part I had played in the production of Iphigenia, which he compared

with the Berlin production of the same piece, that had been utterly

condemned by him. He was for a long time the only man with whom I could

discuss, seriously and in detail, the real needs of the theatre and the

means by which its defects might be remedied. Owing to his longer and

more specialised experience, there was much he could tell me and make

clear to me; in particular he helped me successfully to overcome the

idea that mere literary excellence is enough for the theatre, and

confirmed my conviction that the path to true prosperity lay only with

the stage itself and with the actors of the drama.

From this time forward, till I left Dresden, my intercourse with Eduard

Devrient grew more and more friendly, though his dry nature and obvious

limitations as an actor had attracted me but little before. His highly

meritorious work, Die Geschichte der deutschen Schauspielkunst

(‘History of German Dramatic Art’), which he finished and published

about that time, threw a fresh and instructive light on many problems

which exercised my mind, and helped me to master them for the first

time.

At last I managed once more to resume my task of composing the third

act of Lohengrin, which had been interrupted in the middle of the

Bridal Scene, and I finished it by the end of the winter. After the

repetition, by special request, of the Ninth Symphony at the concert on

Palm Sunday had revived me, I tried to find comfort and refreshment for

the further progress of my new work by changing my abode, this time

without asking permission. The old Marcolini palace, with a very large

garden laid out partly in the French style, was situated in an outlying

and thinly populated suburb of Dresden.

It had been sold to the town council, and a part of it was to be let.

The sculptor, Hänel, whom I had known for a long time, and who had

given me as a mark of friendship an ornament in the shape of a perfect

plaster cast of one of the bas-reliefs from Beethoven’s monument

representing the Ninth Symphony, had taken the large rooms on the

ground floor of a side-wing of this palace for his dwelling and studio.

At Easter I moved into the spacious apartments, above him, the rent of

which was extremely low, and found that the large garden planted with

glorious trees, which was placed at my disposal, and the pleasant

stillness of the whole place, not only provided mental food for the

weary artist, but at the same time, by lessening my expenses, improved

my straitened finances. We soon settled down quite comfortably in the

long row of pleasant rooms without having incurred any unnecessary

expense, as Minna was very practical in her arrangements. The only real

inconvenience which in the course of time I found our new home

possessed, was its inordinate distance from the theatre. This was a

great trial to me after fatiguing rehearsals and tiring performances,

as the expense of a cab was a serious consideration. But we were

favoured by an exceptionally fine summer, which put me in a happy frame

of mind, and soon helped to overcome every inconvenience.

At this time I insisted with the utmost firmness on refraining from

taking any further share in the management of the theatre, and I had

most cogent reasons to bring forth in defence of my conduct. All my

endeavours to set in order the wilful chaos which prevailed in the use

of the costly artistic materials at the disposal of this royal

institution were repeatedly thwarted, merely because I wished to

introduce some method into the arrangements. In a carefully written

pamphlet which, in addition to my other work, I had compiled during the

past winter, I had drawn up a plan for the reorganisation of the

orchestra, and had shown how we might increase the productive power of

our artistic capital by making a more methodical use of the royal funds

intended for its maintenance, and showing greater discretion regarding

salaries. This increase in the productive power would raise the

artistic spirit as well as improve the economic position of the members

of the orchestra, for I should have liked them at the same time to form

an independent concert society. In such a capacity it would have been

their task to present to the people of Dresden, in the best possible

way, a kind of music which they had hitherto hardly had the opportunity

of enjoying at all. It would have been possible for such a union,

which, as I pointed out, had so many external circumstances in its

favour, to provide Dresden with a suitable concert-hall. I hear,

however, that such a place is wanting to this day.

With this object in view I entered into close communication with

architects and builders, and the plans were completed, according to

which the scandalous buildings facing a wing of the renowned prison

opposite the Ostra Allee, and consisting of a shed for the members of

the theatre and a public wash-house, were to be pulled down and

replaced by a beautiful building, which, besides containing a large

concert-hall adapted to our requirements, would also have had other

large rooms which could have been, let out on hire at a profit. The

practicality of these plans was disputed by no one, as even the

administrators of the orchestra’s widows’ fund saw in them an

opportunity for the safe and advantageous laying out of capital; yet

they were returned to me, after long consideration on the part of the

general management, with thanks and an acknowledgment of my careful

work, and the curt reply that it was thought better for things to

remain as they were.

All my proposals for meeting the useless waste and drain upon our

artistic capital by a more methodical arrangement, met with the same

success in every detail that I suggested. I had also found out by long

experience that every proposal which had to be discussed and decided

upon in the most tiring committee meetings, as for instance the

starting of a repertoire, might at any moment be overthrown and altered

for the worse by the temper of a singer or the plan of a junior

business inspector. I was therefore driven to renounce my wasted

efforts and, after many a stormy discussion and outspoken expression of

my sentiments, I withdrew from taking any part whatever in any branch

of the management, and limited myself entirely to holding rehearsals

and conducting performances of the operas provided for me.

Although my relations with Lüttichau grew more and more strained on

this account, for the time being it mattered little whether my conduct

pleased him or not, as otherwise my position was one which commanded

respect, on account of the ever-increasing popularity of Tannhäuser and

Rienzi, which were presented during the summer to houses packed with

distinguished visitors, and were invariably chosen for the gala

performances.

By thus going my own way and refusing to be interfered with, I

succeeded this summer, amid the delightful and perfect seclusion of my

new home, in preserving myself in a frame of mind exceedingly

favourable to the completion of my Lohengrin. My studies, which, as I

have already mentioned, I pursued eagerly at the same time as I was

working on my opera, made me feel more light-hearted than I had ever

done before. For the first time I now mastered AEschylus with real

feeling and understanding. Droysen’s eloquent commentaries in

particular helped to bring before my imagination the intoxicating

effect of the production of an Athenian tragedy, so that I could see

the Oresteia with my mind’s eye, as though it were actually being

performed, and its effect upon me was indescribable. Nothing, however,

could equal the sublime emotion with which the Agamemnon trilogy

inspired me, and to the last word of the Eumenides I lived in an

atmosphere so far removed from the present day that I have never since

been really able to reconcile myself with modern literature. My ideas

about the whole significance of the drama and of the theatre were,

without a doubt, moulded by these impressions. I worked my way through

the other tragedians, and finally reached Aristophanes. When I had

spent the morning industriously upon the completion of the music for

Lohengrin, I used to creep into the depths of a thick shrubbery in my

part of the garden to get shelter from the summer heat, which was

becoming more intense every day. My delight in the comedies of

Aristophanes was boundless, when once his Birds had plunged me into the

full torrent of the genius of this wanton favourite of the Graces, as

he used to call himself with conscious daring. Side by side with this

poet I read the principal dialogues of Plato, and from the Symposium I

gained such a deep insight into the wonderful beauty of Greek life that

I felt myself more truly at home in ancient Athens than in any

conditions which the modern world has to offer.

As I was following out a settled course of self-education, I did not

wish to pursue my way further in the leading-strings of any literary

history, and I consequently turned my attention from the historical

studies, which seemed to be my own peculiar province, and in which

department Droysen’s history of Alexander and the Hellenistic period,

as well as Niebuhr and Gibbon, were of great help to me, and fell back

once more upon my old and trusty guide, Jakob Grimm, for the study of

German antiquity. In my efforts to master the myths of Germany more

thoroughly than had been possible in my former perusal of the Nibelung

and the Heldenbuch, Mone’s particularly suggestive commentary on this

Heldensage filled me with delight, although stricter scholars regarded

this work with suspicion on account of the boldness of some of its

statements. By this means I was drawn irresistibly to the northern

sagas; and I now tried, as far as was possible without a fluent

knowledge of the Scandinavian languages, to acquaint myself with the

Edda, as well as with the prose version which existed of a considerable

portion of the Heldensage.

Read by the light of Mone’s Commentaries, the Wolsungasaga had a

decided influence upon my method of handling this material. My

conceptions as to the inner significance of these old-world legends,

which had been growing for a long time, gradually gained strength and

moulded themselves with the plastic forms which inspired my later

works.

All this was sinking into my mind and slowly maturing, whilst with

unfeigned delight I was finishing the music of the first two acts of

Lohengrin, which were now at last completed. I now succeeded in

shutting out the past and building up for myself a new world of the

future, which presented itself with ever-growing clearness to my mind

as the refuge whither I might retreat from all the miseries of modern

opera and theatre life. At the same time, my health and temper were

settling down into a mood of almost unclouded serenity, which made me

oblivious for a long time of all the worries of my position. I used to

walk every day up into the neighbouring hills, which rose from the

banks of the Elbe to the Plauenscher Grand. I generally went alone,

except for the company of our little dog Peps, and my excursions always

resulted in producing a satisfactory number of ideas. At the same time,

I found I had developed a capacity, which I had never possessed before,

for good-tempered intercourse with the friends and acquaintances who

liked to come from time to time to the Marcolini garden to share my

simple supper. My visitors used often to find me perched on a high

branch of a tree, or on the neck of the Neptune which was the central

figure of a large group of statuary in the middle of an old fountain,

unfortunately always dry, belonging to the palmy days of the Marcolini

estate. I used to enjoy walking with my friends up and down the broad

footpath of the drive leading to the real palace, which had been laid

especially for Napoleon in the fatal year 1813, when he had fixed his

headquarters there.

By August, the last month of summer, I had completely finished the

composition of Lohengrin, and felt that it was high time for me to have

done so, as the needs of my position demanded imperatively that I

should give my most serious attention to improving it, and it became a

matter of supreme importance for me once more to take steps for having

my operas produced in the German theatres.

Even the success of Tannhäuser in Dresden, which became more obvious

every day, did not attract the smallest notice anywhere else. Berlin

was the only place which had any influence in the theatrical world of

Germany, and I ought long before to have given my undivided attention

to that city. From all I had heard of the special tastes of Friedrich

Wilhelm IV., I felt perfectly justified in assuming that he would feel

sympathetically inclined towards my later works and conceptions if I

could only manage to bring them to his notice in the right light. On

this hypothesis I had already thought of dedicating Tannhäuser to him,

and to gain permission to do so I had to apply to Count Redern, the

court musical director. From him I heard that the King could only

accept the dedication of works which had actually been performed in his

presence, and of which he thus had a personal knowledge. As my

Tannhäuser had been refused by the managers of the court theatre

because it was considered too epic in form, the Count added that if I

wished to remain firm in my resolve, there was only one way out of the

difficulty, and that was to adapt my opera as far as possible to a

military band, and try to bring it to the King’s notice on parade. This

drove me to determine upon another plan of attack on Berlin.

After this experience I saw that I must open my campaign there with the

opera that had won the most decided triumph in Dresden. I therefore

obtained an audience of the Queen of Saxony, the sister of the King of

Prussia, and begged her to use her influence with her brother to obtain

a performance in Berlin by royal command of my Rienzi, which was also a

favourite with the court of Saxony. This manœuvre was successful, and I

soon received a communication from my old friend Küstner to say that

the production of Rienzi was fixed for a very early date at the Berlin

Court Theatre, and at the same time expressing the hope that I would

conduct my work in person. As a very handsome author’s royalty had been

paid by this theatre, at the instigation of Küstner, on the occasion of

the production of his old Munich friend Lachner’s opera, Katharina von

Cornaro, I hoped to realise a very substantial improvement in my

finances if only the success of Rienzi in this city in any degree

rivalled that in Dresden. But my chief desire was to make the

acquaintance of the King of Prussia, so that I might read him the text

of my Lohengrin, and arouse his interest in my work. This from various

signs I flattered myself was perfectly possible, in which case I

intended to beg him to command the first performance of Lohengrin to be

given at his court theatre.

After my strange experiences as to the way in which my success in

Dresden had been kept secret from the rest of Germany, it seemed to me

a matter of vital importance to make the future centre of my artistic

enterprises the only place which exercised any influence on the outside

world, and as such I was forced to regard Berlin. Inspired by the

success of my recommendation to the Queen of Prussia, I hoped to gain

access to the King himself, which I regarded as a most important step.

Full of confidence, and in excellent spirits, I set out for Berlin in

September, trusting to a favourable turn of Fortune’s wheel, in the

first place for the rehearsals of Rienzi, though my interests were no

longer centred in this work.

Berlin made the same impression on me as on the occasion of my former

visit, when I saw it again after my long absence in Paris. Professor

Werder, my friend of the Fliegender Holländer, had taken lodgings for

me in advance in the renowned Gensdarmeplatz, but when I looked at the

view from my windows every day I could not believe that I was in a city

which was the very centre of Germany. Soon, however, I was completely

absorbed by the cares of the task I had in hand.

I had nothing to complain of with regard to the official preparations

for Rienzi, but I soon noticed that it was looked upon merely as a

conductor’s opera, that is to say, all the materials to hand were duly

placed at my disposal, but the management had not the slightest

intention of doing anything more for me. All the arrangements for my

rehearsals were entirely upset as soon as a visit from Jenny Lind was

announced, and she occupied the Royal Opera exclusively for some time.

During the delay thus caused I did all I could to attain my main

object—an introduction to the King—and for this purpose made use of my

former acquaintance with the court musical director, Count Redern. This

gentleman received me at once with the greatest affability, invited me

to dinner and a soiree, and entered into a hearty discussion with me

about the steps necessary for attaining my purpose, in which he

promised to do his utmost to help me. I also paid frequent visits to

Sans-Souci, in order to pay my respects to the Queen and express my

thanks to her. But I never got further than an interview with the

ladies-in-waiting, and I was advised to put myself into communication

with M. Illaire, the head of the Royal Privy Council. This gentleman

seemed to be impressed by the seriousness of my request, and promised

to do what he could to further my wish for a personal introduction to

the King. He asked what my real object was, and I told him it was to

get permission from the King to read my libretto Lohengrin to him. On

the occasion of one of my oft-repeated visits from Berlin, he asked me

whether I did not think it would be advisable to bring a recommendation

of my work from Tieck. I was able to tell him that I had already had

the pleasure of bringing my case to the notice of the old poet, who

lived near Potsdam as a royal pensioner.

I remembered very well that Frau von Lüttichau had sent the themes

Lohengrin and Tannhäuser to her old friend some years ago, when these

matters were first mentioned between us. When I called upon Tieck, I

was welcomed by him almost as a friend, and I found my long talks with

him exceedingly valuable. Although Tieck had perhaps gained a somewhat

doubtful reputation for the leniency with which he would give his

recommendation for the dramatic works of those who applied to him, yet

I was pleased by the genuine disgust with which he spoke of our latest

dramatic literature, which was modelling itself on the style of modern

French stagecraft, and his complaint at the utter lack of any true

poetic feeling in it was heartfelt. He declared himself delighted with

my poem of Lohengrin, but could not understand how all this was to be

set to music without a complete change in the conventional structure of

an opera, and on this score he objected to such scenes as that between

Ortrud and Frederick at the beginning of the second act. I thought I

had roused him to a real enthusiasm when I explained how I proposed to

solve these apparent difficulties, and also described my own ideals

about musical drama. But the higher I soared the sadder he grew when I

had once made known to him my hope of securing the patronage of the

King of Prussia for these conceptions, and the working out of my scheme

for an ideal drama. He had no doubt that the King would listen to me

with the greatest interest, and even seize upon my ideas with warmth,

only I must not entertain the smallest hope of any practical result,

unless I wished to expose myself to the bitterest disappointment. ‘What

can you expect from a man who to-day is enthusiastic about Gluck’s

Iphigenia in Tauris, and to-morrow mad about Donizetti’s Lucrezia

Borgia?’ he said. Tieck’s conversation about these and similar topics

was much too entertaining and charming for me to give any serious

weight to the bitterness of his views. He gladly promised to recommend

my poem, more particularly to Privy Councillor Illaire, and dismissed

me with hearty goodwill and his sincere though anxious blessing. The

only result of all my labours was that the desired invitation from the

King still hung fire. As the rehearsals for Rienzi, which had been

postponed on account of Jenny Lind’s visit, were being carried on

seriously again, I made up my mind to take no further trouble before

the performance of my opera, as I thought myself, at any rate,

justified in counting on the presence of the monarch on the first

night, as the piece was being played at his express command, and at the

same time I hoped this would conduce to the fulfilment of my main

object. However, the nearer we came to the event the lower did the

hopes I had built upon it sink. To play the part of the hero I had to

be satisfied with a tenor who was absolutely devoid of talent, and far

below the average. He was a conscientious, painstaking man, and had

moreover been strongly recommended to me by my kind host, the renowned

Meinhard. After I had taken infinite pains with him, and had in

consequence, as so often happens, conjured up in my mind certain

illusions as to what I might expect from his acting, I was obliged,

when it came to the final test of the dress rehearsal, to confess my

true opinion. I realised that the scenery, chorus, ballet, and minor

parts were on the whole excellent, but that the chief character, around

whom in this particular opera everything centred, faded into an

insignificant phantom. The reception which this opera met with at the

hands of the public when it was produced in October was also due to

him; but in consequence of the fairly good rendering of a few brilliant

passages, and more especially on account of the enthusiastic

recognition of Frau Koster in the part of Adriano, it might have been

concluded from all the external signs that the opera had been fairly

successful. Nevertheless, I knew very well that this seeming triumph

could have no real substance, as only the immaterial parts of my work

could reach the eyes and ears of the audience; its essential spirit had

not entered their hearts. Moreover, the Berlin reviewers in their usual

way began their attacks immediately, with the view of demolishing any

success my opera might have won, so that after the second performance,

which I also conducted myself, I began to wonder whether my desperate

labours were really worth while.

When I asked the few intimate friends I had their opinion on this

point, I elicited much valuable information. Among these friends I must

mention, in the first place, Hermann Franck, whom I found again. He had

lately settled in Berlin, and did much to encourage me. I spent the

most enjoyable part of those sad two months in his company, of which,

however, I had but too little. Our conversation generally turned upon

reminiscences of the old days, and on to topics which had no connection

with the theatre, so that I was almost ashamed to trouble him with my

complaints on this subject, especially as they concerned my worries

about a work which I could not pretend was of any practical importance

to the stage. He for his part soon arrived at the conclusion that it

had been foolish of me to choose my Rienzi for this occasion, as it was

an opera which appealed merely to the general public, in preference to

my Tannhäuser, which might have educated a party in Berlin useful to my

higher aims. He maintained that the very nature of this work would have

aroused a fresh interest in the drama in the minds of people who, like

himself, were no longer to be counted among regular theatre-goers,

precisely because they had given up all hope of ever finding any nobler

ideals of the stage.

The curious information as to the character of Berlin art in other

respects, which Werder gave me from time to time, was most

discouraging. With regard to the public, he told me once that at a

performance of an unknown work, it was quite useless for me to expect a

single member of the audience from the stalls to the gallery to take

his seat with any better object in view than to pick as many holes as

possible in the production. Although Werder did not wish to discourage

me in any of my endeavours, he felt himself obliged to warn me

continually not to expect anything above the average from the cultured

society of Berlin. He liked to see proper respect paid to the really

considerable gifts of the King; and when I asked him how he thought the

latter would receive my ideas about the ennobling of opera, he

answered, after having listened attentively to a long and fiery tirade

on my part: ‘The King would say to you, “Go and consult Stawinsky!”’

This was the opera manager, a fat, smug creature who had grown rusty in

following out the most jog-trot routine. In short, everything I learned

was calculated to discourage me. I called on Bernhard Marx, who some

years ago had shown a kindly interest in my Fliegender Holländer, and

was courteously received by him. This man, who in his earlier writings

and musical criticisms had seemed to me filled with a fire of energy,

now struck me as extraordinarily limp and listless when I saw him by

the side of his young wife, who was radiantly and bewitchingly

beautiful. From his conversation I soon learned that he also had

abandoned even the remotest hope of success for any efforts directed

towards the object so dear to both our hearts, on account of the

inconceivable shallowness of all the officials connected with the head

authority. He told me of the extraordinary fate which had befallen a

scheme he had brought to the notice of the King for founding a school

of music. In a special audience the King had gone into the matter with

the greatest interest, and noticed the minutest detail, so that Marx

felt justified in entertaining the strongest possible hopes of success.

However, all his labours and negotiations about the business, in the

course of which he was driven from pillar to post, proved utterly

futile, until at last he was told to have an interview with a certain

general. This personage, like the King, had Marx’s proposals explained

to him in the minutest detail, and expressed his warmest sympathy with

the undertaking. ‘And there,’ said Marx, at the end of this long

rigmarole, ‘the matter ended, and I never heard another word about it.’

One day I learned that Countess Rossi, the renowned Henriette Sontag,

who was living in quiet seclusion in Berlin, had pleasant recollections

of me in Dresden, and wished me to visit her. She had at this time

already fallen into the unfortunate position which was so detrimental

to her artistic career. She too complained bitterly of the general

apathy of the influential classes in Berlin, which effectually

prevented any artistic aims from being realised. It was her opinion

that the King found a sort of satisfaction in knowing that the theatre

was badly managed, for though he never opposed any criticisms which he

received on the subject, he likewise never supported any proposal for

its improvement. She expressed a wish to know something of my latest

work, and I gave her my poem of Lohengrin for perusal. On the occasion

of my next morning call she told me she would send me an invitation to

a musical evening which she was going to have at her house in honour of

the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, her elderly patron, and she

also gave me back the manuscript of Lohengrin, with the assurance that

it had appealed to her very much, and that while she was reading it she

had often seen the little fairies and elves dancing about in front of

her. As in the old days I had been heartily encouraged by the warm and

friendly sympathy of this naturally cultured woman, I now felt as if

cold water had been suddenly poured down my back. I soon took my leave,

and never saw her again. Indeed, I had no particular object in doing

so, as the promised invitation never came. Herr E. Kossak also sought

me out, and although our acquaintance did not lead to much, I was

sufficiently kindly received by him to give him my poem of Lohengrin to

read. I went one day by appointment to see him, and found that his room

had just been scrubbed with boiling water. The steam from this

operation was so unbearable that it had already given him a headache,

and was not less disagreeable to me. He looked into my face with an

almost tender expression when he gave me back the manuscript of my

poem, and assured me, in accents which admitted of no doubt of his

sincerity, that he thought it ‘very pretty.’

I found my casual intercourse with H. Truhn rather more entertaining. I

used to treat him to a good glass of wine at Lutter and Wegener’s,

where I went occasionally on account of its association with Hoffmann,

and he would then listen with apparently growing interest to my ideas

as to the possible development of opera and the goal at which we should

aim. His comments were generally witty and very much to the point, and

his lively and animated ways pleased me very much. After the production

of Rienzi, however, he too, as a critic, joined the majority of

scoffers and detractors. The only person who supported me stoutly but

uselessly, through thick and thin, was my old friend Gaillard. His

little music-shop was not a success, his musical journal had already

failed, so that he was only able to help me in small ways.

Unfortunately I discovered not only that he was the author of many

exceedingly dubious dramatic works, for which he wished to gain my

support, but also that he was apparently in the last stages of the

disease from which he was suffering, so that the little intercourse I

had with him, in spite of all his fidelity and devotion, only exercised

a melancholy and depressing influence upon me.

But as I had embarked upon this Berlin enterprise in contradiction to

all my inmost wishes, and prompted solely by the desire of winning the

success so vital to my position, I made up my mind to make a personal

appeal to Rellstab.

As in the case of the Fliegender Holländer he had taken exception more

particularly to its ‘nebulousness’ and ‘lack of form,’ I thought I

might with advantage point out to him the brighter and clearer outline

of Rienzi. He seemed to be pleased at my thinking I could get anything

out of him, but told me at once of his firm conviction that any new art

form was utterly impossible after Gluck, and that the only thing that

the best of good luck and hard work was capable of producing was

meaningless bombast. I then realised that in Berlin all hope had been

abandoned. I was told that Meyerbeer was the only man who had been able

in any way to master the situation.

This former patron of mine I met once more in Berlin, and he declared

that he still took an interest in me. As soon as I arrived I called on

him, but in the hall I found his servant busy packing up trunks, and

learned that Meyerbeer was just going away. His master confirmed this

assertion, and regretted that he would not be able to do anything for

me, so I had to say good-bye and how-do-you-do at the same time. For

some time I thought he really was away, but after a few weeks I learned

to my surprise that he was still staying in Berlin without letting

himself be seen by any one, and at last he made his appearance again at

one of the rehearsals of Rienzi. What this meant I only discovered

later from a rumour which was circulated among the initiated, and

imparted to me by Eduard von Bulow, my young friend’s father. Without

having the slightest idea how it originated, I learned, about the

middle of my stay in Berlin, from the conductor Taubert, that he had

heard on very good authority that I was trying for a director’s post at

the court theatre, and had good expectations of securing the

appointment in addition to special privileges. In order to remain on

good terms with Taubert, as it was very necessary for me to do, I had

to give him the most solemn assurances that such an idea had never even

entered my head, and that I would not accept such a position if it were

offered to me. On the other hand, all my endeavours to get access to

the King continued to be fruitless. My chief mediator, to whom I always

turned, was still Count Redern, and although my attention had been

called to his staunch adherence to Meyerbeer, his extraordinary open

and friendly manner always strengthened my belief in his honesty. At

last the only medium that remained open to me was the fact that the

King could not possibly stay away from the performance of Rienzi, given

at his express command, and on this conviction I based all further hope

of approaching him. Whereupon Count Redern informed me, with an

expression of deep despair, that on the very day of the first

performance the monarch would be away on a hunting party. Once more I

begged him to make very effort in his power to secure the King’s

presence, at least at the second performance, and at length my

inexhaustible patron told me that he could not make head or tail of it,

but his Majesty seemed to have conceived an utter disinclination to

accede to my wish; he himself had heard these hard words fall from the

royal lips: ‘Oh bother! have you come to me again with your Rienzi?’

At this second performance I had a pleasant experience. After the

impressive second act the public showed signs of wishing to call me,

and as I went from the orchestra to the vestibule, in order to be ready

if necessary, my foot slipped on the smooth parquet, and I might have

had perhaps a serious fall had I not felt my arm grasped by a strong

hand. I turned, and recognised the Crown Prince of Prussia,[14] who had

come out of his box, and who at once seized the opportunity of inviting

me to follow him to his wife, who wished to make my acquaintance. She

had only just arrived in Berlin, and told me that she had heard my

opera for the first time that evening, and expressed her appreciation

of it. She had, however, long ago received very favourable reports of

me and my artistic aims from a common friend, Alwine Frommann. The

whole tenor of this interview, at which the Prince was present, was

unusually friendly and pleasant.

[14] This Prince subsequently became the Emperor William the First. He

was given the title of Crown Prince in 1840 on the death of his

father, Frederick William III., as he was then heir-presumptive to his

brother, Frederick William IV., whose marriage was without

issue.—EDITOR.

It was indeed my old friend Alwine who in Berlin had not only followed

all my fortunes with the greatest sympathy, but had also done all in

her power to give me consolation and courage to endure. Almost every

evening, when the day’s business made it possible, I used to visit her

for an hour of recreation, and gain strength from her ennobling

conversation for the struggle against the reverses of the following

day. I was particularly pleased by the warm and intelligent sympathy

which she and our mutual friend Werder devoted to Lohengrin, the object

of all my labours at that time. On the arrival of her friend and

patroness, the Crown Princess, which had been delayed till now, she

hoped to hear something more definite as to how my affairs stood with

the King, although she intimated to me that even this great lady was in

deep disfavour, and could only bring her influence to bear upon the

King by observing the strictest etiquette. But from this source also no

news reached me till it was time for me to leave Berlin and I could

postpone my departure no longer.

As I had to conduct a third performance of Rienzi, and there still

remained a remote possibility of receiving a sudden command to

Sans-Souci, I accordingly fixed on a date which would be the very

latest I could wait to ascertain the fate of the projects I had nearest

to heart. This period passed by, and I was forced to realise that my

hopes of Berlin were wholly shattered.

I was in a very depressed state when I made up my mind to this

conclusion. I can seldom remember having been so dreadfully affected by

the influence of cold and wet weather and an eternally grey sky as

during those last wretched weeks in Berlin, when everything that I

heard, in addition to my own private anxieties, weighed upon me with a

leaden weight of discouragement.

My conversations with Hermann Franck about the social and political

situation had assumed a peculiarly gloomy tone, as the King of

Prussia’s efforts to summon a united conference had failed. I was among

those who had at first been inclined to see a hopeful significance in

this undertaking, but it was a shock to have all the intimate details

relating to the project clearly set before me by so well informed a man

as Franck. His dispassionate views on this subject, as well as on the

Prussian State in particular, which was supposed to be representative

of German intelligence, and was universally considered to be a model of

order and good government, so completely disillusioned me and destroyed

all the favourable and hopeful opinions I had formed of it, that I felt

as if I had plunged into chaos, and realised the utter futility of

expecting a prosperous settlement of the German question from this

quarter. If in the midst of my misery in Dresden I had founded great

hopes from gaining the King of Prussia’s sympathy for my ideas, I could

no longer close my eyes to the fearful hollowness which the state of

affairs disclosed to me on every side.

In this despairing mood I felt but little emotion when, on going to say

good-bye to Count Redern, he told me with a very sad face the news,

which had just arrived, of Mendelssohn’s death. I certainly did not

realise this stroke of fate, which Redern’s obvious grief first brought

to my notice. At all events, he was spared more detailed and heartfelt

explanation of my own affairs, which he had so much at heart.

The only thing that remained for me to do in Berlin was to try and make

my material success balance my material loss. For a stay of two months,

during which my wife and my sister Clara had been with me, lured on by

the hope that the production of Rienzi in Berlin would be a brilliant

success, I found my old friend, Director Küstner, by no means inclined

to compensate me. From his correspondence with me he could prove up to

the hilt that legally he had only expressed the desire for my

co-operation in studying Rienzi, but had given me no positive

invitation. As I was prevented by Count Redern’s grief over

Mendelssohn’s death from going to him for help in these trivial private

concerns, there was no alternative but for me to accept with a good

grace Küstner’s beneficence in paying me on the spot the royalties on

the three performances which had already taken place. The Dresden

authorities were surprised when I found myself obliged to beg an

advance of income from them in order to conclude this brilliant

undertaking in Berlin.

As I was travelling with my wife in the most horrible weather through

the deserted country on my way home, I fell into a mood of the blackest

despair, which I thought I might perhaps survive once in a lifetime but

never again. Nevertheless, it amused me, as I sat silently looking out

of the carriage into the grey mist, to hear my wife enter into a lively

discussion with a commercial traveller who, in the course of friendly

conversation, had spoken in a disparaging way about the ‘new opera

Rienzi.’ My wife, with great heat and even passion, corrected various

mistakes made by this hostile critic, and to her great satisfaction

made him confess that he had not heard the opera himself, but had only

based his opinion upon hearsay and the reviews. Whereupon my wife

pointed out to him most earnestly that ‘he could not possibly know

whose future he might not injure by such irresponsible comment.’

These were the only cheering and consoling impressions which I carried

back with me to Dresden, where I soon felt the direct results of the

reverses I had suffered in Berlin in the condolences of my

acquaintances. The papers had spread abroad the news that my opera had

been a dismal failure. The most painful part of the whole proceeding

was that I had to meet these expressions of pity with a cheerful

countenance and the assurance that things were by no means so bad as

had been made out, but that, on the contrary, I had had many pleasant

experiences.

This unaccustomed effort placed me in a position strangely similar to

that in which I found Hiller on my return to Dresden. He had given a

performance of his new opera, Conradin von Hohenstaufen, here just

about this time. He had kept the composition of this work a secret from

me, and had hoped to make a decided hit with it after the three

performances which took place in my absence. Both the poet and the

composer thought that in this work they had combined the tendencies and

effects of my Rienzi with those of my Tannhäuser in a manner peculiarly

suited to the Dresden public. As he was just setting out for

Dusseldorf, where he had been appointed concert-director, he commended

his work with great confidence to my tender mercies, and regretted not

having the power of appointing me the conductor of it. He acknowledged

that he owed his great success partly to the wonderfully happy

rendering of the male part of Conradin by my niece Johanna. She, in her

turn, told me with equal confidence that without her Hiller’s opera

would not have had such an extraordinary triumph. I was now really

anxious to see this fortunate work and its wonderful staging for

myself; and this I was able to do, as a fourth performance was

announced after Hiller and his family had left Dresden for good. When I

entered the theatre at the beginning of the overture to take my place

in the stalls, I was astonished to find all the seats, with a few

scarcely noticeable exceptions, absolutely empty. At the other end of

my row I saw the poet who had written the libretto, the gentle painter

Reinike. We moved, naturally, towards the middle of the space and

discussed the strange position in which we found ourselves. He poured

out melancholy complaints to me about Hiller’s musical setting to his

poetry; the secret of the mistake which Hiller had made about the

success of his work he did not explain, and was evidently very much

upset at the conspicuous failure of the opera. It was from another

quarter that I learned how it had been possible for Hiller to deceive

himself in such an extraordinary way. Frau Hiller, who was of Polish

origin, had managed at the frequent Polish gatherings which took place

in Dresden to persuade a large contingent of her countrymen, who were

keen theatre-goers, to attend her husband’s opera. On the first night

these friends, with their usual enthusiasm, incited the public to

applaud, but had themselves found so little pleasure in the work that

they had stayed away from the second performance, which was otherwise

badly attended, so that the opera could only be considered a failure.

By commandeering all the help that could possibly be got from the Poles

by way of applause, every effort was made to secure a third performance

on a Sunday, when the theatre generally filled of its own accord. This

object was achieved, and the Polish theatre aristocracy, with the

charity that was habitual to them, fulfilled their duty towards the

needy couple in whose drawing-room they had often spent such pleasant

evenings.

Once more the composer was called before the curtain, and everything

went off well. Hiller thereupon placed his confidence in the verdict on

the third performance, according to which his opera was an undoubted

success, just as had been the case with my Tannhäuser. The

artificiality of this proceeding was, however, exposed by this fourth

performance, at which I was present, and at which no one was under an

obligation to the departed composer to attend. Even my niece was

disgusted with it, and thought that the best singer in the world could

not make a success of such a tedious opera. Whilst we were watching

this miserable performance I managed to point out to the poet some

weaknesses and faults that were to be found in the subject-matter. The

latter reported my criticisms to Hiller, whereupon I received a warm

and friendly letter from Dusseldorf, in which Hiller acknowledged the

mistake he had made in rejecting my advice on this point. He gave me

plainly to understand that it was not too late to alter the opera

according to my suggestions; I should thus have had the inestimable

benefit of having such an obviously well-intentioned, and, in its way,

so significant, a work in the repertoire, but I never got so far as

that.

On the other hand, I experienced the small satisfaction of hearing the

news that two performances of my Rienzi had taken place in Berlin, for

the success of which Conductor Taubert, as he informed me himself,

thought he had won some credit on account of the extremely effective

combinations he had arranged. In spite of this, I was absolutely

convinced that I must abandon all hope of any lasting and profitable

success from Berlin, and I could no longer hide from Lüttichau that, if

I were to continue in the discharge of my duties with the necessary

good spirits, I must insist on a rise of salary, as, beyond my regular

income, I could not rely on any substantial success wherewith to meet

my unlucky publishing transactions. My income was so small that I could

not even live on it, but I asked nothing more than to be placed on an

equal footing with my colleague Reissiger, a prospect which had been

held out to me from the beginning.

At this juncture Lüttichau saw a favourable opportunity for making me

feel my dependence on his goodwill, which could only be secured by my

showing due deference to his wishes. After I had laid my case before

the King, at a personal interview, and asked for the favour of the

moderate increase in income which was my object, Lüttichau promised to

make the report he was obliged to give of me as favourable as possible.

How great was my consternation and humiliation when one day he opened

our interview by telling me that his report had come back from the

King. In it was set forth that I had unfortunately overestimated my

talent on account of the foolish praise of various friends in a high

position (among whom he counted Frau v. Konneritz), and had thus been

led to consider that I had quite as good a right to success as

Meyerbeer. I had thereby caused such serious offence that it might,

perhaps, be considered advisable to dismiss me altogether. On the other

hand, my industry and my praiseworthy performance with regard to the

revision of Gluck’s Iphigenia, which had been brought to the notice of

the management, might justify my being given another chance, in which

case my material condition must be given due consideration. At this

point I could read no further, and stupefied by surprise I gave my

patron back the paper. He tried at once to remove the obviously bad

impression it had made upon me by telling me that my wish had been

granted, and I could draw the nine hundred marks belonging to me at

once from the bank. I took my leave in silence, and pondered over what

course of action I must pursue in face of this disgrace, as it was

quite out of the question for me to accept the nine hundred marks.

But in the midst of these adversities a visit of the King of Prussia to

Dresden was one day announced, and at the same time by his special

request a performance of Tannhäuser was arranged. He really did make

his appearance in the theatre at this performance in the company of the

royal family of Saxony, and stayed with apparent interest from

beginning to end. On this occasion the King gave a curious explanation

for having stayed away from the performances of Rienzi in Berlin, which

was afterwards reported to me. He said he had denied himself the

pleasure of hearing one of my operas in Berlin, because it was

important to get a good impression of them, and he knew that in his own

theatre they would only be badly produced. This strange event had, at

any rate, the result of giving me back sufficient self-confidence to

accept the nine hundred marks of which I was in such desperate need.

Lüttichau also seemed to make a point of winning back my trust to some

extent, and I gathered from his calm friendliness that I must suppose

this wholly uncultured man had no consciousness of the outrage he had

done me. He returned to the idea of having orchestral concerts, in

accordance with the suggestions I had made in my rejected report on the

orchestra, and in order to induce me to arrange such musical

performances in the theatre, said the initiative had come from the

management and not from the orchestra itself. As soon as I discovered

that the profits were to go to the orchestra I willingly entered into

the plan. By a special device of my own the stage of the theatre was

made into a concert-hall (afterwards considered first-class) by means

of a sounding board enclosing the whole orchestra, which proved a great

success. In future six performances were to take place during the

winter months. This time, however, as it was the end of the year, and

we only had the second half of the winter before us, subscription

tickets were issued for only three concerts, and the whole available

space in the theatre was filled by the public. I found the preparations

for this fairly diverting, and entered upon the fateful year 1848 in a

rather more reconciled and amiable frame of mind.

Early in the New Year the first of these orchestral concerts took

place, and brought me much popularity on account of its unusual

programme. I had discovered that if any real significance were to be

given to these concerts, in distinction to those consisting of

heterogeneous scraps of music of every different species under the sun,

and which are so opposed to all serious artistic taste, we could only

afford to give two kinds of genuine music alternately if a good effect

was to be produced. Accordingly between two symphonies I placed one or

two longer vocal pieces, which were not to be heard elsewhere, and

these were the only items in the whole concert. After the Mozart

Symphony in D major, I made all the musicians move from their places to

make room for an imposing choir, which had to sing Palestrina’s Stabat

Mater, from an adaptation of the original recitative, which I had

carefully revised, and Bach’s Motet for eight voices: Singet dem Herrn

ein neues Lied (‘Sing unto the Lord a new song’); thereupon I let the

orchestra again take its place to play Beethoven’s Sinfonia Eroica, and

with that to end the concert.

This success was very encouraging, and disclosed to me a somewhat

consoling prospect of increasing my influence as musical conductor at a

time when my disgust was daily growing stronger at the constant

meddling with our opera repertoire, which made me lose more and more

influence as compared with the wishes of my would-be prima donna niece,

whom even Tichatschek supported. Immediately on my return from Berlin I

had begun the orchestration of Lohengrin, and in all other respects had

given myself up to greater resignation, which made me feel I could face

my fate calmly, when I suddenly received a very disturbing piece of

news.

In the beginning of February my mother’s death was announced to me. I

at once hastened to her funeral at Leipzig, and was filled with deep

emotion and joy at the wonderfully calm and sweet expression of her

face. She had passed the latter years of her life, which had before

been so active and restless, in cheerful ease, and at the end in

peaceful and almost childlike happiness. On her deathbed she exclaimed

in humble modesty, and with a bright smile on her face: ‘Oh! how

beautiful! how lovely! how divine! Why do I deserve such favour?’ It

was a bitterly cold morning when we lowered the coffin into the grave

in the churchyard, and the hard, frozen lumps of earth which we

scattered on the lid, instead of the customary handful of dust,

frightened me by the loud noise they made. On the way home to the house

of my brother-in-law, Hermann Brockhaus, where the whole family were to

gather together for an hour, Laube, of whom my mother had been very

fond, was my only companion. He expressed his anxiety at my unusually

exhausted appearance, and when he afterwards accompanied me to the

station, we discussed the unbearable burden which seemed to us to lie

like a dead weight on every noble effort made to resist the tendency of

the time to sink into utter worthlessness. On my return to Dresden the

realisation of my complete loneliness came over me for the first time

with full consciousness, as I could not help knowing that with the loss

of my mother every natural bond of union was loosened with my brothers

and sisters, each of whom was taken up with his or her own family

affairs. So I plunged dully and coldly into the only thing which could

cheer and warm me, the working out of my Lohengrin and my studies of

German antiquity.

Thus dawned the last days of February, which were to plunge Europe once

more into revolution. I was among those who least expected a probable

or even possible overthrow of the political world. My first knowledge

of such things had been gained in my youth at the time of the July

Revolution, and the long and peaceful reaction that followed it. Since

then I had become acquainted with Paris, and from all the signs of

public life which I saw there, I thought all that had occurred had been

merely the preliminaries of a great revolutionary movement. I had been

present at the erection of the forts detaches around Paris, which Louis

Philippe had carried out, and been instructed about the strategic value

of the various fixed sentries scattered about Paris, and I agreed with

those who considered that everything was ready to make even an attempt

at a rising on the part of the populace of Paris quite impossible.

When, therefore, the Swiss War of Separation at the end of the previous

year, and the successful Sicilian Revolution at the beginning of the

New Year, turned all men’s eyes in great excitement to watch the effect

of these risings on Paris, I did not take the slightest interest in the

hopes and fears which were aroused. News of the growing restlessness in

the French capital did indeed reach us, but I disputed Röckel’s belief

that any significance could be attached to it. I was sitting in the

conductor’s desk at a rehearsal of Martha when, during an interval,

Röckel, with the peculiar joy of being in the right, brought me the

news of Louis Philippe’s flight, and the proclamation of the Republic

in Paris. This made a strange and almost astonishing impression on me,

although at the same time the doubt as to the true significance of

these events made it possible for me to smile to myself. I too caught

the fever of excitement which had spread everywhere. The German March

days were coming, and from all directions ever more alarming news kept

coming in. Even within the narrow confines of my native Saxony serious

petitions were framed, which the King withstood for a long time; even

he was deceived, in a way which he was soon to acknowledge, as to the

meaning of this commotion and the temper that prevailed in the country.

On the evening of one of these really anxious days, when the very air

was heavy and full of thunder, we gave our third great orchestral

concert, at which the King and his court were present, as on the two

previous occasions. For the opening of this one I had chosen

Mendelssohn’s Symphony in A minor, which I had played on the occasion

of his funeral. The mood of this piece, which even in the would-be

joyful phrases is always tenderly melancholy, corresponded strangely

with the anxiety and depression of the whole audience, which was more

particularly accentuated in the demeanour of the royal family. I did

not conceal from Lipinsky, the leader of the orchestra, my regret at

the mistake I had made in the arrangement of that day’s programme, as

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, also in a minor key, was to follow this

minor symphony. With a merry twinkle in his eyes the eccentric Pole

comforted me by exclaiming: ‘Oh, let us play only the first two

movements of the Symphony in C minor, then no one will know whether we

have played Mendelssohn in the major or the minor key.’ Fortunately

before these two movements began, to our great surprise, a loud shout

was raised by some patriotic spirit in the middle of the audience, who

called out ‘Long live the King!’ and the cry was promptly repeated with

unusual enthusiasm and energy on all sides. Lipinsky was perfectly

right: the symphony, with the passionate and stormy excitement of the

first theme, swelled out like a hurricane of rejoicing, and had seldom

produced such an effect on the audience as on that night. This was the

last of the newly inaugurated concerts that I ever conducted in

Dresden.

Shortly after this the inevitable political changes took place. The

King dismissed his ministry and elected a new one, consisting partly of

Liberals and partly even of really enthusiastic Democrats, who at once

proclaimed the well-known regulations, which are the same all over the

world, for founding a thoroughly democratic constitution. I was really

touched by this result, and by the heartfelt joy which was evident

among the whole population, and I would have given much to have been

able to gain access to the King, and convince myself of his hearty

confidence in the people’s love for him, which seemed to me so

desirable a consummation. In the evening the town was gaily

illuminated, and the King drove through the streets in an open

carriage. In the greatest excitement I went out among the dense crowds

and followed his movements, often running where I thought it likely

that a particularly hearty shout might rejoice and reconcile the

monarch’s heart. My wife was quite frightened when she saw me come back

late at night, tired out and very hoarse from shouting.

The events which took place in Vienna and Berlin, with their apparently

momentous results, only moved me as interesting newspaper reports, and

the meeting of a Frankfort parliament in the place of the dissolved

Bundestag sounded strangely pleasant in my ears. Yet all these

significant occurrences could not tear me for a single day from my

regular hours of work. With immense, almost overweening satisfaction, I

finished, in the last days of this eventful and historic month of

March, the score of Lohengrin with the orchestration of the music up to

the vanishing of the Knight of the Holy Grail into the remote and

mystic distance.

About this time a young Englishwomen, Madame Jessie Laussot, who had

married a Frenchman in Bordeaux, one day presented herself at my house

in the company of Karl Ritter, who was barely eighteen years of age.

This young man, who was born in Russia of German parents, was a member

of one of those northern families who had settled down permanently in

Dresden, on account of the pleasant artistic atmosphere of that place.

I remembered that I had seen him once before not long after the first

performance of Tannhäuser, when he asked me for my autograph for a copy

of the score of that opera, which was on sale at the music-shop. I now

learned that this copy really belonged to Frau Laussot, who had been

present at those performances, and who was now introduced to me.

Overcome with shyness, the young lady expressed her admiration in a way

I had never experienced before, and at the same time told me how great

was her regret at being called away by family affairs from her

favourite home in Dresden with the Ritter family, who, she gave me to

understand, were deeply devoted to me. It was with a strange, and in

its way quite a new, sensation that I bade farewell to this young lady.

This was the first time since my meeting with Alwine Frommann and

Werder, when the Fliegender Holländer was produced, that I came across

this sympathetic tone, which seemed to come like an echo from some old

familiar past, but which I never heard close at hand. I invited young

Ritter to come and see me whenever he liked, and to accompany me

sometimes on my walks. His extraordinary shyness, however, seemed to

prevent him from doing this, and I only remember seeing him very

occasionally at my house. He used to turn up more often with Hans von

Bulow, whom he seemed to know pretty well, and who had already entered

the Leipzig University as a student of law. This well-informed and

talkative young man showed his warm and hearty devotion to me more

openly, and I felt bound to reciprocate his affection. He was the first

person who made me realise the genuine character of the new political

enthusiasm. On his hat, as well as on his father’s, the black, red, and

gold cockade was paraded before my eyes.

Now that I had finished my Lohengrin, and had leisure to study the

course of events, I could no longer help myself sympathising with the

ferment aroused by the birth of German ideals and the hopes attached to

their realisation. My old friend Franck had already imbued me with a

fairly sound political judgment, and, like many others, I had grave

doubts as to whether the German parliament now assembling would serve

any useful purpose. Nevertheless, the temper of the populace, of which

there could be no question, although it might not have been given very

obvious expression, and the belief, everywhere prevalent, that it was

impossible to return to the old conditions, could not fail to exercise

its influence upon me. But I wanted actions instead of words, and

actions which would force our princes to break for ever with their old

traditions, which were so detrimental to the cause of the German

commonwealth. With this object I felt inspired to write a popular

appeal in verse, calling upon the German princes and peoples to

inaugurate a great crusade against Russia, as the country which had

been the prime instigator of that policy in Germany which had so

fatally separated the monarchs from their subjects. One of the verses

ran as follows:—

The old fight against the East

Returns again to-day.

The people’s sword must not rust

Who freedom wish for aye.

As I had no connection with political journals, and had learned by

chance that Berthold Auerbach was on the staff of a paper in Mannheim,

where the waves of revolution ran high, I sent him my poem with the

request to do whatever he thought best with it, and from that day to

this I have never heard or seen anything of it.

Whilst the Frankfort Parliament continued to sit on from day to day,

and it seemed idle to conjecture whither this big talk by small men

would lead, I was much impressed by the news which reached us from

Vienna. In the May of this year an attempt at a reaction, such as had

succeeded in Naples and remained indecisive in Paris, had been

triumphantly nipped in the bud by the enthusiasm and energy of the

Viennese people under the leadership of the students’ band, who had

acted with such unexpected firmness. I had arrived at the conclusion

that, in matters directly concerning the people, no reliance could be

placed on reason or wisdom, but only on sheer force supported by

fanaticism or absolute necessity; but the course of events in Vienna,

where I saw the youth of the educated classes working side by side with

the labouring man, filled me with peculiar enthusiasm, to which I gave

expression in another popular appeal in verse. This I sent to the

Oesterreichischen Zeitung, where it was printed in their columns with

my full signature.

In Dresden two political unions had been formed, as a result of the

great changes that had taken place. The first was called the Deutscher

Verein (German Union), whose programme aimed at ‘a constitutional

monarchy on the broadest democratic foundation.’ The names of its

principal leaders, among which, in spite of its broad democratic

foundation, my friends Eduard Devrient and Professor Rietschel had the

courage openly to appear, guaranteed the safety of its objects. This

union, which tried to include every element that regarded a real

revolution with abhorrence, conjured into existence an opposition club

which called itself the Vaterlands-Verein (Patriotic Union). In this

the ‘democratic foundation’ seemed to be the chief basis, and the

‘constitutional monarchy’ only provided the necessary cloak.

Röckel canvassed passionately for the latter, as he seemed to have lost

all confidence in the monarchy. The poor fellow was, indeed, in a very

bad way. He had long ago given up all hope of rising to any position in

the musical world; his directorship had become pure drudgery, and was,

unfortunately, so badly paid that he could not possibly keep himself

and his yearly increasing family on the income he derived from his

post. He always had an unconquerable aversion from teaching, which was

a fairly profitable employment in Dresden among the many wealthy

visitors. So he went on from bad to worse, running miserably into debt,

and for a long time saw no hope for his position as the father of a

family except in emigration to America, where he thought he could

secure a livelihood for himself and his dependants by manual labour,

and for his practical mind by working as a farmer, from which class he

had originally sprung. This, though tedious, would at least be certain.

On our walks he had of late been entertaining me almost exclusively

with ideas he had gleaned from reading books on farming, doctrines

which he applied with zeal to the improvement of his encumbered

position. This was the mood in which the Revolution of 1848 found him,

and he immediately went over to the extreme socialist side, which,

owing to the example set by Paris, threatened to become serious. Every

one who knew him was utterly taken aback at the apparently vital change

which had so suddenly taken place in him, when he declared that he had

at last found his real vocation—that of an agitator.

His persuasive faculties, on which, however, he could not rely

sufficiently for platform purposes, developed in private intercourse

into stupefying energy. It was impossible to stop his flow of language

with any objection, and those he could not draw over to his cause he

cast aside for ever. In his enthusiasm about the problems which

occupied his mind day and night, he sharpened his intellect into a

weapon capable of demolishing every foolish objection, and suddenly

stood in our midst like a preacher in the wilderness. He was at home in

every department of knowledge. The Vaterlands-Verein had elected a

committee for carrying into execution a plan for arming the populace;

this included Röckel and other thoroughgoing democrats, and, in

addition, certain military experts, among whom was my old friend

Hermann Muller, the lieutenant of the Guards who had once been engaged

to Schroder-Devrient. He and another officer named Zichlinsky were the

only members of the Saxon army who joined the political movement. The