How unfortunate! Are you not aware that the Saxon government possesses a letter wherein you propose burning the prince’s palace?” I am forced to the conclusion that Wagner would have torn out that page from his life’s history had it been possible.
DOMESTIC TROUBLES GATHERING.
During my stay I saw Minna’s jealousy of another. She refused to see in the sympathy of Madame Wesendonckfor Wagner as a composer, that for the artist only. It eventually broke out into a public scandal, and filled the opposition papers with indignant reproaches about Wagner’s ingratitude toward his friend. On leaving Zurich I went to Paris. There I wrote to Wagner an expostulatory letter, alluding to a couple of plays with which we were both familiar, viz. “The Dangerous Neighbourhood” and “The Public Secret,” with a view of warning him privately in such a manner that Minna should not understand should she chance to read my letter. The storm burst but too soon. Wagner wrote to me while I was still in Paris: “The devil is loose. I shall leave Zurich at once and come to you in Paris. Meet me at the Strassburg station.” ... But two days after, this was cancelled by another letter, an extract from which I give.
Matters have been smoothed over, so that I am not compelled to leave here. I hope we shall be quite free from annoyance in a short time; but ach, the virulence, the cruel maliciousness of some of my enemies....
Matters have been smoothed over, so that I am not compelled to leave here. I hope we shall be quite free from annoyance in a short time; but ach, the virulence, the cruel maliciousness of some of my enemies....
I can testify Wagner suffered severely from thoughtlessness.
A STAY IN VENICE.
FROMthe time I left Zurich in the autumn of 1856, to the untoward fate of “Tannhäuser,” at Paris, in March, 1861, of the several letters which passed between Richard Wagner and me I reproduce the few following, as possessing more than a personal interest.
On the 17th July he writes:—
Hard have I toiled at “Siegfried,” for work, work, is my only comfort. Unable to return to the fatherland! Cruel! cruel! and why? The efforts of the grand duke[24]are fruitless; one hopes for the best, but that best comes not. Eh! is not Schopenhauer right? Is not the degree of my torment more intense than that of any joy I have experienced? Here I am working alone, with no seeming probability of my compositions ever being performed as I yearn for. My efforts are in vain, and then when I look round and see what is being done at the theatres,—the list of their representationsfills me with rage,—such unrealities!You tell me that Goethe says, “The genius cannot help himself, and that the demon of fate seizes him by the nape of the neck, and forces him to worknolens volens.” And must I work on without a chance of being heard?Nous verrons....But listen, Ferdinandus! I am pondering over the Tristan legend. It is marvellous how that work constantly leaps from out the darkness into full life, before my mental vision. Wait until next summer,and then you shall “hear something”! But now my health is poor, and I am out of spirits....Keep me in thy love.Thine,Richard Wagner.
Hard have I toiled at “Siegfried,” for work, work, is my only comfort. Unable to return to the fatherland! Cruel! cruel! and why? The efforts of the grand duke[24]are fruitless; one hopes for the best, but that best comes not. Eh! is not Schopenhauer right? Is not the degree of my torment more intense than that of any joy I have experienced? Here I am working alone, with no seeming probability of my compositions ever being performed as I yearn for. My efforts are in vain, and then when I look round and see what is being done at the theatres,—the list of their representationsfills me with rage,—such unrealities!
You tell me that Goethe says, “The genius cannot help himself, and that the demon of fate seizes him by the nape of the neck, and forces him to worknolens volens.” And must I work on without a chance of being heard?Nous verrons....
But listen, Ferdinandus! I am pondering over the Tristan legend. It is marvellous how that work constantly leaps from out the darkness into full life, before my mental vision. Wait until next summer,and then you shall “hear something”! But now my health is poor, and I am out of spirits....
Keep me in thy love.
Thine,Richard Wagner.
Not long after the above reached me, Wagner’s health did begin to give way, so that his next letter is dated:—
Venice, October, 1858.Yes; I have been long in writing, but you are a second me and understand the cause. Since I have been here I have been very ill. I have sought to avoid all correspondence, and have endeavoured to restore my somewhat shattered self. Thank sister Léonie for her account of myalter ego. Poor little fellow! he is in terribly wondrous sympathy with me. Perhaps, were he here, we might together come through our pains triumphantly.... What was good news for me was that “Lohengrin” was done at Vienna, though I cannot understand how it can be adequately given without me. Only “hearty love and good-will could conquer....YourRichard Wagner.
Venice, October, 1858.
Yes; I have been long in writing, but you are a second me and understand the cause. Since I have been here I have been very ill. I have sought to avoid all correspondence, and have endeavoured to restore my somewhat shattered self. Thank sister Léonie for her account of myalter ego. Poor little fellow! he is in terribly wondrous sympathy with me. Perhaps, were he here, we might together come through our pains triumphantly.... What was good news for me was that “Lohengrin” was done at Vienna, though I cannot understand how it can be adequately given without me. Only “hearty love and good-will could conquer....
YourRichard Wagner.
THE TRIALS OF GENIUS.
Wagner appears to have stayed at Venice through the winter of 1858-59, going in the spring of 1859 to Lucerne. It was from this latter place he wrote to me that he meant to go to Paris.
Strange the fascination Paris possessed for Wagner! He always spoke against it, yet when his fortunes were at the lowest, it was towards Paris that he turned for succour. He has told me that he felt the French were in a manner gifted in art as no other European people; that they inherited a perception of the beautiful and sense of the delicate refinement to a degree beyond that of other nations, though he saw it in an artificiality which gave it an unsound basis. And thinking of Meyerbeer,he felt the French to be generous in their treatment of aliens. So, in the autumn of 1859, again he attempts the conquest of Paris. He wrote to me, asking for an introduction to certain friends who would assist him in securing the legal copyright of his compositions. I took steps to put him into communication with the desired advisers, and he then did his best to make friends in all directions. He became popular; gave musical parties, inviting art celebrities, beside musicians. Minna was with him. They brought some of the furniture and hangings from their Swiss chalet, and transformed the house of Octave Feuillet, which Richard Wagner had taken, into the same agreeable and pleasant abode as at Zurich. Of course there was the usual opposition party, and they made the most out of the upholstery, charging Wagner in the press with keeping his house like that of alorette, and behaving altogether with the vanity and ostentation of an Eastern potentate.
“Look here,” said he to me, when I was with him in Paris, “now you know this furniture, and how carefully Minna has preserved it, and yet see how I am treated.” He was desirous of replying to the press notices, but I endeavoured to dissuade him. He went to the Rue Newton, a street situated on the left hand of the Champs Elysée, beyond the Rondpoint, because it was quieter than the Rue Martignan, and he had trees near him. The Rue Martignan was the first he went to on returning to Paris, and where I visited him. It was in the Rue Newton, however, that his reunions took place.
And who were present at these gatherings? Well, occasionally men of note: Villot, famed as the recipient of that lengthy exposition of Wagner’s views in the shapeof a letter; Gasparini, a medical gentleman from the south of France; Champfleury, an enthusiastic pamphleteer who wrote then, and published his views of Wagner; and Olivier, the husband of Cosima Bülow’s eldest sister. There doubtless were others, but I do not know. What I do know is that I marvelled much at some of the visitors who found themselves in Wagner’s salon. A very mixed assembly. At one of his receptions, while Wagner was singing (in his way) and accompanying himself at the piano, I remember an old lady (a Jewess) who snored painfully audibly while Wagner was at the piano. Aroused by the applause of the others, she suddenly burst into grunts of approval, clapping her hands at the same time. I expostulated with Wagner. How could he sing and play before such an audience? “How could he help it,” was his reply; to that lady he was under obligations for £200. She resided in Manchester, and had been introduced to him by a German friend, a Bayreuth figure, known to all pilgrims to Wahnfried. His singing was like that of a composer who tries over at the piano all the parts of his score. What among musicians and composers would be regarded as a grand boon seemed to me, before the uninitiated, as a profanation. He hardly liked such references to his performance, but conscious of their sincerity, he fully explained his position to me. The trials which a genius is sometimes compelled to undergo are bitter, very.
I was one day discussing with Wagner, when he was called away by a visitor. On his return, he told me I should never guess who it was. M. Badjocki, chamberlain of the Emperor Napoleon III., had been directedto arrange for a performance of “Tannhäuser” at the grand opera. The story of the “Tannhäuser” disaster is now known to almost every one. I therefore shall touch upon certain points, only particularly those with which I am acquainted as an eyewitness, and which have not been spoken of elsewhere. Richard Wagner told me that one day, at a reception, the emperor had asked the Princess Metternich whether she had seen the last opera of Prince Poniatowski. She replied, contemptuously, “I do not care for such music.” “But is it not good?” doubtingly observed the emperor. “No,” she said, curtly. “But where is better music to be got, then?” “Why, Your Majesty, you have at the present moment the greatest German composer that ever lived in your capital.” “Who is he?” “Richard Wagner.” “Then why do they not give his operas?” “Because he is in earnest, and would require all kinds of concessions and much money.” “Very well; he shall havecarte blanche.” This is the whole story.
After many fluctuations, as to whether the performance would take place or no, the translation was begun. On this were engaged at first one Lindau and Roche, who shaped it in the rough, but so badly that it had to be redone. This time Nuitre, a well-known poet, did it. Connected with Roche is an incident which Wagner related to me, and perhaps has an interest for all.
“TANNHÄUSER” IN PARIS.
On Wagner’s return to Paris, in 1859, he had some difficulty with his luggage at the custom-house. He spoke to an officer who seemed in command. “What is your name?” the officer inquired. “Richard Wagner.” The French officer threw himself on his knees, and embraced Wagner, exclaiming, “Are you the RichardWagner whose ‘Tannhäuser’ I know so well?” It appears Roche was an amateur, and, alighting upon Wagner’s “Tannhäuser,” had studied it closely. This was a good beginning in Paris for Wagner.
Well, Nuiter was the poet. The translation was in progress while I was in Paris, and I was a daily witness of the combined efforts of Nuiter and Wagner at the translation. How Wagner stormed while it was being done. “Tannhäuser” teems with references to “love,” and every time such words or references were to be rendered into French, Nuiter was compelled to say, “No, master, it cannot be done like that,”—so many were the possible double interpretations likely to be put upon such by the public. To all Wagner’s anger Nuiter posed a soft answer. “It shall be all right, master; it shall be done well, if I sit up all night;” and this was the frequent response of the poor poet.
The rehearsal began in September, 1860, and ended the first week in March, 1861. Wagner applied to the authorities for permission to conduct himself. The answer came: “The general regulations connected with the performances at the grand opera house cannot be interfered with for the proposed representation of ‘Tannhäuser.’” This was communicated officially to Wagner, and he sent the letter to me. What did happen was that Dietsch, the composer for whom Wagner’s poem, the “Flying Dutchman,” had been purchased, conducted instead. Dietsch received Wagner’s suggestions and hints in a good-natured manner, and worked as well as he could for the success of the performance. Before the rehearsals came to an end Wagner had become quite indifferent as to the possible reception of “Tannhäuser.” The first public representation was to take place on the 13th March, 1861. On the 12th February Wagner wrote me the following:—
Come, dear old friend, now is the time when I want all my friends about me. The opposition is malicious; fair play is no part of the critic’s stock in trade.... I have had pressure put upon me from high quarters, urging me to give way, and that unless I bend before the storm my proud self-will will be snapped in twain.... But I will have none of it. I hear David[25]has been subsidized by the members of the Jockey Club to purchase tickets of admission for himself and gang of hirelings, who are going to protest vigorously against their exclusion. We may, therefore, expect much rough work, and so I want you and others to be about me. I care not for all the mercenaries in Paris. The work of my brain, the thought and labour I have in solitude anxiously bestowed upon it, shall not (by my will, at any rate) be left to the mercy of a semi-inebriated, sensual herd. Here are artists working zealously for the success of my work, men and women really exerting themselves in an astonishing manner. There are truly some annoyances both on the stage and in the orchestra; but on the whole, the energy shown is wonderful.... My indignation was at a boiling-point when Monsieur Royer insolently observed that if Monsieur Meyerbeer contrived a ballet for half-past eight he saw no reason why I could not follow so popular a composer. I!... Meyerbeer! Never! Fail me not then, Ferdinand. You will find me in the most jubilant spirits, and well supported, but in the moment of trial it is the old faces one longs to see about. Bring “ma mère Léonie” to witness the downfall of her son, and to console him in his anger. If good old Lüders could only come, his quaint humour would be irresistible. Now come.Yours,Richard Wagner.
Come, dear old friend, now is the time when I want all my friends about me. The opposition is malicious; fair play is no part of the critic’s stock in trade.... I have had pressure put upon me from high quarters, urging me to give way, and that unless I bend before the storm my proud self-will will be snapped in twain.... But I will have none of it. I hear David[25]has been subsidized by the members of the Jockey Club to purchase tickets of admission for himself and gang of hirelings, who are going to protest vigorously against their exclusion. We may, therefore, expect much rough work, and so I want you and others to be about me. I care not for all the mercenaries in Paris. The work of my brain, the thought and labour I have in solitude anxiously bestowed upon it, shall not (by my will, at any rate) be left to the mercy of a semi-inebriated, sensual herd. Here are artists working zealously for the success of my work, men and women really exerting themselves in an astonishing manner. There are truly some annoyances both on the stage and in the orchestra; but on the whole, the energy shown is wonderful.... My indignation was at a boiling-point when Monsieur Royer insolently observed that if Monsieur Meyerbeer contrived a ballet for half-past eight he saw no reason why I could not follow so popular a composer. I!... Meyerbeer! Never! Fail me not then, Ferdinand. You will find me in the most jubilant spirits, and well supported, but in the moment of trial it is the old faces one longs to see about. Bring “ma mère Léonie” to witness the downfall of her son, and to console him in his anger. If good old Lüders could only come, his quaint humour would be irresistible. Now come.
Yours,Richard Wagner.
THE JOCKEY CLUB CABAL.
I returned, therefore, to Paris, and went with Wagner to the final rehearsals. At the last, the dressrehearsal, one of the chief characters ... walked on the stage in ordinary morning attire, creating a laugh and some confusion. Wagner might have avoided what was almost the inevitable reception of the performance, for he told me he had received a visit from some manager, whose name I now cannot recall, of a theatre at St. Petersburgh, who had agreed to produce “Tannhäuser” there, provided the Paris representations were foregone. To this he refused. Thus the Paris performances took place.
On the 13th March we were all assembled. In a private box sat the Princess Metternich, whose influence with the emperor had brought about the performance. Before the princess showed herself in the box, the noisy hissing, which greeted her from a section of the audience, indicated the hostility present. The overture was, on the whole, well received. Indeed, altogether, the opera created a favourable impression among those who had not come with the avowed intention of making the performance a failure. When the dog-whistles of the “protectors” of thecorps-de-balletwere first heard, a goodly portion of the audience rose indignantly, endeavouring to suppress the organized opposition, but to no purpose, and the work dragged itself on to a torturing accompaniment of strife among the audience.
How indignant was Wagner! His excitement and anger were great. Annoyed with himself for coming to Paris, with having so little perception in seeking to succeed with an opera opposed to the formality where tradition was king. But the second performance took place, all the same, on the 18th March. Then the opposition was but little up to the end of the first act, but from there it gathered in force. At the third andlast representation, which was on Sunday, the 24th March, the members of the Claque appeared in force, paid again, it was commonly asserted, by the Jockey Club. This performance decided the fate of “Tannhäuser.” At this last representation I was not present. The scenic artist, Monsieur Cambon, however, came to London and gave me a description of it. The whistles and toy flageolets of the enemy destroyed all hope of hearing any portion comfortably, but as far as he could gather from independent testimony of those musicians and artists outside the opera house, “Tannhäuser” was regarded as a great work, and but for the persistent tactics of the Jockey Club would have proved a success. Such was the enthusiasm the work inspired in some of the artists, that Monsieur Cambon told me he himself went specially to the Wartburgh, there to prepare his canvas for the performances.
There is now one point characteristic of Wagner’s earnestness. He went through the score with me before the performances, I should add, and he told me, “I have been through it before and found many bald places, which required filling in, and which my long experience has taught me how to improve.”
FROMParis Wagner went to Carlsruhe, whence he wrote to me the following letter. The allusion in the opening phrases of his letter is to my inability to stay for the third performance of “Tannhäuser.”
You never heard such a din. It was a pity indeed you were away. I would it had been possible to prevent it; however, it could not be otherwise. But we did very well, until one whistle more shrill than the rest screamed for fully a minute. It seemed an hour. Horrible! horrible!—and my work was submitted to such an audience! Had I but the strength—but no, my indignation is now nearly over; the joy of being on my native soil once again, a free man, has removed a load from me that really at moments felt insupportable. Aye, those who have kept me from my fatherland little know how dearly they punished me for my, perhaps, imprudence in those early Dresden days. The sight is again reproduced before my vision, but in my joy at being free to go—except in Saxony—where I choose, poor August’s earnest face appears before me; and he is still the political prisoner of a power that could crush him in a moment. It is unkingly. Those days have made me suffer so keenly in what I love the dearest and tenderest on earth, my art, that in my happiness at being once more home I could shut out forever that sad past. Now I may go forward with my work. I shall not rest contented until Saxony once again is free to me as to the birds of the air; but how my hopes are built upon the future, and I feel all the confidence of success. I am sick again in body just now, but I will be conqueror. Was ever work like mine created for no purpose? Is it miserable egoism,the stupidest vanity? It matters not what it is, but of this I feel positive; yes, as positive as that I live, and that is my “Tristan and Isolde,” with which I am now consumed, does not find its equal in the world’s library of music. Oh, how I yearn to hear it! I am feverish; I feel worn; perhaps that causes me to be agitated and anxious, but my “Tristan” has been finished now these three years and has not been heard. When I think of this I wonder whether it will be with this as with “Lohengrin,” which now is more than thirteen years old, and has been as dead to me. But the clouds seem breaking—are breaking. The grand duke is good. He shows himself desirous of befriending me; no doubt intends well, and has even proposed that I shall return to Paris to engage singers to perform “Tristan.” I am going to Vienna soon. There they are going to give me a surprise. It is supposed to be kept a secret from me, but a friend has informed me they are going to bring out “Lohengrin.” You will hear about it.Ah! I have so run away with my thoughts that I have nearly failed to tell you what I began to say; and that is, strong pressure was brought upon me to consent to a fourth performance of “Tannhäuser.” I was officially informed that all the seats had been taken; the public were strongly desirous of hearing an opera which had caused such a stir in high circles, that the sale of tickets had been so brisk that now not one was unsold. But nothing, nothing would induce me to submit again to such debasing treatment. I would sooner lose all hope of assistance from imperial and noble personages, and fight my battle alone, than again appear before such tribunal. The royalty, £60, I left for Nuiter; it was a poor recompense.... Now commend me to sister Léonie; tell her that Minna is grateful for her thoughtful kindness, and bids me send her a thousand hearty greetings.Always thine,Richard Wagner.Carlsruhe, April, 1861.
You never heard such a din. It was a pity indeed you were away. I would it had been possible to prevent it; however, it could not be otherwise. But we did very well, until one whistle more shrill than the rest screamed for fully a minute. It seemed an hour. Horrible! horrible!—and my work was submitted to such an audience! Had I but the strength—but no, my indignation is now nearly over; the joy of being on my native soil once again, a free man, has removed a load from me that really at moments felt insupportable. Aye, those who have kept me from my fatherland little know how dearly they punished me for my, perhaps, imprudence in those early Dresden days. The sight is again reproduced before my vision, but in my joy at being free to go—except in Saxony—where I choose, poor August’s earnest face appears before me; and he is still the political prisoner of a power that could crush him in a moment. It is unkingly. Those days have made me suffer so keenly in what I love the dearest and tenderest on earth, my art, that in my happiness at being once more home I could shut out forever that sad past. Now I may go forward with my work. I shall not rest contented until Saxony once again is free to me as to the birds of the air; but how my hopes are built upon the future, and I feel all the confidence of success. I am sick again in body just now, but I will be conqueror. Was ever work like mine created for no purpose? Is it miserable egoism,the stupidest vanity? It matters not what it is, but of this I feel positive; yes, as positive as that I live, and that is my “Tristan and Isolde,” with which I am now consumed, does not find its equal in the world’s library of music. Oh, how I yearn to hear it! I am feverish; I feel worn; perhaps that causes me to be agitated and anxious, but my “Tristan” has been finished now these three years and has not been heard. When I think of this I wonder whether it will be with this as with “Lohengrin,” which now is more than thirteen years old, and has been as dead to me. But the clouds seem breaking—are breaking. The grand duke is good. He shows himself desirous of befriending me; no doubt intends well, and has even proposed that I shall return to Paris to engage singers to perform “Tristan.” I am going to Vienna soon. There they are going to give me a surprise. It is supposed to be kept a secret from me, but a friend has informed me they are going to bring out “Lohengrin.” You will hear about it.
Ah! I have so run away with my thoughts that I have nearly failed to tell you what I began to say; and that is, strong pressure was brought upon me to consent to a fourth performance of “Tannhäuser.” I was officially informed that all the seats had been taken; the public were strongly desirous of hearing an opera which had caused such a stir in high circles, that the sale of tickets had been so brisk that now not one was unsold. But nothing, nothing would induce me to submit again to such debasing treatment. I would sooner lose all hope of assistance from imperial and noble personages, and fight my battle alone, than again appear before such tribunal. The royalty, £60, I left for Nuiter; it was a poor recompense.... Now commend me to sister Léonie; tell her that Minna is grateful for her thoughtful kindness, and bids me send her a thousand hearty greetings.
Always thine,Richard Wagner.
Carlsruhe, April, 1861.
The next letter, August, 1862, is from Biebrich, near Mayence, on the Rhine.
SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD.