part I played in the meetings of this committee, as in everything else,

was dictated by artistic motives. As far as I can remember, the details

of this plan, which at last became a nuisance, afforded very sound

foundation for a genuine arming of the people, though it was impossible

to carry it out during the political crisis.

My interest and enthusiasm about the social and political problems

which were occupying the whole world increased every day, until public

meetings and private intercourse, and the shallow platitudes which

formed the staple eloquence of the orators of the day, proved to me the

terrible shallowness of the whole movement.

If only I could rest assured that, while such senseless confusion was

the order of the day, people well versed in these matters would

withhold from any demonstration (which to my great regret I observed in

Hermann Franck, and told him of, openly), then, on the contrary, I

should feel myself compelled, as soon as the opportunity arose, to

discuss the purport of such questions and problems according to my

judgment. Needless to say, the newspapers played an exciting and

prominent part on this occasion. Once, when I went incidentally (as I

might go to see a play) to a meeting of the Vaterlands-Verein, when

they were assembled in a public garden, they chose for the subject of

their discussion, ‘Republic or Monarchy?’ I was astonished to hear and

to read with what incredible triviality it was carried on, and how the

sum-total of their explanation was, that, to be sure, a republic is

best, but, at the worst, one could put up with a monarchy if it were

well conducted. As the result of many heated discussions on this point,

I was incited to lay bare my views on the subject in an article which I

published in the DRESDENER ANZEIGER, but which I did not sign. My

special aim was to turn the attention of the few who really took the

matter seriously, from the external form of the government to its

intrinsic value. When I had pursued and consistently discussed the

utmost idealistic conclusions of all that which, to my mind, was

necessary and inseparable from the perfect state and from social order,

I inquired whether it would not be possible to realise all this with a

king at the head, and entered so deeply into the matter as to portray

the king in such a fashion, that he seemed even more anxious than any

one else that his state should be organised on genuinely republican

lines, in order that he might attain to the fulfilment of his own

highest aims. I must own, however, that I felt bound to urge this king

to assume a much more familiar attitude towards his people than the

court atmosphere and the almost exclusive society of his nobles would

seem to render possible. Finally, I pointed to the King of Saxony as

being specially chosen by Fate to lead the way in the direction I had

indicated, and to give the example to all the other German princes.

Röckel considered this article a true inspiration from the Angel of

Propitiation, but as he feared that it would not meet with proper

recognition and appreciation in the paper, he urged me to lecture on it

publicly at the next meeting of the Vaterlands-Verein for he attached

great importance to my discoursing on the subject personally. Quite

uncertain as to whether I could really persuade myself to do this, I

attended the meeting, and there, owing to the intolerable balderdash

uttered by a certain barrister named Blode and a master-furrier Klette,

whom at that time Dresden venerated as a Demosthenes and a Cleon, I

passionately decided to appear at this extraordinary tribunal with my

paper, and to give a very spirited reading of it to about three

thousand persons.

The success I had was simply appalling. The astounded audience seemed

to remember nothing of the speech of the Orchestral Conductor Royal

save the incidental attack I had made upon the court sycophants. The

news of this incredible event spread like wildfire. The next day I

rehearsed Rienzi, which was to be performed the following evening. I

was congratulated on all sides upon my self-sacrificing audacity. On

the day of the performance, however, I was informed by Eisolt, the

attendant of the orchestra, that the plans had been changed, and he

gave me to understand that thereby there hung a tale. True enough, the

terrible sensation I had made became so great, that the directors

feared the most unheard-of demonstrations at any performance of Rienzi.

Then a perfect storm of derision and vituperation broke loose in the

press, and I was besieged on all sides to such an extent that it was

useless to think of self-defence. I had even offended the Communal

Guard of Saxony, and was challenged by the commander to make a full

apology. But the most inexorable enemies I made were the court

officials, especially those holding a minor office, and to this day I

still continue to be persecuted by them. I learned that, as far as it

lay in their power, they incessantly besought the King, and finally the

director, to deprive me at once of my office. On account of this I

thought it necessary to write to the monarch personally, in order to

explain to him that my action was to be regarded more in the light of a

thoughtless indiscretion than as a culpable offence. I sent this letter

to Herr von Lüttichau, begging him to deliver it to the King, and to

arrange at the same time a short leave for me, so that the provoking

disturbance should have a chance of dying down during my absence from

Dresden. The striking kindness and goodwill which Herr von Lüttichau

showed me on this occasion made no little impression upon me, and this

I took no pains to conceal from him. As in the course of time, however,

his ill-controlled rage at various things, and especially at a good

deal that he had misunderstood in my pamphlet, broke loose, I learned

that it was not from any humane motives that he had spoken in such a

propitiatory manner to me, but rather by desire of the King himself. On

this point I received most accurate information, and heard that when

everybody, and even von Lüttichau himself, were besieging the King to

visit me with punishment, the King had forbidden any further talk on

the subject. After this very encouraging experience, I flattered myself

that the King had understood not only my letter, but also my pamphlet,

better than many others.

In order to change my mind a little, I determined for the present (it

was the beginning of July) to take advantage of the short period of

leave granted to me, by going to Vienna. I travelled by way of Breslau,

where I looked up an old friend of my family, the musical director

Mosewius, at whose house I spent an evening. We had a most lively

conversation, but, unfortunately, were unable to steer clear of the

stirring political questions of the day. What interested me most was

his exceptionally large, or even, if I remember rightly, complete

collection of Sebastian Bach’s cantatas in most excellent copies.

Besides this, he related, with a humour quite his own, several amusing

musical anecdotes which were a pleasant memory for many a year. When

Mosewius returned my visit in the course of the summer at Dresden, I

played a part of the first act of Lohengrin on the piano for him, and

the expression of his genuine astonishment at this conception was very

gratifying to me. In later years, however, I found that he had spoken

somewhat scoffingly about me; but I did not stop to reflect as to the

truth of this information, or as to the real character of the man, for

little by little I had had to accustom myself to the most inconceivable

things. At Vienna the first thing I did was to call on Professor

Fischhof, as I knew that he had in his keeping important manuscripts,

chiefly by Beethoven, among which the original of the C minor Sonata,

opus 111, I was particularly curious to see. Through this new friend,

whom I found somewhat dry, I made the acquaintance of Herr Vesque von

Puttlingen, who, as the composer of a most insignificant opera (Joan of

Arc), which had been performed in Dresden, had with cautious good taste

adopted only the last two syllables of Beethoven’s name—Haven. One day

we were at his house to dinner, and I then recognised in him a former

confidential official of Prince Metternich, who now, with his ribbon of

black, red, and gold, followed the current of the age, apparently quite

convinced. I made another interesting acquaintance in the person of

Herr von Fonton, the Russian state councillor, and attache at the

Russian Embassy in Vienna. I frequently met this man, both at

Fischhof’s house and on excursions into the surrounding country; and it

was interesting to me for the first time to run up against a man who

could so strongly profess his faith in the pessimistic standpoint, that

a consistent despotism guarantees the only order of things which can be

tolerated. Not without interest, and certainly not without

intelligence—for he boasted of having been educated at the most

enlightened schools in Switzerland—he listened to my enthusiastic

narration of the art ideal which I had in my mind, and which was

destined to exercise a great and decided influence upon the human race.

As he had to allow that the realisation of this ideal could not be

effected through the strength of despotism, and as he was unable to

foresee any rewards for my exertions, by the time we came to the

champagne he thawed to such a degree of affable good-nature as to wish

me every success. I learned later on that this man, of whose talent and

energetic character I had at the time no small opinion, was last heard

of as being in great distress.

Now, as I never undertook anything whatever without some serious object

in view, I had made up my mind to avail myself of this visit to Vienna,

in order to try in some practical manner to promote my ideas for the

reform of the theatre. Vienna seemed to me specially suitable for this

purpose, as at that, time it had five theatres, all totally different

in character, which were dragging on a miserable existence. I quickly

worked out a plan, according to which these various theatres might be

formed into a sort of co-operative organisation, and placed under one

administration composed not only of active members, but also of all

those having any literary connection with the theatre. With a view to

submitting my plan to them, I then made inquiries about persons with

such capacities as seemed most likely to answer my requirements.

Besides Herr Friedrich Uhl, whom I had got to know at the very

beginning through Fischer, and who did me very good service, I was told

of a Herr Franck (the same, I presume, who later on published a big

epic work called Tannhäuser), and a Dr. Pacher, an agent of

Meyerbeer’s, and a pettifogger of whose acquaintance later on I was to

have no reason to be proud. The most sympathetic, and certainly the

most important, of those chosen by me for the conference meeting at

Fischhof’s house, was undoubtedly Dr. Becher, a passionate and

exceedingly cultivated man. He was the only one present who seriously

followed the reading of my plan, although, of course, he by no means

agreed with everything. I observed in him a certain wildness and

vehemence, the impression of which returned to me very vividly some

months later, when I heard of his being shot as a rebel who had

participated in the October Insurrection at Vienna. For the present,

then, I had to satisfy myself with having read the plan of my theatre

reform to a few attentive listeners. All seemed to be convinced that

the time was not opportune for putting forward such peaceable schemes

of reform. On the other hand, Uhl thought it right to give me an idea

of what was at present all the rage in Vienna, by taking me one evening

to a political club of the most advanced tendencies. There I heard a

speech by Herr Sigismund Englander, who shortly afterwards attracted

much attention in the political monthly papers; the unblushing audacity

with which he and others expressed themselves that evening with regard

to the most dreaded persons in public power astounded me almost as much

as the poverty of the political views expressed on that occasion. By

way of contrast I received a very nice impression of Herr Grillparzer,

the poet, whose name was like a fable to me, associated as it was, from

my earliest days, with his Ahnfrau. I approached him also with respect

to the matter of my theatre reform. He seemed quite disposed to listen

in a friendly manner to what I had to say to him; he did not, however,

attempt to conceal his surprise at my direct appeals and the personal

demands I made of him. He was the first playwright I had ever seen in

an official uniform.

After I had paid an unsuccessful visit to Herr Bauernfeld, relative to

the same business, I concluded that Vienna was of no more use for the

present, and gave myself up to the exceptionally stimulating

impressions produced by the public life of the motley crowd, which of

late had undergone such marked changes. If the student band, which was

always represented in great numbers in the streets, had already amused

me with the extraordinary constancy with which its members sported the

German colours, I was very highly diverted by the effect produced when

at the theatres I saw even the ices served by attendants in the black,

red, and gold of Austria. At the Karl Theatre, in the Leopold quarter

of the town, I saw a new farce, by Nestroy, which actually introduced

the character of Prince Metternich, and in which this statesman, on

being asked whether he had poisoned the Duke of Reichstadt, had to make

his escape behind the wings as an unmasked sinner. On the whole, the

appearance of this imperial city—usually so fond of pleasure—impressed

one with a feeling of youthful and powerful confidence. And this

impression was revived in me when I heard of the energetic

participation of the youthful members of the population, during those

fateful October days, in the defence of Vienna against the troops of

Prince Windischgratz.

On the homeward journey I touched at Prague, where I found my old

friend Kittl (who had grown very much more corpulent) still in the most

terrible fright about the riotous events which had taken place there.

He seemed to be of opinion that the revolt of the Tschech party against

the Austrian Government was directed at him personally, and he thought

fit to reproach himself with the terrible agitation of the time, which

he believed he had specially inflamed by his composition of my operatic

text of Die Franzosen vor Nizza, out of which a kind of revolutionary

air seemed to have become very popular. To my great pleasure, on my

homeward journey I had the company of Hänel the sculptor, whom I met on

the steamer. There travelled with us also a Count Albert Nostitz, with

whom he had just settled up his business concerning the statue of the

Emperor Charles IV., and he was in the gayest mood, as the extremely

insecure state of Austrian paper money had led to his being paid at a

great profit to himself, in silver coin in accordance with his

agreement. I was very pleased to find that, thanks to this

circumstance, he was in such a confident mood, and so free from

prejudice, that on, arriving at Dresden he accompanied me the whole

way—a very long distance—from the landing-stage at which we had left

the steamer to my house, in an open carriage; and this despite the fact

that he very well knew that, only a few weeks before, I had caused a

really terrible stir in this very city.

As far as the public were concerned, the storm seemed quite to have

died down, and I was able to resume my usual occupations and mode of

life without any further trouble. I am sorry to say, however, that my

old worries and anxieties started afresh; I stood in great need of

money, and had not the vaguest notion whither to go in search of it. I

then examined very thoroughly the answer I had received during the

preceding winter to my petition for a higher salary. I had left it

unread, as the modifications made in it had already disgusted me. If I

had till now believed that it was Herr von Lüttichau who had brought

about the increase of salary I had demanded, in the shape of a

supplement which I was to receive annually—in itself a humiliating

thing—I now saw to my horror that all the time there had been no

mention save of one single supplement, and that there was nothing to

show that this should be repeated annually. On learning this, I saw

that I should now be at the hopeless disadvantage of coming too late

with a remonstrance if I should attempt to make one; so there was

nothing left for me but to submit to an insult which, under the

circumstances, was quite unprecedented. My feelings towards Herr von

Lüttichau, which shortly before had been rather warm owing to his

supposed kind attitude towards me during the last disturbance, now

underwent a serious change, and I soon had a new reason (actually

connected with the above-mentioned affair) for altering my favourable

opinion of him, and for turning finally against him for good and all.

He had informed me that the members of the Imperial Orchestra had sent

him a deputation demanding my instant dismissal, as they thought that

it affected their honour to be any longer under a conductor who had

compromised himself politically to the extent which I had. He also

informed me that he had not only reprimanded them very severely, but

that he had also been at great pains to pacify them concerning me. All

this, which Lüttichau had put in a highly favourable light, had

latterly made me feel very friendly towards him. Then, however, as the

result of inquiries into the matter, I heard accidentally through

members of the orchestra that the facts of the case were almost exactly

the reverse. What had happened was this, that the members of the

Imperial Orchestra had been approached on all sides by the officials of

the court, and had been not only earnestly requested to do what

Lüttichau had declared they had done of their own accord, but also

threatened with the displeasure of the King, and of incurring the

strongest suspicion if they refused to comply. In order to protect

themselves against this intrigue, and to avoid all evil consequences

should they not take the required step, the musicians had turned to

their principal, and had sent him a deputation, through which they

declared that, as a corporation of artists, they did not in the least

feel called upon to mix themselves up in a matter that did not concern

them. Thus the halo with which my former attachment to Herr von

Lüttichau had surrounded him at last disappeared for good and all, and

it was chiefly my shame at having been so very much upset by his false

conduct that now inspired me for ever with such bitter feelings for

this man. What determined this feeling even more than the insults I had

suffered, was the recognition of the fact that I was now utterly

incapable of ever being able to enlist his influence in the cause of

theatrical reform, which was so dear to me. It was natural that I

should learn to attach ever less and less importance to the mere

retention of the post of orchestral conductor on so extraordinarily

inadequate and reduced a salary; and in keeping to this office, I

merely bowed to what was an inevitable though purely accidental

circumstance of a wretched fate. I did nothing to make the post more

intolerable, but, at the same time, I moved not a finger to ensure its

permanence.

The very next thing I must do was to attempt to establish my hopes of a

larger income, so sadly doomed hitherto, upon a very much sounder

basis. In this respect it occurred to me that I might consult my friend

Liszt, and beg him to suggest a remedy for my grievous position. And lo

and behold, shortly after those fateful March days, and not long before

the completion of my Lohengrin score, to my very great delight and

astonishment, the very man I wanted walked into my room. He had come

from Vienna, where he had lived through the ‘Barricade Days,’ and he

was going on to Weimar, where he intended to settle permanently. We

spent an evening together at Schumann’s, had a little music, and

finally began a discussion on Mendelssohn and Meyerbeer, in which Liszt

and Schumann differed so fundamentally that the latter, completely

losing his temper, retired in a fury to his bedroom for quite a long

time. This incident did indeed place us in a somewhat awkward position

towards our host, but it furnished us with a most amusing topic of

conversation on the way home, I have seldom seen Liszt so extravagantly

cheerful as on that night, when, in spite of the cold and the fact that

he was clad only in ordinary evening-dress, he accompanied first the

music director Schubert, and then myself, to our respective homes.

Subsequently I took advantage of a few days’ holiday in August to make

an excursion to Weimar, where I found Liszt permanently installed and,

as is well known, enjoying a life of most intimate intercourse with the

Grand Duke. Even though he was unable to help me in my affairs, except

by giving me a recommendation which finally proved useless, his

reception of me on this short visit was so hearty and so exceedingly

stimulating, that it left me profoundly cheered and encouraged. On

returning to Dresden I tried as far as possible to curtail my expenses

and to live within my means; and, as every means of assistance failed

me, I resorted to the expedient of sending out a circular letter

addressed jointly to my remaining creditors, all of whom were really

friends; and in this I told them frankly of my situation, and enjoined

them to relinquish their demands for an indefinite time, till my

affairs took a turn for the better, as without this I should certainly

never be in a position to satisfy them. By this means they would, at

all events, be in a position to oppose my general manager, whom I had

every reason to suspect of evil designs, and who would have been only

too glad to seize any signs of hostility towards me, on the part of my

creditors, as a pretext for taking the worst steps against me. The

assurance I required was given me unhesitatingly; my friend Pusinelli,

and Frau Klepperbein (an old friend of my mother’s), even going so far

as to declare that they were prepared to give up all claim to the money

they had lent me. Thus, in some measure reassured, and with my position

relative to Lüttichau so far improved that I could consult my own

wishes as to whether and when I should give up my post entirely, I now

continued to fulfil my duties as a conductor as patiently and

conscientiously as I was able, while with great zeal I also resumed my

studies, which were carrying me ever further and further afield.

Thus settled, I now began to watch the wonderful developments in the

fate of my friend Röckel. As every day brought fresh rumours of

threatened reactionary coups d’etat and similar violent outbreaks,

which Röckel thought it right to prevent, he drew up an appeal to the

soldiers of the army of Saxony, in which he explained every detail of

the cause for which he stood, and which he then had printed and

distributed broadcast. This was too flagrant a misdeed for the public

prosecutors: he was therefore immediately placed under arrest, and had

to remain three days in gaol while an action for high treason was

lodged against him. He was only released when the solicitor Minkwitz

stood bail for the requisite three thousand marks (equal to L150). This

return home to his anxious wife and children was celebrated by a little

public festival, which the committee of the Vaterlands-Verein had

arranged in his honour, and the liberated man was greeted as the

champion of the people’s cause. On the other hand, however, the general

management of the court theatre, who had before suspended him

temporarily, now gave him his final dismissal. Röckel let a full beard

grow, and began the publication of a popular journal called the

Volksblatt, of which he was sole editor. He must have counted on its

success to compensate him for the loss of his salary as musical

director, for he at once hired an office in the Brudergasse for his

undertaking. This paper succeeded in attracting the attention of a

great many people to its editor, and showed up his talents in quite a

new light, he never got involved in his style or indulged in any

elaboration of words, but confined himself to matters of immediate

importance and general interest; it was only after having discussed

them in a calm and sober fashion, that he led up from them to further

deductions of still greater interest connected with them. The

individual articles were short, and never contained anything

superfluous, in addition to which they were so clearly written, that

they made an instructive and convincing appeal to the most uneducated

mind. By always going to the root of things, instead of indulging in

circumlocutions which, in politics, have caused such great confusion in

the minds of the uneducated masses, he soon had a large circle of

readers, both among cultivated and uncultivated people. The only

drawback was that the price of the little weekly paper was too small to

yield him a corresponding profit. Moreover, it was necessary to warn

him that if the reactionary party should ever come into power again, it

could never possibly forgive him for this newspaper. His younger

brother, Edward, who was paying a visit at the time in Dresden,

declared himself willing to accept a post as piano-teacher in England,

which, though most uncongenial to him, would be lucrative and place him

in a position to help Röckel’s family, if, as seemed probable, he met

his reward in prison or on the gallows. Owing to his connection with

various societies, his time was so much taken up that my intercourse

with him was limited to walks, which became more and more rare. On

these occasions I often got lost in the most wildly speculative and

profound discussions, while this wonderfully exciteable man always

remained calmly reflective and clear-headed. First and foremost, he had

planned a drastic social reform of the middle classes—as at present

constituted—by aiming at a complete alteration of the basis of their

condition. He constructed a totally new moral order of things, founded

on the teaching of Proudhon and other socialists regarding the

annihilation of the power of capital, by immediately productive labour,

dispensing with the middleman. Little by little he converted me, by

most seductive arguments, to his own views, to such an extent that I

began to rebuild my hopes for the realisation of my ideal in art upon

them. Thus there were two questions which concerned me very nearly: he

wished to abolish matrimony, in the usual acceptation of the word,

altogether. I thereupon asked him what he thought the result would be

of promiscuous intercourse with women of a doubtful character. With

amiable indignation he gave me to understand that we could have no idea

about the purity of morals in general, and of the relations of the

sexes in particular, so long as we were unable to free people

completely from the yoke of the trades, guilds, and similar coercive

institutions. He asked me to consider what the only motive would be

which would induce a woman to surrender herself to a man, when not only

the considerations of money, fortune, position, and family prejudices,

but also the various influences necessarily arising from these, had

disappeared. When I, in my turn, asked him whence he would obtain

persons of great intellect and of artistic ability, if everybody were

to be merged in the working classes, he met my objection by replying,

that owing to the very fact that everybody would participate in the

necessary labour according to his strength and capacity, work would

cease to be a burden, and would become simply an occupation which would

finally assume an entirely artistic character. He demonstrated this on

the principle that, as had already been proved, a field, worked

laboriously by a single peasant, was infinitely less productive than

when cultivated by several persons in a scientific way. These and

similar suggestions, which Röckel communicated to me with a really

delightful enthusiasm, led me to further reflections, and gave birth to

new plans upon which, to my mind, a possible organisation of the human

race, which would correspond to my highest ideals in art, could alone

be based. In reference to this, I immediately turned my thoughts to

what was close at hand, and directed my attention to the theatre. The

motive for this came not only from my own feelings, but also from

external circumstances. In accordance with the latest democratic

suffrage laws, a general election seemed imminent in Saxony; the

election of extreme radicals, which had now taken place nearly

everywhere else, showed us that if the movement lasted, there would be

the most extraordinary changes even in the administration of the

revenue. Apparently a general resolution had been passed to subject the

Civil List to a strict revision; all that was deemed superfluous in the

royal household was to be done away with; the theatre, as an

unnecessary place of entertainment for a depraved portion of the

public, was threatened with the withdrawal of the subsidy granted it

from the Civil List. I now resolved, in view of the importance which I

attached to the theatre, to suggest to the ministers that they should

inform the members of parliament, that if the theatre in its present

condition were not worth any sacrifice from the state, it would sink to

still more doubtful tendencies—and might even become dangerous to

public morals—if deprived of that state control which had for its aim

the ideal, and, at the same time, felt itself called upon to place

culture and education under its beneficial protection. It was of the

highest importance to me to secure an organisation of the theatre,

which would make the carrying out its loftiest ideals not only a

possibility but also a certainty. Accordingly I drew up a project by

which the same sum as that which was allotted from the Civil List for

the support of a court theatre should be employed for the foundation

and upkeep of a national theatre for the kingdom of Saxony. In showing

the practical nature of the well-planned particulars of my scheme, I

defined them with such great precision, that I felt assured my work

would serve as a useful guide to the ministers as to how they should

put this matter before parliament. The point now was to have a personal

interview with one of the ministers, and it occurred to me that the

best man to apply to in the matter would be Herr von der Pfordten, the

Minister of Education. Although he already enjoyed the reputation of

being a turncoat in politics, and was said to be struggling to efface

the origin of his political promotion, which had taken place at a time

of great agitation, the mere fact of his having formerly been a

professor was sufficient to make me suppose that he was a man with whom

I could discuss the question that I had so much at heart. I learned,

however, that the real art institutions of the kingdom, such, for

instance, as the Academy of Fine Arts, to whose number I so ardently

desired to see the theatre added, belonged to the department of the

Minister of the Interior. To this man—the worthy though not highly

cultivated or artistic Herr Oberlander—I submitted my plans, not,

however, without having first made myself known to Herr von der

Pfordten, in order, for the reasons above stated, to command my project

to him. This man, who apparently was very busy, received me in a polite

and reassuring manner; but his whole bearing, indeed the very

expression of his face, seemed to destroy all hopes I might ever have

cherished of finding in him that understanding which I had expected.

The minister Oberlander, on the other hand, earned my confidence by the

straightforward earnestness with which he promised a thorough inquiry

into the matter. Unfortunately, however, at the same time, he informed

me with the most simple frankness, that he could entertain but very

little hope of getting the King’s authorisation for any unusual

treatment of a question hitherto given over to routine. It must be

understood that the relations of the King to his ministers were both

strained and unconfidential, and that this was more especially so in

the case of Oberlander, who never approached the monarch on any other

business than that which the strictest discharge of his current duties

rendered indispensable. He therefore thought it would be better if my

plan could be brought forward, in the first place, by the Chamber of

Deputies. As, in the event of the new Civil List being discussed, I was

particularly anxious to avoid the question of the continuation of the

court theatre being treated in the ignorant and shortsighted radical

fashion, which was to be feared above all, I did not despair of making

the acquaintance of some of the most influential among the new members

of parliament. In this wise I found myself suddenly plunged into quite

a new and strange world, and became acquainted with persons and

opinions, the very existence of which until then I had not even

suspected. I found it somewhat trying always to be obliged to meet

these gentlemen at their beer and shrouded in the dense clouds of their

tobacco smoke, and to have to discuss with them matters which, though

very dear to me, must have seemed a little fantastic to their mind.

After a certain Herr von Trutschler, a very handsome, energetic man,

whose seriousness was almost gloomy, had listened to me calmly for some

time, and had told me that he no longer knew anything about the state,

but only about society, and that the latter would know, without either

his or my aid, how it should act in regard to art and to the theatre, I

was filled with such extraordinary feelings, half mingled with shame,

that there and then I gave up, not only all my exertions, but all my

hopes as well. The only reminder I ever had of the whole affair came

some while, after when, on meeting Herr von Lüttichau, I quickly

gathered from his attitude to me that he had got wind of the episode,

and that it only inspired him with fresh hostility towards me.

During my walks, which I now took absolutely alone, I thought ever more

deeply—and much to the relief of my mind—over my ideas concerning that

state of human society for which the boldest hopes and efforts of the

socialists and communists, then busily engaged in constructing their

system, offered me but the roughest foundation. These efforts could

begin to have some meaning and value for me only when they had attained

to that political revolution and reconstruction which they aimed at;

for it was only then that I, in my turn, could start my reforms in art.

At the same time my thoughts were busy with a drama, in which the

Emperor Frederick I. (surnamed ‘Barbarossa’) was to be the hero. In it

the model ruler was portrayed in a manner which lent him the greatest

and most powerful significance. His dignified resignation at the

impossibility of making his ideals prevail was intended not only to

present a true transcript of the arbitrary multifariousness of the

things of this world, but also to arouse sympathy for the hero. I

wished to carry out this drama in popular rhyme, and in the style of

the German used by our epic poets of the Middle Ages, and in this

respect the poem Alexander, by the priest Lambert, struck me as a good

example; but I never got further with this play than to sketch its

outline in the broadest manner possible. The five acts were planned in

the following manner: Act i. Imperial Diet in the Roncaglian fields, a

demonstration of the significance of imperial power which should extend

even to the investiture of water and air; Act ii. the siege and capture

of Milan; Act iii. revolt of Henry the Lion and his overthrow at

Ligano; Act iv. Imperial Diet in Augsburg, the humiliation and

punishment of Henry the Lion; Act v. Imperial Diet and grand court

assembly at Mainz; peace with the Lombards, reconciliation with the

Pope, acceptance of the Cross, and the departure for the East. I lost

all interest, however, in the carrying out of this dramatic scheme

directly I discovered its resemblance to the subject-matter of the

Nibelungen and Siegfried myths, which possessed a more powerful

attraction for me. The points of similarity which I recognised between

the history and the legend in question then induced me to write a

treatise on the subject; and in this I was assisted by some stimulating

monographs (found in the royal library), written by authors whose names

have now escaped my memory, but which taught me in a very attractive

manner a considerable amount about the old original kingdom of Germany.

Later on I published this fairly extensive essay with the title of Die

Nibelungen, but in working it out I finally lost all inclination to

elaborate the historical material for a real drama.

In direct connection with this I began to sketch a clear summary of the

form which the old original Nibelungen myth had assumed in my mind in

its immediate association with the mythological legend of the gods—a

form which, though full of detail, was yet much condensed in its

leading features. Thanks to this work, I was able to convert the chief

part of the material itself into a musical drama. It was only by

degrees, however, and after long hesitation that I dared to enter more

deeply into my plans for this work; for the thought of the practical

realisation of such a work on our stage literally appalled me. I must

confess that it required all the despair which I then felt of ever

having the chance of doing anything more for our theatre, to give me

the necessary courage to begin upon this new work. Until that time I

simply allowed myself to drift, while I meditated listlessly upon the

possibility of things pursuing their course further under the existing

circumstances. In regard to Lohengrin, I had got to that point when I

hoped for nothing more than the best possible production of it at the

Dresden theatre, and felt that I should have to be satisfied in all

respects, and for all time, if I were able to achieve even that. I had

duly announced the completion of the score to Herr von Lüttichau; but,

in consideration of the unfavourable nature of my circumstances at the

time, I had left it entirely to him to decide when my work should be

produced.

Meanwhile the time arrived when the keeper of the Archives of the Royal

Orchestra called to mind that it was just three hundred years since

this royal institution had been founded, and that a jubilee would

therefore have to be celebrated. To this end a great concert festival

was planned, the programme of which was to be made up of the

compositions of all the Saxon orchestral conductors that had lived

since the institution had been founded. The whole body of musicians,

with both their conductors at their head, were first to present their

grateful homage to the King in Pillnitz; and on this occasion a

musician was, for the first time, to be elevated to the rank of Knight

of the Civil Order of Merit of Saxony. This musician was my colleague

Reissiger. Until then he had been treated by the court, and by the

manager himself, in the most scornful manner possible, but had, owing

to his conspicuous loyalty at this critical time, especially to me,

found exceptional favour in the eyes of our committees. When he

appeared before the public decorated with the wonderful order, he was

greeted with great jubilation by the loyal audience that filled the

theatre on the evening of the festival concert. His overture to Yelva

was also received with a perfect uproar of enthusiastic applause, such

as had never fallen to his lot; whereas the finale of the first act

from Lohengrin, which was produced as the work of the youngest

conductor, was accorded only an indifferent reception. This was all the

more strange as I was quite unaccustomed to such coolness in regard to

my work on the part of the Dresden public. Following upon the concert,

there was a festive supper, and when this was over, as all kinds of

speeches were being made, I freely proclaimed to the orchestra, in a

loud and decided tone, my views as to what was desirable for their

perfection in the future. Hereupon Marschner, who, as a former musical

conductor in Dresden, had been invited to the jubilee celebrations,

expressed the opinion that I should do myself a great deal of harm by

holding too good an opinion of the musicians. He said I ought just to

consider how uncultivated these people were with whom I had to deal; he

pointed out that they were trained simply for the one instrument they

played; and asked me whether I did not think that by discoursing to

them on the aspirations of art I would produce not only confusion, but

even perhaps bad blood? Far more pleasant to me than these festivities

is the remembrance of the quiet memorial ceremony which united us on

the morning of the Jubilee Day, with the object of placing wreaths on

Weber’s grave. As nobody could find a word to utter, and even Marschner

was able to give expression only to the very driest and most trivial of

speeches about the departed master, I felt it incumbent upon me to say

a few heartfelt words concerning the memorial ceremony for which we

were gathered together. This brief spell of artistic activity was

speedily broken by fresh excitements, which kept pouring in upon us

from the political world. The events of October in Vienna awakened our

liveliest sympathy, and our walls daily blazed with red and black

placards, with summonses to march on Vienna, with the curse of ‘Red

Monarchy,’ as opposed to the hated ‘Red Republic,’ and with other

equally startling matter. Except for those who were best informed as to

the course of events—and who certainly did not swarm in our

streets—these occurrences aroused great uneasiness everywhere. With the

entry of Windischgratz into Vienna, the acquittal of Frobel and the

execution of Blum, it seemed as though even Dresden were on the eve of

an explosion. A vast demonstration of mourning was organised for Blum,

with an endless procession through the streets. At the head marched the

ministry, among whom the people were particularly glad to see Herr von

der Pfordten taking a sympathetic share in the ceremony, as he had

already become an object of suspicion to them. From that day gloomy

forebodings of disaster grew ever more prevalent on every side. People

even went so far as to say, with little attempt at circumlocution, that

the execution of Blum had been an act of friendship on the part of the

Archduchess Sophia to her sister, the Queen of Saxony, for during his

agitation in Leipzig the man had made himself both hated and feared.

Troops of Viennese fugitives, disguised as members of the student

bands, began to arrive in Dresden, and made a formidable addition to

its population, which from this time forth paraded the streets with

ever-increasing confidence. One day, as I was on my way to the theatre

to conduct a performance of Rienzi, the choir-master informed me that

several foreign gentlemen had been asking for me. Thereupon half a

dozen persons presented themselves, greeted me as a brother democrat,

and begged me to procure them free entrance tickets. Among them I

recognised a former dabbler in literature, a man named Hafner, a little

hunchback, in a Calabrian hat cocked at a terrific angle, to whom I had

been introduced by Uhl on the occasion of my visit to the Vienna

political club. Great as was my embarrassment at this visit, which

evidently astonished our musicians, I felt in no wise compelled to make

any compromising admission, but quietly went to the booking-office,

took six tickets and handed them to my strange visitors, who parted

from me before all the world with much hearty shaking of hands. Whether

this evening call improved my position as musical conductor in Dresden

in the minds of the theatrical officials and others, may well be

doubted; but, at all events, on no occasion was I so frantically called

for after every act as at this particular performance of Rienzi.

Indeed, at this time I seemed to have won over to my side a party of

almost passionate adherents among the theatre-going public, in

opposition to the clique which had shown such marked coldness on the

occasion of the gala concert already mentioned. It mattered not whether

Tannhäuser or Rienzi were being played, I was always greeted with

special applause; and although the political tendencies of this party

may have given our management some cause for alarm, yet it forced them

to regard me with a certain amount of awe. One day Lüttichau proposed

to have my Lohengrin performed at an early date. I explained my reasons

for not having offered it to him before, but declared myself ready to

further his wishes, as I considered the opera company was now

sufficiently powerful. The son of my old friend, F. Heine, had just

returned from Paris, where he had been sent by the Dresden management

to study scene-painting under the artists Desplechin and Dieterle. By

way of testing his powers, with a view to an engagement at the Dresden

Royal Theatre, the task of preparing suitable scenery for this opera

was entrusted to him. He had already asked permission to do this for

Lohengrin at the instigation of Lüttichau, who wished to call attention

to my latest work. Consequently, when I gave my consent, young Heine’s

wish was granted.

I regarded this turn of events with no little satisfaction, believing

that in the study of this particular work I should find a wholesome and

effective diversion from all the excitement and confusion of recent

events. My horror, therefore, was all the greater, when young Wilhelm

Heine one day came to my room with the news that the scenery for

Lohengrin had been suddenly countermanded, and instructions given him

to prepare for another opera. I did not make any remark, nor ask the

reason for this singular behaviour. The assurances which Luttichan

afterwards made to my wife—if they were really true—made me regret

having laid the chief blame for this mortification at his door, and

having thereby irrevocably alienated my sympathy from him. When she

asked him about this many years later, he assured her that he had found

the court vehemently hostile to me, and that his well-meant attempts to

produce my work had met with insuperable obstacles.

However that may have been, the bitterness I now experienced wrought a

decisive effect upon my feelings. Not only did I relinquish all hope of

a reconciliation with the theatre authorities by a splendid production

of my Lohengrin, but I determined to turn my back for ever on the

theatre, and to make no further attempt to meddle with its concerns. By

this act I expressed not merely my utter indifference as to whether I

kept my position as musical conductor or no, but my artistic ambitions

also entirely cut me off from all possibility of ever cultivating

modern theatrical conditions again.

I at once proceeded to execute my long-cherished plans for Siegfried’s

Tod, which I had been half afraid of before. In this work I no longer

gave a thought to the Dresden or any other court theatre in the world;

my sole preoccupation was to produce something that should free me,

once and for all, from this irrational subservience. As I could get

nothing more from Röckel in this connection, I now corresponded

exclusively with Eduard Devrient on matters connected with the theatre

and dramatic art. When, on the completion of my poem, I read it to him,

he listened with amazement, and at once realised the fact that such a

production would be an absolute drug in the modern theatrical market,

and he naturally could not agree to let it remain so. On the other

hand, he tried so far to reconcile himself to my work as to try and

make it less startling and more adapted for actual production. He

proved the sincerity of his intentions by pointing out my error in

asking too much of the public, and requiring it to supply from its own

knowledge many things necessary for a right under-standing of my

subject-matter, at which I had only hinted in brief and scattered

suggestions. He showed me, for instance, that before Siegfried and

Brunhilda are displayed in a position of bitter hostility towards each

other, they ought first to have been presented in their true and calmer

relationship. I had, in fact, opened the poem of SIEGFRIED’S TOD with

those scenes which now form the first act of the GOTTERDAMMERUNG. The

details of Siegfried’s relation to Brunhilda had been merely outlined

to the listeners in a lyrico-episodical dialogue between the hero’s

wife, whom he had left behind in solitude, and a crowd of Valkyries

passing before her rock. To my great joy, Devrient’s hint on this point

directed my thoughts to those scenes which I afterwards worked out in

the prologue of this drama.

This and other matters of a similar nature brought me into intimate

contact with Eduard Devrient, and made our intercourse much more lively

and pleasant. He often invited a select circle of friends to attend

dramatic readings at his house in which I gladly took part, for I

found, to my surprise, that his gift for declamation, which quite

forsook him on the stage, here stood out in strong relief. It was,

moreover, a consolation to pour into a sympathetic ear my worries about

my growing unpopularity with the director. Devrient seemed particularly

anxious to prevent a definite breach; but of this there was little

hope. With the approach of winter the court had returned to town, and

once more frequented the theatre, and various signs of dissatisfaction

in high quarters with my behaviour as conductor began to be manifested.

On one occasion the Queen thought that I had conducted NORMA badly, and

on another that I ‘had taken the time wrongly’ in ROBERT THE DEVIL. As

Luettichau had to communicate these reprimands to me, it was natural

that our intercourse at such times should hardly be of a nature to

restore our mutual satisfaction with each other.

Notwithstanding all this, it still seemed possible to prevent matters

from coming to a crisis, though everything continued in a state of

agitating uncertainty and fermentation. At all events the forces of

reaction, which were holding themselves in readiness on every side,

were not yet sufficiently certain that the hour of their triumph had

come as not to consider it advisable for the present, at least, to

avoid all provocation. Consequently our management did not meddle with

the musicians of the royal orchestra, who, in obedience to the spirit

of the times, had formed a union for debate and the protection of their

artistic and civic interests. In this matter one of our youngest

musicians, Theodor Uhlig, had been particularly active. He was a young

man, still in his early twenties, and was a violinist in the orchestra.

His face was strikingly mild, intelligent and noble, and he was

conspicuous among his fellows on account of his great seriousness and

his quiet but unusually firm character. He had particularly attracted

my notice on several occasions by his quick insight and extensive

knowledge of music. As I recognised in him a spirit keenly alert in

every direction, and unusually eager for culture, it was not long

before I chose him as my companion in my regular walks—a habit I still

continued to cultivate—and on which Roeckel had hitherto accompanied

me. He induced me to come to a meeting of this union of the orchestral

company, in order that I might form an opinion about it, and encourage

and support so praiseworthy a movement. On this occasion I communicated

to its members the contents of my memorandum to the director, which had

been rejected a year before, and in which I had made suggestions for

reforms in the band, and I also explained further intentions and plans

arising therefrom. At the same time I was obliged to confess that I had

lost all hope of carrying out any projects of the kind through the

general management, and must therefore recommend them to take the

initiative vigorously into their own hands. They acclaimed the idea

with enthusiastic approval. Although, as I have said before, Luettichau

left these musicians unmolested in their more or less democratic union,

yet he took care to be informed through spies of what took place at

their highly treasonable gatherings. His chief instrument was a bugler

named Lewy, who, much to the disgust of all his comrades in the

orchestra, was in particularly high favour with the director. He

consequently received precise, or rather exaggerated, accounts of my

appearance there, and thought it was now high time to let me once more

feel the weight of his authority. I was officially summoned to his

presence, and had to listen to a long and wrathful tirade which he had

been bottling up for some time about several matters. I also learned

that he knew all about the plan of theatre reform which I had laid

before the ministry. This knowledge he betrayed in a popular Dresden

phrase, which until then I had never heard; he knew very well, he said,

that in a memorandum respecting the theatre I had ‘made him look

ridiculous’ (ihm an den Laden gelegt). In answer to this I did not

refrain from telling him how I intended to act in retaliation, and when

he threatened to report me to the King and demand my dismissal, I

calmly replied that he might do as he pleased, as I was well assured

that I could rely on his Majesty’s justice to hear, not only his

charges, but also my defence. Moreover, I added, this was the only

befitting manner for me to discuss with the King the many points on

which I had to complain, not only in my own interests, but also in

those of the theatre and of art. This was not pleasant hearing for

Lüttichau, and he asked how it was possible for him to try and

co-operate with me, when I for my part had openly declared (to use his

own expression) that all labour was wasted upon him (Hopfen und Malz

verloren seien). We had at last to part with mutual shruggings of the

shoulder. My conduct seemed to trouble my former patron, and he

therefore enlisted the tact and moderation of Eduard Devrient in his

service, and asked him to use his influence with me to facilitate some

further arrangement between us. But, in spite of all his zeal, Devrient

had to admit with a smile, after we had discussed his message, that

nothing much could be done; and as I persisted in my refusal to meet

the director again in consultation respecting the service of the

theatre, he had at last to recognise that his own wisdom would have to

help him out of the difficulty.

Throughout the whole period during which I was fated to fill the post

of conductor at Dresden, the effects of this dislike on the part of the

court and the director continued to make themselves felt in everything.

The orchestral concerts, which had been organised by me in the previous

winter, were this year placed under Reissiger’s control, and at once

sank to the usual level of ordinary concerts. Public interest quickly

waned, and the undertaking could only with difficulty be kept alive. In

opera I was unable to carry out the proposed revival of the Fliegender

Holländer, for which I had found in Mitterwurzer’s maturer talent an

admirable and promising exponent. My niece Johanna, whom I had destined

for the part of Senta, did not like the role, because it offered little

opportunity for splendid costumes. She preferred ZAMPA and FAVORITA,

partly to please her new protector, my erstwhile RIENZI enthusiast,

Tichatschck, partly for the sake of THREE BRILLIANT COSTUMES which the

management had to furnish for each of these parts. In fact, these two

ringleaders of the Dresden opera of that day had formed an alliance of

rebellion against my vigorous rule in the matter of operatic

repertoire. Their opposition, to my great discomfiture, was crowned by

success when they secured the production of this FAVORITA of

Donizetti’s, the arrangement of which I had once been obliged to

undertake for Schlesinger in Paris. I had at first emphatically refused

to have anything to do with this opera, although its principal part

suited my niece’s voice admirably, even in her father’s judgment. But

now that they knew of my feud with the director, and of my voluntary

loss of influence, and finally of my evident disgrace, they thought the

opportunity ripe for compelling me to conduct this tiresome work

myself, as it happened to be my turn.

Besides this, my chief occupation at the royal theatre during this

period consisted in conducting Flotow’s opera MARTHA, which, although

it failed to attract the public, was nevertheless produced with

excessive frequency, owing to its convenient cast. On reviewing the

results of my labours in Dresden—where I had now been nearly seven

years—I could not help feeling humiliated when I considered the

powerful and energetic impetus I knew I had given in many directions to

the court theatre, and I found myself obliged to confess that, were I

now to leave Dresden, not, the smallest trace of my influence would

remain behind. From various signs I also gathered that, if ever it

should come to a trial before the King between the director and myself,

even if his Majesty were in my favour, yet out of consideration for the

courtier the verdict would go against me.

Nevertheless, on Palm Sunday of the new year, 1849, I received ample

amends. In order to ensure liberal receipts, our orchestra had again

decided to produce Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Every one did his utmost

to make this one of our finest performances, and the public took up the

matter with real enthusiasm. Michael Bakunin, unknown to the police,

had been present at the public rehearsal. At its close he walked

unhesitatingly up to me in the orchestra, and said in a loud voice,

that if all the music that had ever been written were lost in the

expected world-wide conflagration, we must pledge ourselves to rescue

this symphony, even at the peril of our lives. Not many weeks after

this performance it really seemed as though this world-wide

conflagration would actually be kindled in the streets of Dresden, and

that Bakunin, with whom I had meanwhile become more closely associated

through strange and unusual circumstances, would undertake the office

of chief stoker.

It was long before this date that I first made the acquaintance of this

most remarkable man. For years I had come across his name in the

newspapers, and always under extraordinary circumstances. He turned up

in Paris at a Polish gathering, but although he was a Russian, he

declared that it mattered little whether a man were a Russian or a

Pole, so long as he wanted to be a free man, and that this was all that

mattered. I heard afterwards, through George Herwegh, that he had

renounced all his sources of income as a member of an influential

Russian family, and that one day, when his entire fortune consisted of

two francs, he had given them away to a beggar on the boulevard,

because it was irksome to him to be bound by this possession to take

any thought for the morrow. I was informed of his presence in Dresden

one day by Röckel, after the latter had become a rampant republican. He

had taken the Russian into his house, and invited me to come and make

his acquaintance. Bakunin was at that time being persecuted by the

Austrian government for his share in the events which took place in

Prague in the summer of 1848, and because he was a member of the Slav

Congress which had preceded them. He had consequently sought refuge in

our city, as he did not wish to settle too far from the Bohemian

frontier. The extraordinary sensation he had created in Prague arose

from the fact that, when the Czechs sought the protection of Russia

against the dreaded Germanising policy of Austria, he conjured them to

defend themselves with fire and sword against those very Russians, and

indeed against any other people who lived under the rule of a despotism

like that of the Tsars. This superficial acquaintance with Balumin’s

aims had sufficed to change the purely national prejudices of the

Germans against him into sympathy. When I met him, therefore, under the

humble shelter of Röckel’s roof, I was immediately struck by his

singular and altogether imposing personality. He was in the full bloom

of manhood, anywhere between thirty and forty years of age. Everything

about him was colossal, and he was full of a primitive exuberance and

strength. I never gathered that he set much store by my acquaintance.

Indeed, he did not seem to care for merely intellectual men; what he

demanded was men of reckless energy. As I afterwards perceived, theory

in this case had more weight with him than purely personal sentiment;

and he talked much and expatiated freely on the matter. His general

mode of discussion was the Socratic method, and he seemed quite at his

ease when, stretched on his host’s hard sofa, he could argue

discursively with a crowd of all sorts of men on the problems of

revolution. On these occasions he invariably got the best of the

argument. It was impossible to triumph against his opinions, stated as

they were with the utmost conviction, and overstepping in every

direction even the extremest bounds of radicalism. So communicative was

he, that on the very first evening of our meeting he gave me full

details about the various stages of his development, he was a Russian

officer of high birth, but smarting under the yoke of the narrowest

martial tyranny, he had been led by a study of Rousseau’s writings to

escape to Germany under pretence of taking furlough. In Berlin he had

flung himself into the study of philosophy with all the zest of a

barbarian newly awakened to civilisation. Hegel’s philosophy was the

one which was the rage at that moment, and he soon became such an

expert in it, that he had been able to hurl that master’s most famous

disciples from the saddle of their own philosophy, in a thesis couched

in terms of the strictest Hegelian dialectic. After he had got

philosophy off his chest, as he expressed it, he proceeded to

Switzerland, where he preached communism, and thence wandered over

France and Germany back to the borderland of the Slav world, from which

quarter he looked for the regeneration of humanity, because the Slavs

had been less enervated by civilisation. His hopes in this respect were

centred in the more strongly pronounced Slav type characteristic of the

Russian peasant class. In the natural detestation of the Russian serf

for his cruel oppressor the nobleman, he believed he could trace a

substratum of simple-minded brotherly love, and that instinct which

leads animals to hate the men who hunt them. In support of this idea he

cited the childish, almost demoniac delight of the Russian people in

fire, a quality on which Rostopschin calculated in his strategic

burning of Moscow. He argued that all that was necessary to set in

motion a world-wide movement was to convince the Russian peasant, in

whom the natural goodness of oppressed human nature had preserved its

most childlike characteristics, that it was perfectly right and well

pleasing to God for them to burn their lords’ castles, with everything

in and about them. The least that could result from such a movement

would be the destruction of all those things which, rightly considered,

must appear, even to Europe’s most philosophical thinkers, the real

source of all the misery of the modern world. To set these destructive

forces in action appeared to him the only object worthy of a sensible

man’s activity. (Even while he was preaching these horrible doctrines,

Bakunin, noticing that my eyes troubled me, shielded them with his

outstretched hand from the naked light for a full hour, in spite of my

protestations.) This annihilation of all civilisation was the goal upon

which his heart was set. Meanwhile it amused him to utilise every lever

of political agitation he could lay hands on for the advancement of

this aim, and in so doing he often found cause for ironical merriment.

In his retreat he received people belonging to every shade of

revolutionary thought. Nearest to him stood those of Slav nationality,

because these, he thought, would be the most convenient and effective

weapons he could use in the uprooting of Russian despotism. In spite of

their republic and their socialism a la Proudhon, he thought nothing of

the French, and as for the Germans, he never mentioned them to me.

Democracy, republicanism, and anything else of the kind he regarded as

unworthy of serious consideration.

Every objection raised by those who had the slightest wish to

reconstruct what had been demolished, he met with overwhelming

criticism. I well remember on one occasion that a Pole, startled by his

theories, maintained that there must be an organised state to guarantee

the individual in the possession of the fields he had cultivated.

‘What!’ he answered; ‘would you carefully fence in your field to

provide a livelihood for the police again!’ This shut the mouth of the

terrified Pole. He comforted himself by saying that the creators of the

new order of things would arise of themselves, but that our sole

business in the meantime was to find the power to destroy. Was any one

of us so mad as to fancy that he would survive the desired destruction?

We ought to imagine the whole of Europe with St. Petersburg, Paris, and

London transformed into a vast rubbish-heap. How could we expect the

kindlers of such a fire to retain any consciousness after so vast a

devastation? He used to puzzle any who professed their readiness for

self-sacrifice by telling them it was not the so-called tyrants who

were so obnoxious, but the smug Philistines. As a type of these he

pointed to a Protestant parson, and declared that he would not believe

he had really reached the full stature of a man until he saw him commit

his own parsonage, with his wife and child, to the flames.

I was all the more perplexed for a while, in the face of such dreadful

ideas, by the fact that Bakunin in other respects proved a really

amiable and tender-hearted man. He was fully alive to my own anxiety

and despair with regard to the risk I ran of forever destroying my

ideals and hopes for the future of art. It is true, he declined to

receive any further instruction concerning these artistic schemes, and

would not even look at my work on the Nibelungen saga. I had just then

been inspired by a study of the Gospels to conceive the plan of a

tragedy for the ideal stage of the future, entitled Jesus of Nazareth.

Bakunin begged me to spare him any details; and when I sought to win

him over to my project by a few verbal hints, he wished me luck, but

insisted that I must at all costs make Jesus appear as a weak

character. As for the music of the piece, he advised me, amid all the

variations, to use only one set of phrases, namely: for the tenor, ‘Off

with His head!’; for the soprano, ‘Hang Him!’; and for the basso

continuo, ‘Fire! fire!’ And yet I felt more sympathetically drawn

towards this prodigy of a man when I one day induced him to hear me

play and sing the first scenes of my Fliegender Holländer. After

listening with more attention than most people gave, he exclaimed,

during a momentary pause, ‘That is stupendously fine!’ and wanted to

hear more.

As his life of permanent concealment was very dull, I occasionally

invited him to spend an evening with me. For supper my wife set before

him finely cut slices of sausage and meat, which he at once devoured

wholesale, instead of spreading them frugally on his bread in Saxon

fashion. Noticing Minna’s alarm at this, I was guilty of the weakness

of telling him how we were accustomed to consume such viands, whereupon

he reassured me with a laugh, saying that it was quite enough, only he

would like to eat what was set before him in his own way. I was

similarly astonished at the manner in which he drank wine from our

ordinary-sized small glasses. As a matter of fact he detested wine,

which only satisfied his craving for alcoholic stimulants in such

paltry, prolonged, and subdivided doses; whereas a stiff glass of

brandy, swallowed at a gulp, at once produced the same result, which,

after all, was only temporarily attained. Above all, he scorned the

sentiment which seeks to prolong enjoyment by moderation, arguing that

a true man should only strive to still the cravings of nature, and that

the only real pleasure in life worthy of a man was love.

These and other similar little characteristics showed clearly that in

this remarkable man the purest impulses of an ideal humanity conflicted

strangely with a savagery entirely inimical to all civilisation, so

that my feelings during my intercourse with him fluctuated between

involuntary horror and irresistible attraction. I frequently called for

him to share my lonely wanderings. This he gladly did, not only for the

sake of necessary bodily exercise, but also because he could do so in

this part of the world without fear of meeting his pursuers. My

attempts during our conversations to instruct him more fully regarding

my artistic aims remained quite unavailing as long as we were unable to

quit the field of mere discussion. All these things seemed to him

premature. He refused to admit that out of the very needs of the evil

present all laws for the future would have to be evolved, and that

these, moreover, must be moulded upon quite different ideas of social

culture. Seeing that he continued to urge destruction, and again

destruction, I had at last to inquire how my wonderful friend proposed

to set this work of destruction in operation. It then soon became

clear, as I had suspected it would, and as the event soon proved, that

with this man of boundless activity everything rested upon the most

impossible hypotheses. Doubtless I, with my hopes of a future artistic

remodelling of human society, appeared to him to be floating in the

barren air; yet it soon became obvious to me that his assumptions as to

the unavoidable demolition of all the institutions of culture were at

least equally visionary. My first idea was that Bakunin was the centre

of an international conspiracy; but his practical plans seem originally

to have been restricted to a project for revolutionising Prague, where

he relied merely on a union formed among a handful of students.

Believing that the time had now come to strike a blow, he prepared

himself one evening to go there. This proceeding was not free from

danger, and he set off under the protection of a passport made out for

an English merchant. First of all, however, with the view of adapting

himself to the most Philistine culture, he had to submit his huge beard

and bushy hair to the tender mercies of the razor and shears. As no

barber was available, Röckel had to undertake the task. A small group

of friends watched the operation, which had to be executed with a dull

razor, causing no little pain, under which none but the victim himself

remained passive. We bade farewell to Bakunin with the firm conviction

that we should never see him again alive. But in a week he was back

once more, as he had realised immediately what a distorted account he

had received as to the state of things in Prague, where all he found

ready for him was a mere handful of childish students. These admissions

made him the butt of Röckel’s good-humoured chaff, and after this he

won the reputation among us of being a mere revolutionary, who was

content with theoretical conspiracy. Very similar to his expectations

from the Prague students were his presumptions with regard to the

Russian people. These also afterwards proved to be entirely groundless,

and based merely on gratuitous assumptions drawn from the supposed

nature of things. I consequently found myself driven to explain the

universal belief in the terrible dangerousness of this man by his

theoretical views, as expressed here and elsewhere, and not as arising

from any actual experience of his practical activity. But I was soon to

become almost an eye-witness of the fact that his personal conduct was

never for a moment swayed by prudence, such as one is accustomed to

meet in those whose theories are not seriously meant. This was shortly

to be proved in the momentous insurrection of May, 1849.

The winter of this year, up to the spring of 1849, passed in a

many-sided development of my position and temper, as I have described

them, that is to say, in a sort of dull agitation. My latest artistic

occupation had been the five-act drama, Jesus of Nazareth, just

mentioned. Henceforth I lingered on in a state of brooding instability,

full of expectation, yet without any definite wish. I felt fully

convinced that my activity in Dresden, as an artist, had come to an

end, and I was only waiting for the pressure of circumstances to shake

myself free. On the other hand, the whole political situation, both in

Saxony and the rest of Germany, tended inevitably towards a

catastrophe. Day by day this drew nearer, and I flattered myself into

regarding my own personal fate as interwoven with this universal

unrest. Now that the powers of reaction were everywhere more and more

openly bracing themselves for conflict, the final decisive struggle

seemed indeed close at hand. My feelings of partisanship were not

sufficiently passionate to make me desire to take any active share in

these conflicts. I was merely conscious of an impulse to give myself up

recklessly to the stream of events, no matter whither it might lead.

Just at this moment, however, an entirely new influence forced itself

in a most strange fashion into my fortunes, and was at first greeted by

me with a smile of scepticism. Liszt wrote announcing an early

production in Weimar of my Tannhäuser under his own conductorship—the

first that had taken place outside Dresden—and he added with great

modesty that this was merely a fulfilment of his own personal desire.

In order to ensure success he had sent a special invitation to

Tichatschek to be his guest for the two first performances. When the

latter returned he said that the production had, on the whole, been a

success, which surprised me very much. I received a gold snuff-box from

the Grand Duke as a keepsake, which I continued to use until the year

1864. All this was new and strange to me, and I was still inclined to

regard this otherwise agreeable occurrence as a fleeting episode, due

to the friendly feeling of a great artist. ‘What does this mean for

me?’ I asked myself. ‘Has it come too early or too late?’ But a very

cordial letter from Liszt induced me to visit Weimar for a few days

later on, for a third performance of Tannhausar, which was to be

carried out entirely by native talent, with a view to the permanent

addition of this opera to the repertoire. For this purpose I obtained

leave of absence from my management for the second week in May.

Only a few days elapsed before the execution of this little plan; but

they were destined to be momentous ones. On the 1st of May the Chambers

were dissolved by the new Beust ministry, which the King had charged

with carrying out his proposed reactionary policy. This event imposed

upon me the friendly task of caring for Röckel and his family. Hitherto

his position as a deputy had shielded him from the danger of criminal

prosecution; but as soon as the Chambers were dissolved this protection

was withdrawn, and he had to escape by flight from being arrested

again. As I could do little to help him in this matter, I promised at

least to provide for the continued publication of his popular

Volksblatt, mainly because the proceeds from this would support his

family. Scarcely was Röckel safely across the Bohemian frontier, while

I was still toiling at great inconvenience to myself in the printer’s

office, in order to provide material for an issue of his paper, when

the long-expected storm burst over Dresden. Emergency deputations,

nightly mob demonstrations, stormy meetings of the various unions, and

all the other signs that precede a swift decision in the streets,

manifested themselves. On the 3rd May the demeanour of the crowds

moving in our thoroughfares plainly showed that this consummation would

soon be reached, as was undoubtedly desired. Each local deputation

which petitioned for the recognition of the German constitution, which

was the universal cry, was refused an audience by the government, and

this with a peremptoriness which at last became startling. I was

present one afternoon at a committee meeting of the Vaterlands-Verein,

although merely as a representative of Röckel’s Volksblatt, for whose

continuance, both from economic as well as humane motives, I felt

pledged. Here I was at once absorbed in watching the conduct and

demeanour of the men whom popular favour had raised to the leadership

of such unions. It was quite evident that events had passed beyond the

control of these persons; more particularly were they utterly at a loss

as to how to deal with that peculiar terrorism exerted by the lower

classes which is always so ready to react upon the representatives of

democratic theories. On every side I heard a medley of wild proposals

and hesitating responses. One of the chief subjects under debate was

the necessity of preparing for defence. Arms, and how to procure them,

were eagerly discussed, but all in the midst of great disorder; and

when at last they discovered that it was time to break up, the only

impression I received was one of the wildest confusion. I loft the hall

with a young painter named Kaufmann, from whose hand I had previously

seen a series of cartoons in the Dresden Art Exhibition, illustrating

‘The History of the Mind.’ One day I had seen the King of Saxony

standing before one of these, representing the torture of a heretic

under the Spanish Inquisition, and observed him turn away with a

disapproving shake of the head from so abstruse a subject. I was on my

way home, deep in conversation with this man, whose pale face and

troubled look betrayed that he foresaw the disaster that was imminent,

when, just as we reached the Postplatz, near the fountain erected from

Semper’s design, the clang of bells from the neighbouring tower of St.

Ann’s Church suddenly sounded the tocsin of revolt. With a terrified

cry, ‘Good God, it has begun!’ my companion vanished from my side. He

wrote to me—afterwards to say that he was living as a fugitive in

Berne, but I never saw his face again.

The clang of this bell, so close at hand, made a profound impression

upon me also. It was a very sunny afternoon, and I at once noticed the

same phenomenon which Goethe describes in his attempt to depict his own

sensations during the bombardment of Valmy. The whole square looked as

though it were illuminated by a dark yellow, almost brown, light, such

as I had once before seen in Magdeburg during an eclipse of the sun. My

most pronounced sensation beyond this was one of great, almost

extravagant, satisfaction. I felt a sudden strange longing to play with

something hitherto regarded as dangerous and important. My first idea,

suggested probably by the vicinity of the square, was to inquire at

Tichatschek’s house for the gun which, as an enthusiastic Sunday

sportsman, he was accustomed to use. I only found his wife at home, as

he was away on a holiday tour. Her evident terror as to what was going

to happen provoked me to uncontrollable laughter. I advised her to

lodge her husband’s gun in a place of safety, by handing it to the

committee of the Vaterlands-Verein in return for a receipt, as it might

otherwise soon be requisitioned by the mob. I have since learned that

my eccentric behaviour on this occasion, was afterwards reckoned

against me as a serious crime. I then returned to the streets, to see

whether anything beyond a ringing of bells and a yellowish eclipse of

the sun might be going on in the town, I first made my way to the Old

Market-place, where I noticed a group of men gathered round a

vociferous orator. It was also an agreeable surprise to me to see

Schroder-Devrient descending at the door of a hotel. She had just

arrived from Merlin, and was keenly excited by the news which had

reached her, that the populace had already been fired upon. As she had

only recently seen an abortive insurrection crushed by arms in Berlin,

she was indignant to find the same things happening in her ‘peaceful

Dresden’ as she termed it.

When she turned to me from the stolid crowd, which had complacently

been listening to her passionate outpourings, she seemed relieved at

finding some one to whom she could appeal to oppose these horrible

proceedings with all his might. I met her on another occasion at the

house of my old friend Heine, where she had taken refuge. When she

noticed my indifference she again adjured me to use every possible

effort to prevent the senseless, suicidal conflict. I heard afterwards

that a charge of high treason on account of sedition had been brought

against Schroder-Devrient by reason of her conduct in regard to this

matter. She had to prove her innocence in a court of law, so as to

establish beyond dispute her claim to the pension which she had been

promised by contract for her many years’ service in Dresden as an

opera-singer.

On the 3rd of May I betook myself direct to that quarter of the town

where I heard unpleasant rumours of a sanguinary conflict having taken

place. I afterwards learned that the actual cause of the dispute

between the civil and military power had arisen when the watch had been

changed in front of the Arsenal. At that moment the mob, under a bold

leader, had seized the opportunity to take forcible possession of the

armoury. A display of military force was made, and the crowd was fired

upon by a few cannon loaded with grape-shot. As I approached the scene

of operations through the Rampische Gasse, I met a company of the

Dresden Communal Guards, who, although they were quite innocent, had

apparently been exposed to this fire. I noticed that one of the citizen

guards, leaning heavily on the arm of a comrade, was trying to hurry

along, in spite of the fact that his right leg seemed to be dragging

helplessly behind him. Some of the crowd, seeing the blood on the

pavement behind him, shouted ‘He is bleeding.’ In the midst of this

excitement I suddenly became conscious of the cry raised on all sides:

‘To the barricades! to the barricades!’ Driven by a mechanical impulse

I followed the stream of people, which moved once more in the direction

of the Town Hall in the Old Market-place. Amid the terrific tumult I

particularly noticed a significant group stretching right across the

street, and striding along the Rosmaringasse. It reminded me, though

the simile was rather exaggerated, of the crowd that had once stood at

the doors of the theatre and demanded free entrance to Rienzi; among

them was a hunchback, who at once suggested Goethe’s Vansen in Egmont,

and as the revolutionary cry rose about his ears, I saw him rub his

hands together in great glee over the long-desired ecstasy of revolt

which he had realised at last.

I recollect quite clearly that from that moment I was attracted by

surprise and interest in the drama, without feeling any desire to join

the ranks of the combatants. However, the agitation caused by my

sympathy as a mere spectator increased with every step I felt impelled

to take. I was able to press right into the rooms of the town council,

escaping notice in the tumultuous crowd, and it seemed to me as if the

officials were guilty of collusion with the mob. I made my way

unobserved into the council-chamber; what I saw there was utter

disorder and confusion. When night fell I wandered slowly through the

hastily made barricades, consisting chiefly of market stalls, back to

my house in the distant Friedrichstrasse, and next morning I again

watched these amazing proceedings with sympathetic interest.

On Thursday, 4th May, I could see that the Town Hall was gradually

becoming the undoubted centre of the revolution. That section of the

people who had hoped for a peaceful understanding with the monarch was

thrown into the utmost consternation by the news that the King and his

whole court, acting on the advice of his minister Beust, had left the

palace, and had gone by ship down the Elbe to the fortress of

Konigstein. In those circumstances the town council saw they were no

longer able to face the situation, and thereupon took part in summoning

those members of the Saxon Chamber who were still in Dresden. These

latter now assembled in the Town Hall to decide what steps should be

taken for the protection of the state. A deputation was sent to the

ministry, but returned with the report that they were nowhere to be

found. At the same moment news arrived from all sides that, in

accordance with a previous compact, the King of Prussia’s troops would

advance to occupy Dresden. A general outcry immediately arose for

measures to be adopted to prevent this incursion of foreign troops.

Simultaneously with this, came the intelligence of the national

uprising in Wurtemberg, where the troops themselves had frustrated the

intentions of the government by their declaration of fidelity to the

parliament, and the ministry had been compelled against their will to

acknowledge the Pan-German Constitution. The opinion of our

politicians, who were assembled in consultation, was that the matter

might still be settled by peaceful means, if it were possible to induce

the Saxon troops to take up a similar attitude, as by this means the

King would at least be placed under the wholesome necessity of offering

patriotic resistance to the Prussian occupation of his country.

Everything seemed to depend on making the Saxon battalions in Dresden

understand the paramount importance of their action. As this seemed to

me the only hope of an honourable peace in this senseless chaos, I

confess that, on this one occasion, I did allow myself to be led astray

so far as to organise a demonstration which, however, proved futile.

I induced the printer of Röckel’s Volksblatt, which was for the moment

at a standstill, to employ all the type he would have used for his next

number, in printing in huge characters on strips of paper the words:

Seid Ihr mit uns gegen fremde Truppen? (‘Are you on our side against

the foreign troops?’). Placards bearing these words were fixed on those

barricades which it was thought would be the first to be assaulted, and

were intended to bring the Saxon troops to a halt if they were

commanded to attack the revolutionaries. Of course no one took any

notice of these placards except intending informers. On that day

nothing but confused negotiations and wild excitement took place which

threw no light on the situation. The Old Town of Dresden, with its

barricades, was an interesting enough sight for the spectators. I

looked on with amazement and disgust, but my attention was suddenly

distracted by seeing Bakunin emerge from his hiding-place and wander

among the barricades in a black frockcoat. But I was very much mistaken

in thinking he would be pleased with what he saw; he recognised the

childish inefficiency of all the measures that had been taken for

defence, and declared that the only satisfaction he could feel in the

state of affairs was that he need not trouble about the police, but

could calmly consider the question of going elsewhere, as he found no

inducement to take part in an insurrection conducted in such a slovenly

fashion. While he walked about, smoking his cigar, and making fun of

the naivete of the Dresden revolution, I watched the Communal Guards

assembling under arms in front of the Town Hall at the summons of their

commandant. From the ranks of its most popular corps, the

Schützen-Compagnie, I was accosted by Rietschel, who was most anxious

about the nature of the rising, and also by Semper. Rietschel, who

seemed to think I was better informed of the facts than he was, assured

me that he felt his position was a very difficult one. He said the

select company to which he belonged was very democratic, and as his

professorship at the Fine Arts Academy placed him in a peculiar

position, he did not know how to reconcile the sentiments he shared

with his company with his duty as a citizen. The word ‘citizen’ amused

me; I glanced sharply at Semper and repeated the word ‘citizen.’ Semper

responded with a peculiar smile, and turned away without further

comment.

The next day (Friday the 5th of May), when I again took my place as a

passionately interested spectator of the proceedings at the Town Hall,

events took a decisive turn. The remnant of the leaders of the Saxon

people there assembled thought it advisable to constitute themselves

into a provisional government, as there was no Saxon government in

existence with which negotiations could be conducted. Professor Kochly,

who was an eloquent speaker, was chosen to proclaim the new

administration. He performed this solemn ceremony from the balcony of

the Town Hall, facing the faithful remnant of the Communal Guards and

the not very numerous crowd. At the same time the legal existence of

the Pan-German Constitution was proclaimed, and allegiance to it was

sworn by the armed forces of the nation. I recollect that these

proceedings did not seem to me imposing, and Bakunin’s reiterated

opinion about their triviality gradually became more comprehensible.

Even from a technical point of view these reflections were justified

when, to my great amusement and surprise, Semper, in the full uniform

of a citizen guard, with a hat bedecked with the national colours,

asked for me at the Town Hall, and informed me of the extremely faulty

construction of the barricades in the Wild Strufergasse and the

neighbouring Brudergasse. To pacify his artistic conscience as an

engineer I directed him to the office of the ‘Military Commission for

the Defence.’ He followed my advice with conscientious satisfaction;

possibly he obtained the necessary authorisation to give instructions

for the building of suitable works of defence at that neglected point.

After that I never saw him again in Dresden; but I presume that he

carried out the strategic works entrusted to him by that committee with

all the conscientiousness of a Michael Angelo or a Leonardo da Vinci.

The rest of the day passed in continuous negotiations over the truce

which, by arrangement with the Saxon troops, was to last until noon of

the next day. In this business I noticed the very pronounced activity

of a former college friend, Marschall von Bieberstein, a lawyer who, in

his capacity as senior officer of the Dresden Communal Guard,

distinguished himself by his boundless zeal amid the shouts of a mighty

band of fellow-orators. On that day a certain Heinz, formerly a Greek

colonel, was placed in command of the armed forces. These proceedings

did not seem at all satisfactory to Bakunin, who put in an occasional

appearance. While the provisional government placed all its hopes on

finding a peaceful settlement of the conflict by moral persuasion, he,

on the contrary, with his clear vision foresaw a well-planned military

attack by the Prussians, and thought it could only be met by good

strategic measures. He therefore urgently pressed for the acquisition

of some experienced Polish officers who happened to be in Dresden, as

the Saxon revolutionaries appeared to be absolutely lacking in military

tactics. Everybody was afraid to take this course; on the other hand,

great expectations were entertained from negotiations with the

Frankfort States Assembly, which was on its last legs. Everything was

to be done as far as possible in legal form. The time passed pleasantly

enough. Elegant ladies with their cavaliers promenaded the barricaded

streets during those beautiful spring evenings. It seemed to be little

more than an entertaining drama. The unaccustomed aspect of things even

afforded me genuine pleasure, combined with a feeling that the whole

thing was not quite serious, and that a friendly proclamation from the

government would put an end to it. So I strolled comfortably home

through the numerous barricades at a late hour, thinking as I went of

the material for a drama, Achilleus, with which I had been occupied for

some time.

At home I found my two nieces, Clara and Ottilie Brockhaus, the

daughters of my sister Louisa. They had been living for a year with a

governess in Dresden, and their weekly visits and contagious good

spirits delighted me. Every one was in a high state of glee about the

revolution; they all heartily approved of the barricades, and felt no

scruples about desiring victory for their defenders. Protected by the

truce, this state of mind remained undisturbed the whole of Friday (5th

May). From all parts came news which led us to believe in a universal

uprising throughout Germany. Baden and the Palatinate were in the

throes of a revolt on behalf of the whole of Germany. Similar rumours

came in from free towns like Breslau. In Leipzig, volunteer student

corps had mustered contingents for Dresden, which arrived amid the

exultation of the populace. A fully equipped defence department was

organised at the Town Hall, and young Heine, disappointed like myself

in his hopes of the performance of Lohengrin, had also joined this

body. Vigorous promises of support came from the Saxon Erzgebirge, as

well as announcements that armed contingents were forthcoming. Every

one thought, therefore, that if only the Old Town were kept well

barricaded, it could safely defy the threat of foreign occupation.

Early on Saturday, 6th May, it was obvious that the situation was

becoming more serious. Prussian troops had marched into the New Town,

and the Saxon troops, which it had not been considered advisable to use

for an attack, were kept loyal to the flag. The truce expired at noon,

and the troops, supported by several guns, at once opened the attack on

one, of the principal positions held by the people on the Neumarkt.

So far I had entertained no other conviction than that the matter would

be decided in the most summary fashion as soon as it came to an actual

conflict, for there was no evidence in the state of my own feelings

(or, indeed, in what I was able to gather independently of them) of

that passionate seriousness of purpose, without which tests as severe

as this have never been successfully withstood. It was irritating to

me, while I heard the sharp rattle of fire, to be unable to gather

anything of what was going on, and I thought by climbing the Kreuz

tower I might get a good view. Even from this elevation I could not see

anything clearly, but I gathered enough to satisfy myself that after an

hour of heavy firing the advance artillery of the Prussian troops had

retired, and had at last been completely silenced, their withdrawal

being signalled by a loud shout of jubilation from the populace.

Apparently the first attack had exhausted itself; and now my interest

in what was going on began to assume a more and more vivid hue. To

obtain information in greater detail I hurried back to the Town Hall. I

could extract nothing, however, from the boundless confusion which I

met, until at last I came upon Bakunin in the midst of the main group

of speakers. He was able to give me an extraordinarily accurate account

of what had happened. Information had reached headquarters from a

barricade in the Neumarkt where the attack was most serious, that

everything had been in a state of confusion there before the onslaught

of the troops; thereupon my friend Marschall von Bieberstein, together

with Leo von Zichlinsky, who were officers in the citizen corps, had

called up some volunteers and conducted them to the place of danger.

Kreis-Amtmann Heubner of Freiberg, without a weapon to defend himself,

and with bared head, jumped immediately on to the top of the barricade,

which had just been abandoned by all its defenders. He was the sole

member of the provisional government to remain on the spot, the

leaders, Todt and Tschirner, having disappeared at the first sign of a

panic. Heubner turned round to exhort the volunteers to advance,

addressing them in stirring words. His success was complete, the

barricade was taken again, and a fire, as unexpected as it was fierce,

was directed upon the troops, which, as I myself saw, were forced to

retire. Bakunin had been in close touch with this action, he had

followed the volunteers, and he now explained to me that however narrow

might be the political views of Heubner (he belonged to the moderate

Left of the Saxon Chamber), he was a man of noble character, at whose

service he had immediately placed his own life.

Bakunin had only needed this example to determine his own line of

conduct; he had decided to risk his neck in the attempt and to ask no

further questions. Heubner too was now bound to recognise the necessity

for extreme measures, and no longer recoiled from any proposal on the

part of Bakunin which was directed to this end. The military advice of

experienced Polish officers was brought to bear on the commandant,

whose incapacity had not been slow to reveal itself; Bakunin, who

openly confessed that he understood nothing of pure strategy, never

moved from the Town Hall, but remained at Heubner’s side, giving advice

and information in every direction with wonderful sangfroid. For the

rest of the day the battle confined itself to skirmishes by

sharpshooters from the various positions. I was itching to climb the

Kreuz tower again, so as to get the widest possible survey over the

whole field of action. In order to reach this tower from the Town Hall,

one had to pass through a space which was under a cross-fire of

rifle-shots from the troops posted in the royal palace. At a moment

when this square was quite deserted, I yielded to my daring impulse,

and crossed it on my way to the Kreuz tower at a slow pace, remembering

that in such circumstances the young soldier is advised never to hurry,

because by so doing he may draw the shot upon himself. On reaching this

post of vantage I found several people who had gathered there, some of

them driven by a curiosity like my own, others in obedience to an order

from the headquarters of the revolutionaries to reconnoitre the enemy’s

movements. Amongst them I made the acquaintance of a schoolmaster

called Berthold, a man of quiet and gentle disposition, but full of

conviction and determination. I lost myself in an earnest philosophical

discussion with him which extended to the widest spheres of religion.

At the same time he showed a homely anxiety to protect us from the

cone-shaped bullets of the Prussian sharpshooters by placing us

ingeniously behind a barricade consisting of one of the straw

mattresses which he had cajoled out of the warder. The Prussian

sharpshooters were posted on the distant tower of the Frauenkirche, and

had chosen the height occupied by us as their target. At nightfall I

found it impossible to make up my mind to go home and leave my

interesting place of refuge, so I persuaded the warder to send a

subordinate to Friedrichstadt with a few lines to my wife, and with

instructions to ask her to let me have some necessary provisions. Thus

I spent one of the most extraordinary nights of my life, taking turns

with Berthold to keep watch and sleep, close beneath the great bell

with its terrible groaning clang, and with the accompaniment of the

continuous rattle of the Prussian shot as it beat against the tower

walls.

Sunday (the 7th of May) was one of the most beautiful days in the year.

I was awakened by the song of a nightingale, which rose to our ears

from the Schütze garden close by. A sacred calm and peacefulness lay

over the town and the wide suburbs of Dresden, which were visible from

my point of vantage. Towards sunrise a mist settled upon the outskirts,

and suddenly through its folds we could hear the music of the

Marseillaise making its way clearly and distinctly from the district of

the Tharanderstrasse. As the sound drew nearer and nearer, the mist

dispersed, and the glow of the rising sun spread a glittering light

upon the weapons of a long column which was winding its way towards the

town. It was impossible not to feel deeply impressed at the sight of

this continuous procession. Suddenly a perception of that element which

I had so long missed in the German people was borne in upon me in all

its essential freshness and vital colour. The fact that until this

moment I had been obliged to resign myself to its absence, had

contributed not a little to the feelings by which I had been swayed.

Here I beheld some thousand men from the Erzgebirge, mostly miners,

well armed and organised, who had rallied to the defence of Dresden.

Soon we saw them march up the Altmarkt opposite the Town Hall, and

after receiving a joyful welcome, bivouac there to recover from their

journey. Reinforcements continued to pour in the whole day long, and

the heroic achievement of the previous day now received its reward in

the shape of a universal elevation of spirits. A change seemed to have

been made in the plan of attack by the Prussian troops. This could be

gathered from the fact that numerous simultaneous attacks, but of a

less concentrated type, were made upon various positions. The troops

which had come to reinforce us brought with them four small cannon, the

property of a certain Herr Thade von Burgk, whose acquaintance I had

made before on the occasion of the anniversary of the founding of the

Dresden Choral Society, when he had made a speech which was well

intentioned but wearisome to the point of being ludicrous. The

recollection of this speech returned to me with peculiar irony, now

that his cannon were being fired from the barricade upon the enemy. I

felt a still deeper impression, however, when, towards eleven o’clock,

I saw the old Opera House, in which a few weeks ago I had conducted the

last performance of the Ninth Symphony, burst into flames. As I have

had occasion to mention before, the danger from fire to which this

building was exposed, full as it was with wood and all kind of textile

fabric, and originally built only for a temporary purpose, had always

been a subject of terror and apprehension to those who visited it.

I was told that the Opera House had been set alight on strategical

grounds, in order to face a dangerous attack on this exposed side, and

also to protect the famous ‘Semper’ barricade from an overpowering

surprise. From this I concluded that reasons of this kind act as far

more powerful motives in the world than aesthetic considerations. For a

long time men of taste had vainly cried aloud for abolition of this

ugly building which was such an eyesore by the side of the elegant

proportions of the Zwinger Gallery in its neighbourhood. In a few

moments the Opera House (which as regards size was, it is true, an

imposing edifice), together with its highly inflammable contents, was a

vast sea of flames. When this reached the metal roofs of the

neighbouring wings of the Zwinger, and enveloped them in wonderful

bluish waves of fire, the first expression of regret made itself

audible amongst the spectators. What a disaster! Some thought that the

Natural History collection was in danger; others maintained that it was

the Armoury, upon which a citizen soldier retorted that if such were

the case, it would be a very good job if the ‘stuffed noblemen’ were

burnt to cinders. But it appeared that a keen sense of the value of art

knew how to curb the fire’s lust for further dominion, and, as a matter

of fact, it did but little damage in that quarter. Finally our post of

observation, which until now had remained comparatively quiet, was

filled itself with swarms and swarms of armed men, who had been ordered

thither to defend the approach from the church to the Altmarkt, upon

which an attack was feared from the side of the ill-secured Kreuzgasse.

Unarmed men were now in the way; moreover, I had received a message

from my wife summoning me home after the long and terrible anxiety she

had suffered.

At last, after meeting with innumerable obstacles and overcoming a host

of difficulties, I succeeded, by means of all sorts of circuitous

routes, in reaching my remote suburb, from which I was cut off by the

fortified portions of the town, and especially by a cannonade directed

from the Zwinger. My lodgings were full to overflowing with excited

women who had collected round Minna; among them the panic-stricken wife

of Röckel, who suspected her husband of being in the very thick of the

fight, as she thought that on the receipt of the news that Dresden had

risen he would probably have returned. As a matter of fact, I had heard

a rumour that Röckel had arrived on this very day, but as yet I had not

obtained a glimpse of him. My young nieces helped once more to raise my

spirits. The firing had put them into a high state of glee, which to

some extent infected my wife, as soon as she was reassured as to my

personal safety. All of them were furious with the sculptor Hänel, who

had never ceased insisting upon the expedience of bolting the house to

prevent an entry of the revolutionaries. All the women without

exception were joking about his abject terror at the sight of some men

armed with scythes who had appeared in the street In this way Sunday

passed like a sort of family jollification.

On the following morning (Monday, 8th May) I tried again to get

information as to the state of affairs by forcing my way to the Town

Hall from my house, which was cut off from the place of action. As in

the course of my journey I was making my way over a barricade near St.

Ann’s Church, one of the Communal Guard shouted out to me, ‘Hullo,

conductor, your der Freude schöner Götterfunken[15] has indeed set fire

to things. The rotten building is rased to the ground.’ Obviously the

man was an enthusiastic member of the audience at my last performance

of the Ninth Symphony. Coming upon me so unexpectedly, this pathetic

greeting filled me with a curious sense of strength and freedom. A

little further on, in a lonely alley in the suburb of Plauen, I fell in

with the musician Hiebendahl, the first oboist in the royal orchestra,

and a man who still enjoyed a very high reputation; he was in the

uniform of the Communal Guards, but carried no gun, and was chatting

with a citizen in a similar costume. As soon as he saw me, he felt he

must immediately make an appeal to me to use my influence against

Röckel, who, accompanied by ordnance officers of the revolutionary

party, was instituting a search for guns in this quarter. As soon as he

realised that I was making sympathetic inquiries about Röckel, he drew

back frightened, and said to me in tones of the deepest anxiety: ‘But,

conductor, have you no thought for your position, and what you may lose

by exposing yourself in this fashion?’ This remark had the most drastic

effect upon me; I burst into a loud laugh, and told him that my

position was not worth a thought one way or the other. This indeed was

the expression of my real feelings, which had long been suppressed, and

now broke out into almost jubilant utterance. At that moment I caught

sight of Röckel, with two men of the citizen army who were carrying

some guns, making his way towards me. He gave me a most friendly

greeting, but turned at once to Hiebendahl and his companion and asked

him why he was idling about here in uniform instead of being at his

post. When Hiebendahl made the excuse that his gun had been

requisitioned, Röckel cried out to him, ‘You’re a fine lot of fellows!’

and went away laughing. He gave me a brief account as we proceeded of

what had happened to him since I had lost sight of him, and thus spared

me the obligation of giving him a report of his Volksblatt. We were

interrupted by an imposing troop of well-armed young students of the

gymnasium who had just entered the city and wished to have a safe

conduct to their place of muster. The sight of these serried ranks of

youthful figures, numbering several hundreds, who were stepping bravely

to their duty, did not fail to make the most elevating impression upon

me. Röckel undertook to accompany them over the barricade in safety to

the mastering place in front of the Town Hall. He took the opportunity

of lamenting the utter absence of true spirit which he had hitherto

encountered in those in command. He had proposed, in case of extremity,

to defend the most seriously threatened barricades by tiring them with

pitch brands; at the mere word the provisional government had fallen

into a veritable state of panic. I let him go his way in order that I

might enjoy the privilege of a solitary person and reach the Town Hall

by a short cut, and it was not until thirteen years later that I again

set eyes upon him.

[15] These words refer to the opening of the Ninth Symphony chorus:

‘Freude, Freude, Freude, schöner götterfunken Tochter aus

Elysium’—(Praise her, praise oh praise Joy, the god-descended daughter

of Elysium.) English version by Natalia Macfarren.—Editor.

In the Town Hall I learned from Bakunin that the provisional government

had passed a resolution, on his advice, to abandon the position in

Dresden, which had been entirely neglected from the beginning, and was

consequently quite untenable for any length of time. This resolution

proposed an armed retreat to the Erzgebirge, where it would be possible

to concentrate the reinforcements pouring in from all sides, especially

from Thuringia, in such strength, that the advantageous position could

be used to inaugurate a German civil war that would sound no hesitating

note at its outset. To persist in defending isolated barricaded streets

in Dresden could, on the other hand, lend little but the character of

an urban riot to the contest, although it was pursued with the highest

courage. I must confess that this idea seemed to me magnificent and

full of meaning. Up to this moment I had been moved only by a feeling

of sympathy for a method of procedure entered upon at first with almost

ironical incredulity, and then pursued with the vigour of surprise.

Now, however, all that had before seemed incomprehensible, unfolded

itself before my vision in the form of a great and hopeful solution.

Without either feeling that I was in any way being compelled, or that

it was my vocation to get some part or function allotted to me in these

events, I now definitely abandoned all consideration for my personal

situation, and determined to surrender myself to the stream of

developments which flowed in the direction towards which my feelings

had driven me with a delight that was full of despair. Still, I did not

wish to leave my wife helpless in Dresden, and I rapidly devised a

means of drawing her into the path which I had chosen, without

immediately informing her of what my resolve meant. During my hasty

return to Friedrichstadt I recognised that this portion of the town had

been almost entirely cut off from the inner city by the occupation of

the Prussian troops; I saw in my mind’s eye our own suburb occupied,

and the consequences of a state of military siege in their most

repulsive light. It was an easy job to persuade Minna to accompany me

on a visit, by way of the Tharanderstrasse, which was still free, to

Chemnitz, where my married sister Clara lived. It was only a matter of

a moment for her to arrange her household orders, and she promised to

follow me to the next village in an hour with the parrot. I went on in

advance with my little dog Peps, in order to hire a carriage in which

to proceed on our journey to Chemnitz. It was a smiling spring morning

when I traversed for the last time the paths I had so often trod on my

lonely walks, with the knowledge that I should never wander along them

again. While the larks were soaring to dizzy heights above my head, and

singing in the furrows of the fields, the light and heavy artillery did

not cease to thunder down the streets of Dresden. The noise of this

shooting, which had continued uninterruptedly for several days, had

hammered itself so indelibly upon my nerves, that it continued to

re-echo for a long time in my brain; just as the motion of the ship

which took me to London had made me stagger for some time afterwards.

Accompanied by this terrible music, I threw my parting greeting to the

towers of the city that lay behind me, and said to myself with a smile,

that if, seven years ago, my entry had taken place under thoroughly

obscure auspices, at all events my exit was conducted with some show of

pomp and ceremony.

When at last I found myself with Minna in a one-horse carriage on the

way to the Erzgebirge, we frequently met armed reinforcements on their

way to Dresden. The sight of them always kindled an involuntary joy in

us; even my wife could not refrain from addressing words of

encouragement to the men; at present it seemed not a single barricade

had been lost. On the other hand, a gloomy impression was made upon us

by a company of regulars which was making its way towards Dresden in

silence. We asked some of them whither they were bound; and their

answer, ‘To do their duty,’ had been obviously impressed upon them by

command. At last we reached my relations in Chemnitz. I terrified all

those near and dear to me when I declared my intention to return to

Dresden on the following day at the earliest possible hour, in order to

ascertain how things were going there. In spite of all attempts to

dissuade me, I carried out my decision, pursued by a suspicion that I

should meet the armed forces of the Dresden people on the country

highroad in the act of retreat. The nearer I approached the capital,

the stronger became the confirmation of the rumours that, as yet, there

was no thought in Dresden of surrender or withdrawal, but that, on the

contrary, the contest was proving very favourable for the national

party. All this appeared to me like one miracle after another. On this

day, Tuesday, 9th of May, I once more forced my way in a high state of

excitement over ground which had become more and more inaccessible. All

the highways had to be avoided, and it was only possible to make

progress through such houses as had been broken through. At last I

reached the Town Hall in the Altstadt, just as night was falling. A

truly terrible spectacle met my eyes, for I crossed those parts of the

town in which preparations had been made for a house-to-house fight.

The incessant groaning of big and small guns reduced to an uncanny

murmur all the other sounds that came from armed men ceaselessly crying

out to one another from barricade to barricade, and from one house to

another, which they had broken through. Pitch brands burnt here and

there, pale-faced figures lay prostrate around the watch-posts, half

dead with fatigue, and any unarmed wayfarer forcing a path for himself

was sharply challenged. Nothing, however, that I have lived through can

be compared with the impression that I received on my entry into the

chambers of the Town Hall. Here was a gloomy, and yet fairly compact

and serious mass of people; a look of unspeakable fatigue was upon all

faces; not a single voice had retained its natural tone. There was a

hoarse jumble of conversation inspired by a state of the highest

tension. The only familiar sight that survived was to be found in the

old servants of the Town Hall in their curious antiquated uniform and

three-cornered hats. These tall men, at other times an object of

considerable fear, I found engaged partly in buttering pieces of bread,

and cutting slices of ham and sausage, and partly in piling into

baskets immense stores of provisions for the messengers sent by the

defenders of the barricades for supplies. These men had turned into

veritable nursing mothers of the revolution.

As I proceeded further, I came at last upon the members of the

provisional government, among whom Todt and Tschirner, after their

first panic-stricken flight, were once more to be found gliding to and

fro, gloomy as spectres, now that they were chained to the performance

of their heavy duties. Heubner alone had preserved his full energy; but

he was a really piteous sight: a ghostly fire burned in his eyes which

had not had a wink of sleep for seven nights. He was delighted to see

me again, as he regarded my arrival as a good omen for the cause which

he was defending; while on the other hand, in the rapid succession of

events, he had come into contact with elements about which no

conclusion could shape itself to his complete satisfaction. I found

Bakunin’s outlook undisturbed, and his attitude firm and quiet. He did

not show the smallest change in his appearance, in spite of having had

no sleep during the whole time, which I afterwards heard was a fact.

With a cigar in his mouth he received me, seated on one of the

mattresses which lay distributed over the floor of the Town Hall. At

his side was a very young Pole (a Galician) named Haimberger, a

violinist whom he had once asked me to recommend to Lipinsky, in order

that he might give him lessons, as he did not want this raw and

inexperienced boy, who had become passionately attached to him, to get

drawn into the vortex of the present upheavals. Now that Haimberger had

shouldered a gun, and presented himself for service at the barricades,

however, Bakunin had greeted him none the less joyfully. He had drawn

him down to sit by his side on the couch, and every time the youth

shuddered with fear at the violent sound of the cannon-shot, he slapped

him vigorously on the back and cried out: ‘You are not in the company

of your fiddle here, my friend. What a pity you didn’t stay where you

were!’ Bakinin then gave me a short and precise account of what had

happened since I had left him on the previous morning. The retreat

which had then been decided upon soon proved unadvisable, as it would

have discouraged the numerous reinforcements which had already arrived

on that day. Moreover, the desire for fighting had been so great, and

the force of the defenders so considerable, that it had been possible

to oppose the enemy’s troops successfully so far. But as the latter had

also got large reinforcements, they again had been able to make an

effective combined attack on the strong Wildstruf barricade. The

Prussian troops had avoided fighting in the streets, choosing instead

the method of fighting from house to house by breaking through the

walls. This had made it clear that all defence by barricades had become

useless, and that the enemy would succeed slowly but surely in drawing

near the Town Hall, the seat of the provisional government. Bakunin had

now proposed that all the powder stores should be brought together in

the lower rooms of the Town Hall, and that on the approach of the enemy

it should be blown up. The town council, who were still in consultation

in a back room, had remonstrated with the greatest vehemence. Bakunin,

however, had insisted with great firmness on the execution of the

measure, but in the end had been completely outwitted by the removal of

all the powder stores. Moreover, Heubner, to whom Bakunin could refuse

nothing, had been won over to the other side. It was now decided that

as everything was ready, the retreat to the Erzgebirge, which had

originally been intended for the previous day, should be fixed for the

early morrow. Young Zichlinsky had already received orders to cover the

road to Plauen so as to make it strategically safe. When I inquired

after Röckel, Bakunin replied swiftly that he had not been seen since

the previous evening, and that he had most likely allowed himself to be

caught: he was in such a nervous state. I now gave an account of what I

had observed on my way to and from Chemnitz, describing the great

masses of reinforcements, amongst which was the communal guard of that

place, several thousands strong. In Freiberg I had met four hundred

reservists, who had come in excellent form to back the citizen army,

but could not proceed further, as they were tired out by their forced

march. It seemed obvious that this was a case in which the necessary

energy to requisition wagons had been lacking, and that if the bounds

of loyalty were transgressed in this matter, the advent of fresh forces

would be considerably promoted. I was begged to make my way back at

once, and convey the opinion of the provisional government to the

people whose acquaintance I had made. My old friend Marschall von

Bieberstein immediately proposed to accompany me. I welcomed his offer,

as he was an officer of the provisional government, and was

consequently more fitted than I was to communicate orders. This man,

who had been almost extravagant in his enthusiasm before, was now

utterly exhausted by sleeplessness, and unable to emit another word

from his hoarse throat. He now made his way with me from the Town Hall

to his house in the suburb of Plauen by the devious ways that had been

indicated to us, in order to requisition a carriage for our purpose

from a coachman he knew, and to bid farewell to his family, from whom

he assumed he would in all probability have to separate himself for

some time.

While we were waiting for the coachman we had tea and supper, talking

the while, in a fairly calm and composed manner, with the ladies of the

house. We arrived at Freiberg early the following morning, after

various adventures, and I set out forthwith to find the leaders of the

reservist contingent with whom I was already acquainted. Marschall

advised them to requisition horses and carts in the villages wherever

they could do so. When they had all set off in marching order for

Dresden, and while I was feeling impelled by my passionate interest in

the fate of that city to return to it once more, Marschall conceived

the desire to carry his commission further afield, and for this purpose

asked to be allowed to leave me. Whereupon I again turned my back on

the heights of the Erzgebirge, and was travelling by special coach in

the direction of Tharand, when I too was overcome with sleep, and was

only awakened by violent shouts and the sound of some one holding a

parley with the postillion. On opening my eyes I found, to my

astonishment, that the road was filled with armed revolutionaries

marching, not towards, but away from Dresden, and some of them were

trying to commandeer the coach to relieve their weariness on the way

back.

‘What is the matter?’ I cried. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Home,’ was the reply. ‘It is all over in Dresden. The provincial

government is close behind us in that carriage down there.’

I shot out of the coach like a dart, leaving it at the disposal of the

tired men, and hurried on, down the steeply sloping road, to meet the

ill-fated party. And there I actually found them—Heubner, Bakunin, and

Martin, the energetic post-office clerk, the two latter armed with

muskets—in a smart hired carriage from Dresden which was coming slowly

up the hill. On the box were, as I supposed, the secretaries, while as

many as possible of the weary National Guard struggled for seats

behind. I hastened to swing myself into the coach, and so came in for a

conversation which thereupon took place between the driver, who was

also the owner of the coach, and the provisional government. The man

was imploring them to spare his carriage, which, he said, was very

lightly sprung and quite unequal to carrying such a load; he begged

that the people should be told not to seat themselves behind and in

front. But Bakunin remained quite unconcerned, and elected to give me a

short account of the retreat from Dresden, which had been successfully

achieved without loss. He had had the trees in the newly planted

Maximilian Avenue felled early in the morning to form a barricade

against a possible flank attack of cavalry, and had been immensely

entertained by the lamentations of the inhabitants, who during the

process did nothing but bewail their _Scheene Beeme_.[16] All this time

our driver’s lamentations over his coach were growing more importunate.

Finally he broke into loud sobs and tears, upon which Bakunin,

regarding him with positive pleasure, called out: ‘The tears of a

Philistine are nectar for the gods.’ He would not vouchsafe him a word,

but Heubner and I found the scene tiresome, whereupon he asked me

whether we two at least should not get out, as he could not ask it of

the others. As a matter of fact, it was high time to leave the coach,

as some new contingents of revolutionaries had formed up in rank and

file all along the highway to salute the provisional government and

receive orders. Heubner strode down the line with great dignity,

acquainted the leaders with the state of affairs, and exhorted them to

keep their trust in the righteousness of the cause for which so many

had shed their blood. All were now to retire to Freiberg, there to

await further orders.

[16] Saxon corruption of _schöne Bäume_, beautiful trees.—EDITOR.

A youngish man of serious mien now stepped forward from the ranks of

the rebels to place himself under the special protection of the

provisional government. He was a certain Menzdorff, a German Catholic

priest whom I had had the advantage of meeting in Dresden. (It was he

who, in the course of a significant conversation, had first induced me

to read Feuerbach.) He had been dragged along as a prisoner and

abominably treated by the Chemnitz municipal guard on this particular

march, having originally been the instigator of a demonstration to

force that body to take up arms and march to Dresden. He owed his

freedom only to the chance meeting with other better disposed volunteer

corps. We saw this Chemnitz town guard ourselves, stationed far away on

a hill. They sent representatives to beseech Heubner to tell them how

things stood. When they had received the information required, and had

been told that the fight would be continued in a determined manner,

they invited the provisional government to quarter at Chemnitz. As soon

as they rejoined their main body we saw them wheel round and turn back.

With many similar interruptions the somewhat disorganised procession

reached Freiberg. Here some friends of Heubner’s came to meet him in

the streets with the urgent request not to plunge their native place

into the misery of desperate street-fighting by establishing the

provisional government there. Heubner made no reply to this, but

requested Bakunin and myself to accompany him into his house for a

consultation. First we had to witness the painful meeting between

Heubner and his wife; in a few words he pointed out the gravity and

importance of the task assigned to him, reminding her that it was for

Germany and the high destiny of his country that he was staking his

life.

Breakfast was then prepared, and after the meal, during which a fairly

cheerful mood prevailed, Heubner made a short speech to Bakunin,

speaking quietly but firmly. ‘My dear Bakunin,’ he said (his previous

acquaintance with Bakunin was so slight that he did not even know how

to pronounce his name), ‘before we decide anything further, I must ask

you to state clearly whether your political aim is really the Red

Republic, of which they tell me you are a partisan. Tell me frankly, so

that I may know if I can rely on your friendship in the future?’

Bakunin explained briefly that he had no scheme for any political form

of government, and would not risk his life for any of them. As for his

own far-reaching desires and hopes, they had nothing whatever to do

with the street-fighting in Dresden and all that this implied for

Germany. He had looked upon the rising in Dresden as a foolish,

ludicrous movement until he realised the effect of Heubner’s noble and

courageous example. From that moment every political consideration and

aim had been put in the background by his sympathy with this heroic

attitude, and he had immediately resolved to assist this excellent man

with all the devotion and energy of a friend. He knew, of course, that

he belonged to the so-called moderate party, of whose political future

he was not able to form an opinion, as he had not profited much by his

opportunities of studying the position of the various parties in

Germany.

Heubner declared himself satisfied by this reply, and proceeded to ask

Bakunin’s opinion of the present state of things—whether it would not

be conscientious and reasonable to dismiss the men and give up a

struggle which might be considered hopeless. In reply Bakunin insisted,

with his usual calm assurance, that whoever else threw up the sponge,

Heubner must certainly not do so. He had been the first member of the

provisional government, and it was he who had given the call to arms.

The call had been obeyed, and hundreds of lives had been sacrificed; to

scatter the people again would look as if these sacrifices had been

made to idle folly. Even if they were the only two left, they still

ought not to forsake their posts. If they went under their lives might

be forfeit, but their honour must remain unsullied, so that a similar

appeal in the future might not drive every one to despair.

This was quite enough for Heubner. He at once made out a summons for

the election of a representative assembly for Saxony, to be held at

Chemnitz. He thought that, with the assistance of the populace and of

the numerous insurgent bands who were arriving from all quarters, he

would be able to hold the town as the headquarters of a provisional

government until the general situation in Germany had become more

settled. In the midst of these discussions, Stephan Born walked into

the room to report that he had brought the armed bands right into

Freiberg, in good order and without any losses. This young man was a

compositor who had contributed greatly to Heubner’s peace of mind

during the last three days in Dresden by taking over the chief command.

His simplicity of manner made a very encouraging impression on us,

particularly when we heard his report. When, however, Heubner asked

whether he would undertake to defend Freiberg against the troops which

might be expected to attack at any moment, he declared that this was an

experienced officer’s job, and that he himself was no soldier and knew

nothing of strategy. Under these circumstances it seemed better, if

only to gain time, to fall back on the more thickly populated town of

Chemnitz. The first thing to be done, however, was to see that the

revolutionaries, who were assembled in large numbers at Freiberg, were

properly cared for, and Born went off immediately to make preliminary

arrangements. Heubner also took leave of us, and went to refresh his

tired brain by an hour’s sleep. I was left alone on the sofa with

Bakunin, who soon fell towards me, overcome by irresistible drowsiness,

and dropped the terrific weight of his head on to my shoulder. As I saw

that he would not wake if I shook off this burden, I pushed him aside

with some difficulty, and took leave both of the sleeper and of

Heubner’s house; for I wished to see for myself, as I had done for many

days past, what course these extraordinary events were taking. I

therefore went to the Town Hall, where I found the townspeople

entertaining to the best of their ability a blustering horde of excited

revolutionaries both within and without the walls. To my surprise, I

found Heubner there in the full swing of work. I thought he was asleep

at home, but the idea of leaving the people even for an hour without a

counsellor had driven away all thought of rest. He had lost no time in

superintending the organisation of a sort of commandant’s office, and

was again occupied with drafting and signing documents in the midst of

the uproar that raged on all sides. It was not long before Bakunin too

put in an appearance, principally in search of a good officer—who was

not, however, forthcoming. The commandant of a large contingent from

the Vogtland, an oldish man, raised Bakunin’s hopes by the impassioned

energy of his speeches, and he would have had him appointed

commandant-general on the spot. But it seemed as if any real decision

were impossible in that frenzy and confusion, and as the only hope of

mastering it seemed to be in reaching Chemnitz, Heubner gave the order

to march on towards that town as soon as every one had had food. Once

this was settled, I told my friends I should go on in advance of their

column to Chemnitz, where I should find them again next day; for I

longed to be quit of this chaos. I actually caught the coach, the

departure of which was fixed for that time, and obtained a seat in it.

But the revolutionaries were just marching off on the same road, and we

were told that we must wait until they had passed to avoid being caught

in the whirlpool. This meant considerable delay, and for a long while I

watched the peculiar bearing of the patriots as they marched out. I

noticed in particular a Vogtland regiment, whose marching step was

fairly orthodox, following the beat of a drummer who tried to vary the

monotony of his instrument in an artistic manner by hitting the wooden

frame alternately with the drumhead. The unpleasant rattling tone thus

produced reminded me in ghostly fashion of the rattling of the

skeletons’ bones in the dance round the gallows by night which Berlioz

had brought home to my imagination with such terrible realism in his

performance of the last movement of his Sinfonie Fantastique in Paris.

Suddenly the desire seized me to look up the friends I had left behind,

and travel to Chemnitz in their company if possible. I found they had

quitted the Town Hall, and on reaching Heubner’s house I was told that

he was asleep. I therefore went back to the coach, which, however, was

still putting off its departure, as the road was blocked with troops. I

walked nervously up and down for some time, then, losing faith in the

journey by coach, I went back again to Heubner’s house to offer myself

definitely as a travelling companion. But Heubner and Bakunin had

already left home, and I could find no traces of them. In desperation I

returned once more to the coach, and found it by this time really ready

to start. After various delays and adventures it brought me late at

night to Chemnitz, where I got out and betook myself to the nearest

inn. At five o’clock the next morning I got up (after a few hours’

sleep) and set out to find my brother-in-law Wolfram’s house, which was

about a quarter of an hour’s walk from the town. On the way I asked a

sentinel of the town guard whether he knew anything about the arrival

of the provisional government.

‘Provisional government?’ was the reply. ‘Why, it’s all up with that.’

I did not understand him, nor was I able to learn anything about the

state of things when I first reached the house of my relatives, for my

brother-in-law had been sent into the town as special constable. It was

only on his return home, lute in the afternoon, that I heard what had

taken place in one hotel at Chemnitz while I had been resting in

another inn. Heubner, Bakunin, and the man called Martin, whom I have

mentioned already, had, it seemed, arrived before me in a hackney-coach

at the gates of Chemnitz. On being asked for their names Heubner had

announced himself in a tone of authority, and had bidden the town

councillors come to him at a certain hotel. They had no sooner reached

the hotel than they all three collapsed from excessive fatigue.

Suddenly the police broke into the room and arrested them in the name

of the local government, upon which they only begged to have a few

hours’ quiet sleep, pointing out that flight was out of the question in

their present condition. I heard further that they had been removed to

Altenburg under a strong military escort. My brother-in-law was obliged

to confess that the Chemnitz municipal guard, which had been forced to

start for Dresden much against its will, and had resolved at the very

outset to place itself at the disposal of the royal forces on arriving

there, had deceived Heubner by inviting him to Chemnitz, and had lured

him into the trap. They had reached Chemnitz long before Heubner, and

had taken over the guard at the gates with the object of seeing him

arrive and of preparing for his arrest at once. My brother-in-law had

been very anxious about me too, as he had been told in furious tones by

the leaders of the town guard that I had been seen in close association

with the revolutionaries. He thought it a wonderful intervention of

Providence that I had not arrived at Chemnitz with them and gone to the

same inn, in which case their fate would certainly have been mine. The

recollection of my escape from almost certain death in duels with the

most experienced swordsmen in my student days flashed across me like a

flash of lightning. This last terrible experience made such an

impression on me that I was incapable of breathing a word in connection

with what had happened. My brother-in-law, in response to urgent

appeals—from my wife in particular, who was much concerned for my

personal safety—undertook to convey me to Altenburg in his carriage by

night. From there I continued my journey by coach to Weimar, where I

had originally planned to spend my holidays, little thinking that I

should arrive by such devious ways.

The dreamy unreality of my state of mind at this time is best explained

by the apparent seriousness with which, on meeting Liszt again, I at

once began to discuss what seemed to be the sole topic of any real

interest to him in connection with me—the forthcoming revival of

Tannhäuser at Weimar. I found it very difficult to confess to this

friend that I had not left Dresden in the regulation way for a

conductor of the royal opera. To tell the truth, I had a very hazy

conception of the relation in which I stood to the law of my country

(in the narrow sense). Had I done anything criminal in the eye of the

law or not? I found it impossible to come to any conclusion about it.

Meanwhile, alarming news of the terrible conditions in Dresden

continued to pour into Weimar. Genast, the stage manager, in

particular, aroused great excitement by spreading the report that

Röckel, who was well known at Weimar, had been guilty of arson. Liszt

must soon have gathered from my conversation, in which I did not take

the trouble to dissimulate, that I too was suspiciously connected with

these terrible events, though my attitude with regard to them misled

him for some time. For I was not by any means prepared to proclaim

myself a combatant in the recent fights, and that for reasons quite

other than would have seemed valid in the eyes of the law. My friend

was therefore encouraged in his delusion by the unpremeditated effect

of my attitude. When we met at the house of Princess Caroline of

Wittgenstein, to whom I had been introduced the year before when she

paid her flying visit to Dresden, we were able to hold stimulating

conversations on all sorts of artistic topics. One afternoon, for

instance, a lively discussion sprang up from a description I had given

of a tragedy to be entitled Jesus of Nazareth. Liszt maintained a

discreet silence after I had finished, whereas the Princess protested

vigorously against my proposal to bring such a subject on to the stage.

From the lukewarm attempt I made to support the paradoxical theories I

had put forward, I realised the state of my mind at that time. Although

it was not very evident to onlookers, I had been, and still was, shaken

to the very depths of my being by my recent experiences.

In due course an orchestral rehearsal of Tannhäuser took place, which

in various ways stimulated the artist in me afresh. Liszt’s conducting,

though mainly concerned with the musical rather than the dramatic side,

filled me for the first time with the flattering warmth of emotion

roused by the consciousness of being understood by another mind in full

sympathy with my own. At the same time I was able, in spite of my

dreamy condition, to observe critically the standard of capacity

exhibited by the singers and their chorus-master. After the rehearsal

I, together with the musical director, Stohr, and Götze the singer,

accepted Liszt’s invitation to a simple dinner, at a different inn from

the one where he lived. I thus had occasion to take alarm at a trait in

his character which was entirely new to me. After being stirred up to a

certain pitch of excitement his mood became positively alarming, and he

almost gnashed his teeth in a passion of fury directed against a

certain section of society which had also aroused my deepest

indignation. I was strongly affected by this strange experience with

this wonderful man, but I was unable to see the association of ideas

which had led to his terrible outburst. I was therefore left in a state

of amazement, while Liszt had to recover during the night from a

violent attack of nerves which his excitement had produced. Another

surprise was in store for me the next morning, when I found my friend

fully equipped for a journey to Karlsruhe—the circumstances which made

it necessary being absolutely incomprehensible to me. Liszt invited

Director Stohr and myself to accompany him as far as Eisenach. On our

way there we were stopped by Beaulieu, the Lord Chamberlain, who wished

to know whether I was prepared to be received by the Grand Duchess of

Weimar, a sister of the Emperor Nicolas, at Eisenach castle. As my

excuse on the score of unsuitable travelling costume was not admitted,

Liszt accepted in my name, and I really met with a surprisingly kind

reception that evening from the Grand Duchess, who chatted with me in

the friendliest way, and introduced me to her chamberlain with all due

ceremony. Liszt maintained afterwards that his noble patroness had been

informed that I should be wanted by the authorities in Dresden within

the next few days, and had therefore hastened to make my personal

acquaintance at once, knowing that it would compromise her too heavily

later on.

Liszt continued his journey from Eisenach, leaving me to be entertained

and looked after by Stohr and the musical director Kuhmstedt, a

diligent and skilful master of counterpoint with whom I paid my first

visit to the Wartburg, which had not then been restored. I was filled

with strange musings as to my fate when I visited this castle. Here I

was actually on the point of entering, for the first time, the building

which was so full of meaning for me; here, too, I had to tell myself

that the days of my further sojourn in Germany were numbered. And in

fact the news from Dresden, when we returned to Weimar the next day,

was serious indeed. Liszt, on his return on the third day, found a

letter from my wife, who had not dared to write direct to me. She

reported that the police had searched my house in Dresden, to which she

had returned, and that she had, moreover been warned on no account to

allow me to return to that city, as a warrant had been taken out

against me, and I was shortly to be served with a writ and arrested.

Liszt, who was now solely concerned for my personal safety, called in a

friend who had some experience of law, to consider what should be done

to rescue me from the danger that threatened me. Von Watzdorf, the

minister whom I had already visited, had been of opinion that I should,

if required, submit quietly to being taken to Dresden, and that the

journey would be made in a respectable private carriage. On the other

hand, reports which had reached us of the brutal way in which the

Prussian troops in Dresden had gone to work in applying the state of

siege were of so alarming a nature that Liszt and his friends in

council urged my speedy departure from Weimar, where it would be

impossible to protect me. But I insisted on taking leave of my wife,

whose anxiety was great, before leaving Germany, and begged to be

allowed to stay a little longer at least in the neighbourhood of

Weimar. This was taken into consideration, and Professor Siebert

suggested my taking temporary shelter with a friendly steward at the

village of Magdala, which was three hours distant. I drove there the

following morning to introduce myself to this kind steward and

protector as Professor Werder from Berlin, who, with a letter of

recommendation from Professor Siebert, had come to turn his financial

studies to practical account in helping to administer these estates.

Here in rural seclusion I spent three days, entertainment of a peculiar

nature being provided by the meeting of a popular assembly, which

consisted of the remainder of the contingent of revolutionaries which

had marched off towards Dresden and had now returned in disorder. I

listened with curious feelings, amounting almost to contempt, to the

speeches on this occasion, which were of every kind and description. On

the second day of my stay my host’s wife came back from Weimar (where

it was market-day) full of a curious tale: the composer of an opera

which was being performed there on that very day had been obliged to

leave Weimar suddenly because the warrant for his arrest had arrived

from Dresden. My host, who had been let into my secret by Professor

Seibert, asked playfully what his name was. As his wife did not seem to

know, he came to her assistance with the suggestion that perhaps it was

Röckel whose name was familiar at Weimar.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Röckel, that was his name, quite right.’

My host laughed loudly, and said that he would not be so stupid as to

let them catch him, in spite of his opera.

At last, on 22nd May, my birthday, Minna actually arrived at Magdala.

She had hastened to Weimar on receiving my letter, and had proceeded

from there according to instructions, bent on persuading me at all

costs to flee the country immediately and for good. No attempt to raise

her to the level of my own mood was successful; she persisted in

regarding me as an ill-advised, inconsiderate person who had plunged

both himself and her into the most terrible situation. It had been

arranged that I should meet her the next evening in the house of

Professor Wolff at Jena to take a last farewell. She was to go by way

of Weimar, while I took the footpath from Magdala. I started

accordingly on my walk of about six hours, and came over the plateau

into the little university town (which now received me hospitably for

the first time) at sunset. I found my wife again at the house of

Professor Wolff, who, thanks to Liszt, was already my friend, and with

the addition of a certain Professor Widmann another conference was held

on the subject of my further escape. A writ was actually out against me

for being strongly suspected of participation in the Dresden rising,

and I could not under any circumstances depend on a safe refuge in any

of the German federal states. Liszt insisted on my going to Paris,

where I could find a new field for my work, while Widmann advised me

not to go by the direct route through Frankfort and Baden, as the

rising was still in full swing there, and the police would certainly

exercise praiseworthy vigilance over incoming travellers with

suspicious-looking passports. The way through Bavaria would be the

safest, as all was quiet there again; I could then make for

Switzerland, and the journey to Paris from there could be engineered

without any danger. As I needed a passport for the journey, Professor

Widmann offered me his own, which had been issued at Tubingen and had

not been brought up to date. My wife was quite in despair, and the

parting from her caused me real pain. I set off in the mail-coach and

travelled, without further hindrance, through many towns (amongst them

Rudolstadt, a place full of memories for me) to the Bavarian frontier.

From there I continued my journey by mail-coach straight to Lindau. At

the gates I, together with the other passengers, was asked for my

passport. I passed the night in a state of strange, feverish

excitement, which lasted until the departure of the steamer on Lake

Constance early in the morning. My mind was full of the Swabian

dialect, as spoken by Professor Widmann, with whose passport I was

travelling. I pictured to myself my dealings with the Bavarian police

should I have to converse with them in accordance with the

above-mentioned irregularities in that document. A prey to feverish

unrest, I spent the whole night trying to perfect myself in the Swabian

dialect, but, as I was amused to find, without the smallest success. I

had braced myself to meet the crucial moment early the next morning,

when the policeman came into my room and, not knowing to whom the

passports belonged, gave me three at random to choose from. With joy in

my heart I seized my own, and dismissed the dreaded messenger in the

most friendly way. Once on board the steamer I realised with true

satisfaction that I had now stepped on to Swiss territory. It was a

lovely spring morning; across the broad lake I could gaze at the Alpine

landscape as it spread itself before my eyes. When I stepped on to

Republican soil at Rorschach, I employed the first moments in writing a

few lines home to tell of my safe arrival in Switzerland and my

deliverance from all danger. The coach drive through the pleasant

country of St. Gall to Zürich cheered me up wonderfully, and when I

drove down from Oberstrass into Zürich that evening, the last day in

May, at six o’clock, and saw for the first time the Glarner Alps that

encircle the lake gleaming in the sunset, I at once resolved, though

without being fully conscious of it, to avoid everything that could

prevent my settling here.

I had been the more willing to accept my friends’ suggestion to take

the Swiss route to Paris, as I knew I should find an old acquaintance,

Alexander Muller, at Zürich. I hoped with his help to obtain a passport

to France, as I was anxious not to arrive there as a political refugee.

I had been on very friendly terms with Muller once upon a time at

Wurzburg. He had been settled at Zürich for a long time as a teacher of

music; this I learned from a pupil of his, Wilhelm Baumgartner, who had

called on me in Dresden some years back to bring me a greeting from

this old friend. On that occasion I entrusted the pupil with a copy of

the score of Tannhäuser for his master, by way of remembrance, and this

kind attention had not fallen on barren soil: Muller and Baumgartner,

whom I visited forthwith, introduced me at once to Jacob Sulzer and

Franz Hagenbuch, two cantonal secretaries who were the most likely,

among all their good friends, to compass the immediate fulfilment of my

desire. These two people, who had been joined by a few intimates,

received me with such respectful curiosity and sympathy that I felt at

home with them at once. The great assurance and moderation with which

they commented on the persecutions which had overtaken me, as seen from

their usual simple republican standpoint, opened to me a conception of

civil life which seemed to lift me to an entirely new sphere. I felt so

safe and protected here, whereas in my own country I had, without quite

realising it, come to be considered a criminal owing to the peculiar

connection between my disgust at the public attitude towards art and

the general political disturbances. To prepossess the two secretaries

entirely in my favour (one of them, Sulzer, had enjoyed an excellent

classical education), my friends arranged a meeting one evening at

which I was to read my poem on the Death of Siegfried. I am prepared to

swear that I never had more attentive listeners, among men, than on

that evening. The immediate effect of my success was the drawing up of

a fully valid federal passport for the poor German under warrant of

arrest, armed with which I started gaily on my journey to Paris after

quite a short stay at Zürich. From Strassburg, where I was enthralled

by the fascination of the world-famous minster, I travelled towards

Paris by what was then the best means of locomotion, the so-called

malle-poste. I remember a remarkable phenomenon in connection with this

conveyance. Till then the noise of the cannonade and musketry in the

fighting at Dresden had been persistently re-echoing in my ears,

especially in a half-waking condition; now the humming of the wheels,

as we rolled rapidly along the highroad, cast such a spell upon me that

for the whole of the journey I seemed to hear the melody of Freude,

schöner Götterfunken[17] from the Ninth Symphony being played, as it

were, on deep bass instruments.

[17] See note on page 486.

From the time of my entering Switzerland till my arrival in Paris my

spirits, which had sunk into a dreamlike apathy, rose gradually to a

level of freedom and comfort that I had never enjoyed before. I felt

like a bird in the air whose destiny is not to founder in a morass; but

soon after my arrival in Paris, in the first week of June, a very

palpable reaction set in. I had had an introduction from Liszt to his

former secretary Belloni, who felt it his duty, in loyalty to the

instructions received, to put me into communication with a literary

man, a certain Gustave Vaisse, with the object of being commissioned to

write an opera libretto for production in Paris. I did not, however,

make the personal acquaintance of Vaisse. The idea did not please me,

and I found sufficient excuse for warding off the negotiations by

saying I was afraid of the epidemic of cholera which was said to be

raging in the city. I was staying in the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette for

the sake of being near Belloni. Through this street funeral

processions, announced by the muffled drum boats of the National Guard,

passed practically every hour. Though the heat was stifling, I was

strictly forbidden to touch water, and was advised to exercise the

greatest precaution with regard to diet in every respect. Besides this

weight of uneasiness on my spirits, the whole outward aspect of Paris,

as it then appeared, had the most depressing effect on me. The motto,

liberte, egalite, fraternite was still to be seen on all the public

buildings and other establishments, but, on the other hand, I was

alarmed at seeing the first garcons caissiers making their way from the

bank with their long money-sacks over their shoulders and their large

portfolios in their hands. I had never met them so frequently as now,

just when the old capitalist regime, after its triumphant struggle

against the once dreaded socialist propaganda, was exerting itself

vigorously to regain the public confidence by its almost insulting

pomp. I had gone, as it were, mechanically into Schlesinger’s

music-shop, where a successor was now installed—a much more pronounced

type of Jew named Brandus, of a very dirty appearance. The only person

there to give me a friendly welcome was the old clerk, Monsieur Henri.

After I had talked to him in loud tones for some time, as the shop was

apparently empty, he at length asked me with some embarrassment whether

I had not seen my master (_votre maître_) Meyerbeer.

‘Is Monsieur Meyerbeer here?’ I asked.

‘Certainly,’ was the even more embarrassed reply; ‘quite near, over

there behind the desk.’

And, sure enough, as I walked across to the desk Meyerbeer came out,

covered with confusion. He smiled and made some excuse about pressing

proof-sheets. He had been hiding there quietly for over ten minutes

since first hearing my voice. I had had enough after my strange

encounter with this apparition. It recalled so many things affecting

myself which reflected suspicion on the man, in particular the

significance of his behaviour towards me in Berlin on the last

occasion. However, as I had now nothing more to do with him, I greeted

him with a certain easy gaiety induced by the regret I felt at seeing

his manifest confusion on becoming cognisant of my arrival in Paris. He

took it for granted that I should again seek my fortune there, and

seemed much surprised when I assured him, on the contrary, that the

idea of having any work there was odious to me.

‘But Liszt published such a brilliant article about you in the _Journal

des Débats_,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ I replied, ‘it really had not occurred to me that the

enthusiastic devotion of a friend should be regarded as a mutual

speculation.’

‘But the article made a sensation. It is incredible that you should not

seek to make any profit out of it.’

This offensive meddlesomeness roused me to protest to Meyerbeer with

some violence that I was concerned with anything rather than with the

production of artistic work, particularly just at that time when the

course of events seemed to indicate that the whole world was undergoing

a reaction.

‘But what do you expect to get out of the revolution?’ he replied. ‘Are

you going to write scores for the barricades?’

Whereupon I assured him that I was not thinking of writing any scores

at all. We parted, obviously without having arrived at a mutual

understanding.

In the street I was also stopped by Moritz Schlesinger, who, being

equally under the influence of Liszt’s brilliant article, evidently

considered me a perfect prodigy. He too thought I must be counting on

making a hit in Paris, and was sure that I had a very good chance of

doing so.

‘Will you undertake my business?’ I asked him. ‘I have no money. Do you

really think the performance of an opera by an unknown composer can be

anything but a matter of money?’

‘You are quite right,’ said Moritz, and left me on the spot.

I turned from these disagreeable encounters in the plague-stricken

capital of the world to inquire the fate of my Dresden companions, for

some of those with whom I was intimate had also reached Paris, when I

called on Desplechins, who had painted the scenery for Tannhäuser. I

found Semper there, who had, like myself, been deposited in this city.

We met again with no little pleasure, although we could not help

smiling at our grotesque situation. Semper had retired from the battle

when the famous barricade, which he in his capacity of architect kept

under close observation, had been surrounded. (He thought it impossible

for it to be captured.) All the same, he considered that he had exposed

himself quite sufficiently to make it state of siege and were occupying

Dresden. He considered himself lucky as a native of Holstein to be

dependent, not on the German, but on the Danish government for a

passport, as this had helped him to reach Paris without difficulty.

When I expressed my real and heartfelt regret at the turn of affairs

which had torn him from a professional undertaking on which he had just

started—the completion of the Dresden Museum—he refused to take it too

seriously, saying it had given him a great deal of worry. In spite of

our trying situation, it was with Semper that I spent the only bright

hours of my stay in Paris. We were soon joined by another refugee,

young Heine, who had once wished to paint my Lohengrin scenery. He had

no qualms about his future, for his master Desplechins was willing to

give him employment. I alone felt I had been pitched quite aimlessly

into Paris. I had a passionate desire to leave this cholera-laden,

atmosphere, and Belloni offered me an opportunity which I promptly and

joyfully seized. He invited me to follow himself and his family to a

country place near La Ferte-sous-Jouarre, where I could be refreshed by

pure air and absolute quiet, and wait for a change for the better in my

position. I made the short journey to Rueil after another week in

Paris, and took for the time being a poor lodging (one room, built with

recesses) in the house of Monsieur Raphael, a wine merchant, close by

the village mairie where the Belloni family were staying. Here I waited

further developments. During the period when all news from Germany

ceased I tried to occupy myself as far as possible with reading. After

going through Proudhon’s writings, and in particular his De la

propriete, in such a manner as to glean comfort for my situation in

curiously divers ways, I entertained myself for a considerable time

with Lamartine’s Histoire des Girondins, a most alluring and attractive

work. One day Belloni brought me news of the unfortunate rising in

Paris, which had been attempted on the 13th June by the Republicans

under Ledru-Rollin against the provisional government, which was then

in the full tide of reaction. Great as was the indignation with which

the news was received by my host and the mayor of the place (a relative

of his, at whose table we ate our modest daily meal), it made, on the

whole, little impression on me, as my attention was still fixed in

great agitation on the events which were taking place on the Rhine, and

particularly on the grand-duchy of Baden, which had been made forfeit

to a provisional government. When, however, the news reached me from

this quarter also that the Prussians had succeeded in subduing a

movement which had not at first seemed hopeless, I felt extraordinarily

downcast.

I was compelled to consider my position carefully, and the necessity of

conquering my difficulties helped to allay the excitement to which I

was a prey. The letters from my Weimar friends, as well as those from

my wife, now brought me completely to my senses. The former expressed

themselves very curtly about my behaviour with regard to recent events.

The opinion was, that for the moment there would be nothing for me to

do, and especially not in Dresden, or at the grand-ducal court, ‘as one

could not very well knock at battered doors’; ‘on ne frappe pas a des

portes enfoncees’ (Princess von Wittgenstein to Belloni).

I did not know what to reply, for I had never dreamt of expecting

anything to come from their intervening on my behalf in that quarter;

consequently I was quite satisfied that they sent me temporarily

financial assistance. With this money I made up my mind to leave for

Zürich and ask Alex Muller to give me shelter for a while, as his house

was sufficiently large to accommodate a guest. My saddest moment came

when, after a long silence, I at last received a letter from my wife.

She wrote that she could not dream of living with me again; that after

I had so unscrupulously thrown away a connection and position, the like

of which would never again present itself to me, no woman could

reasonably be expected to take any further interest in my future

enterprises.

I fully appreciated my wife’s unfortunate position; I could in no way

assist her, except by advising her to sell our Dresden furniture, and

by making an appeal on her behalf to my relatives in Leipzig.

Until then I had been able to think more lightly of the misery of her

position, simply because I had imagined her to be more deeply in

sympathy with what agitated me. Often during the recent extraordinary

events I had even believed that she understood my feelings. Now,

however, she had disillusioned me on this point: she could see in me no

more than what the public saw, and the one redeeming point of her

severe judgment was that she excused my behaviour on the score that I

was reckless. After I had begged Liszt to do what he could for my wife,

I soon began to regard her unexpected behaviour with more equanimity.

In reply to her announcement that she would not write to me again for

the present, I said that I had also resolved to spare her all further

anxiety about my very doubtful fate, by ceasing from communicating with

her. I surveyed the panorama of our long years of association

critically in my mind’s eye, beginning with that first stormy year of

our married life, that had been so full of sorrow. Our youthful days of

worry and care in Paris had undoubtedly been of benefit to us both. The

courage and patience with which she had faced our difficulties, while I

on my part had tried to end them by dint of hard work, had linked us

together with bonds of iron. Minna was rewarded for all these

privations by Dresden successes, and more especially by the highly

enviable position I had held there. Her position as wife of the

conductor (Frau Kapellmeisterin) had brought her the fulfilment of her

dearest wishes, and all those things which conspired to make my work in

this official post so intolerable to me, were to her no more than so

many threats directed against her smug content. The course I had

adopted with regard to Tannhäuser had already made her doubtful of my

success at the theatres, and had robbed her of all courage and

confidence in our future. The more I deviated from the path which she

regarded as the only profitable one, due partly to the change of my

views (which I grew ever less willing to communicate to her), and

partly to the modification in my attitude towards the stage, the more

she retreated from that position of close fellowship with me which she

had enjoyed in former years, and which she thought herself justified in

connecting in some way with my successes.

She looked upon my conduct with regard to the Dresden catastrophe as

the outcome of this deviation from the right path, and attributed it to

the influence of unscrupulous persons (particularly the unfortunate

Röckel), who were supposed to have dragged me with them to ruin, by

appealing to my vanity. Deeper than all these disagreements, however,

which, after all, were concerned only with external circumstances, was

the consciousness of our fundamental incompatibility, which to me had

become ever more and more apparent since the day of our reconciliation.

From the very beginning we had had scenes of the most violent

description: never once after these frequent quarrels had she admitted

herself in the wrong or tried to be friends again.

The necessity of speedily restoring our domestic peace, as well as my

conviction (confirmed by every one of her extravagant outbursts) that,

in view of the great disparity of our characters and especially of our

educations, it devolved upon me to prevent such scenes by observing

great caution in my behaviour, always led me to take the entire blame

for what had happened upon myself, and to mollify Minna by showing her

that I was sorry. Unfortunately, and to my intense grief, I was forced

to recognise that by acting in this way I lost all my power over her

affections, and especially over her character. Now we stood in a

position in which I could not possibly resort to the same means of

reconciliation, for it would have meant my being inconsistent in all my

views and actions. And then I found myself confronted by such hardness

in the woman whom I had spoilt by my leniency, that it was out of the

question to expect her to acknowledge the injustice done to myself.

Suffice it to say that the wreck of my married life had contributed not

inconsiderably to the ruin of my position in Dresden, and to the

careless manner in which I treated it, for instead of finding help,

strength, and consolation at home, I found my wife unwittingly

conspiring against me, in league with all the other hostile

circumstances which then beset me. After I had got over the first shock

of her heartless behaviour, I was absolutely clear about this. I

remember that I did not suffer any great sorrow, but that on the

contrary, with the conviction of being now quite helpless, an almost

exalted calm came over me when I realised that up to the present my

life had been built on a foundation of sand and nothing more. At all

events, the fact that I stood absolutely alone did much towards

restoring my peace of mind, and in my distress I now found strength and

comfort even in the fact of my dire poverty. At last assistance arrived

from Weimar. I accepted it eagerly, and it was the means of extricating

me from my present useless life and stranded hopes.

My next move was to find a place of refuge—one, however, which had but

little attraction for me, seeing that in it there was not the slightest

hope of my being able to make any further headway in the paths along

which I had hitherto progressed. This refuge was Zürich, a town devoid

of all art in the public sense, and where for the first time I met

simple-hearted people who knew nothing about me as a musician, but who,

as it appeared, felt drawn towards me by the power of my personality

alone. I arrived at Muller’s house and asked him to let me have a room,

at the same time giving him what remained of my capital, namely twenty

francs. I quickly discovered that my old friend was embarrassed by my

perfectly open confidence in him, and that he was at his wit’s end to

know what to do with me. I soon gave up the large room containing a

grand piano, which he had allotted to me on the impulse of the moment,

and retired to a modest little bedroom. The meals were my great trial,

not because I was fastidious, but because I could not digest thorn.

Outside my friend’s house, on the contrary, I enjoyed what, considering

the habits of the locality, was the most luxurious reception. The same

young men who had been so kind to me on my first journey through Zürich

again showed themselves anxious to be continually in my company, and

this was especially the case with one young fellow called Jakob Sulzer.

He had to be thirty years of age before he was entitled to become a

member of the Zürich government, and he therefore still had several

years to wait. In spite of his youth, however, the impression he made

on all those with whom he came in contact was that of a man of riper

years, whose character was formed. When I was asked long afterwards

whether I had ever met a man who, morally speaking, was the beau-ideal

of real character and uprightness, I could, on reflection, think of

none other than this newly gained friend, Jakob Sulzer.

He owed his early appointment as permanent Cantonal Secretary

(Staatsschreiber), one of the most excellent government posts in the

canton of Zürich, to the recently returned liberal party, led by Alfred

Escher. As this party could not employ the more experienced members of

the older conservative side in the public offices, their policy was to

choose exceptionally gifted young men for these positions. Sulzer

showed extraordinary promise, and their choice accordingly soon lighted

on him. He had only just returned from the Berlin and Bonn universities

with the intention of establishing himself as professor of philology at

the university in his native town, when he was made a member of the new

government. To fit himself for his post he had to stay in Geneva for

six months to perfect himself in the French language, which he had

neglected during his philological studies. He was quick-witted and

industrious, as well as independent and firm, and he never allowed

himself to be swayed by any party tactics. Consequently he rose very

rapidly to high positions in the government, to which he rendered

valuable and important services, first as Minister of Finance, a post

he held for many years, and later with particular distinction as member

of the School Federation. His unexpected acquaintance with me seemed to

place him in a sort of dilemma; from the philological and classical

studies which he had entered upon of his own choice, he suddenly found

himself torn away in the most bewildering manner by this unexpected

summons from the government. It almost seemed as if his meeting with me

had made him regret having accepted the appointment. As he was a person

of great culture, my poem, Siegfried’s Death, naturally revealed to him

my knowledge of German antiquity. He had also studied this subject, but

with greater philological accuracy than I could possibly have aspired

to. When, later on, he became acquainted with my manner of writing

music, this peculiarly serious and reserved man became so thoroughly

interested in my sphere of art, so far removed from his own field of

labour, that, as he himself confessed, he felt it his duty to fight

against these disturbing influences by being intentionally brusque and

curt with me. In the beginning of my stay in Zürich, however, he

delighted in being led some distance astray in the realms of art. The

old-fashioned official residence of the first Cantonal Secretary was

often the scene of unique gatherings, composed of people such as I

would be sure to attract. It might even be said that these social

functions occurred rather more frequently than was advisable for the

reputation of a civil servant of this little philistine state. What

attracted the musician Baumgartner more particularly to these meetings

was the product of Sulzer’s vineyards in Winterthur, to which our hosts

treated his guests with the greatest liberality. When in my moods of

mad exuberance I gave vent in dithyrambic effusions to my most extreme

views on art and life, my listeners often responded in a manner which,

more often than not, I was perfectly right in ascribing to the effects

of the wine rather than to the power of my enthusiasm. Once when

Professor Ettmuller, the Germanist and Edda scholar, had been invited

to listen to a reading of my Siegfried and had been led home in a state

of melancholy enthusiasm, there was a regular outburst of wanton

spirits among those who had remained behind. I conceived the absurd

idea of lifting all the doors of the state official’s house off their

hinges.

Herr Hagenbuch, another servant of the state, seeing what exertion this

cost me, offered me the help of his gigantic physique, and with

comparative ease we succeeded in removing every single door, and laying

it aside, a proceeding at which Sulzer merely smiled good-naturedly.

The next day, however, when we made inquiries, he told us that the

replacing of those doors (which must have been a terrible strain on his

delicate constitution) had taken him the whole night, as he had made up

his mind to keep the knowledge of our orgies from the sergeant, who

always arrived at a very early hour in the morning.

The extraordinary birdlike freedom of my existence had the effect of

exciting me more and more. I was often frightened at the excessive

outbursts of exaltation to which I was prone—no matter whom I was

with—and which led me to indulge in the most extraordinary paradoxes in

my conversation. Soon after I had settled in Zürich I began to write

down my various ideas about things at which I had arrived through my

private and artistic experiences, as well as through the influence of

the political unrest of the day. As I had no choice but to try, to the

best of my ability, to earn something by my pen, I thought of sending a

series of articles to a great French journal such as the National,

which in those days was still extant. In these articles I meant to

propound my ideas (in my revolutionary way) on the subject of modern

art in its relation to society. I sent six of them to an elderly friend

of mine, Albert Franck, requesting him to have them translated into

French and to get them published. This Franck was the brother of the

better-known Hermann Franck, now the head of the Franco-German

bookselling firm, which had originally belonged to my brother-in-law,

Avenarius. He sent me back my work with the very natural remark that it

was out of the question to expect the Parisian public to understand or

appreciate my articles, especially at such a critical moment.

I headed the manuscript Kunst und Revolution (‘Art and Revolution’) and

sent it to Otto Wigand in Leipzig, who actually undertook to publish it

in the form of a pamphlet, and sent me five louis d’or for it. This

unexpected success induced me to continue to exploit my literary gifts.

I looked among my papers for the essay I had written the year before as

the outcome of my historical studies of the ‘Nibelungen’ legend; I gave

it the title of Die Nibelungen Weltgeschichte aus der Sage, and again

tried my luck by sending it to Wigand.

The sensational title of Kunst und Revolution, as well as the notoriety

the ‘royal conductor’ had gained as a political refugee, had made the

radical publisher hope that the scandal that would arise on the

publication of my articles would redound to his benefit! I soon

discovered that he was on the point of issuing a second edition of

Kunst und Revolution, without, however, informing me of the fact. He

also took over my new pamphlet for another five louis d’or. This was

the first time I had earned money by means of published work, and I now

began to believe that I had reached that point when I should be able to

get the better of my misfortunes. I thought it over, and decided to

give public lectures in Zürich on subjects related to my writings

during the coming winter, hoping in that free and haphazard fashion to

keep body and soul together for a little while, although I had no fixed

appointment and did not intend to work at music.

It seemed necessary for me to resort to these means, as I did not know

how otherwise to keep myself alive. Shortly after my arrival in Zürich

I had witnessed the coming of the fragments of the Baden army,

dispersed over Swiss territory, and accompanied by fugitive volunteers,

and this had made a painful and uncanny impression upon me. The news of

the surrender near Villagos by Gorgey paralysed the last hopes as to

the issue of the great European struggle for liberty, which so far had

been left quite undecided. With some misgiving and anxiety I now turned

my eyes from all these occurrences in the outside world inwards to my

own soul.

I was accustomed to patronise the cafe litteraire, where I took my

coffee after my heavy mid-day meal, in a smoky atmosphere surrounded by

a merry and joking throng of men playing dominoes and ‘fast.’ One day I

stared at its common wall-paper representing antique subjects, which in

some inexplicable way recalled a certain water-colour by Genelli to my

mind, portraying ‘The education of Dionysos by the Muses.’ I had seen

it at the house of my brother-in-law Brockhaus in my young days, and it

had made a deep impression on me at the time. At this same place I

conceived the first ideas of my Kunstwerk der Zukunft (‘The Art-Work of

the Future’), and it seemed a significant omen to me to be roused one

day out of one of my post-prandial dreams by the news that

Schroder-Devrient was staying in Zürich. I immediately got up with the

intention of calling on her at the neighbouring hotel, ‘Zum Schwerte,’

but to my great dismay heard that she had just left by steamer. I never

saw her again, and long afterwards only heard of her painful death from

my wife, who in later years became fairly intimate with her in Dresden.

After I had spent two remarkable summer months in this wild and

extraordinary fashion, I at last received reassuring news of Minna, who

had remained in Dresden. Although her manner of taking leave of me had

been both harsh and wounding, I could not bring myself to believe I had

completely parted from her. In a letter I wrote to one of her

relations, and which I presumed they would forward, I made sympathetic

inquiries about her, while I had already done all that lay in my power,

through repeated appeals to Liszt, to ensure her being well cared for.

I now received a direct reply, which, in addition to the fact that it

testified to the vigour and activity with which she had fought her

difficulties, at the same time showed me that she earnestly desired to

be reunited with me. It was almost in terms of contempt that she

expressed her grave doubts as to the possibility of my being able to

make a living in Zürich, but she added that, inasmuch as she was my

wife, she wished to give me another chance. She also seemed to take it

for granted that I intended making Zürich only our temporary home, and

that I would do my utmost to promote my career as a composer of opera

in Paris. Whereupon she announced her intention of arriving at

Rorschach in Switzerland on a certain date in September of that year,

in the company of the little dog Peps, the parrot Papo, and her

so-called sister Nathalie. After having engaged two rooms for our new

home, I now prepared to set out on foot for St. Gall and Rorschach

through the lovely and celebrated Toggenburg and Appenzell, and felt

very touched after all when the peculiar family, which consisted half

of pet animals, landed at the harbour of Rorschach. I must honestly

confess that the little dog and the bird made me very happy. My wife at

once threw cold water on my emotions, however, by declaring that in the

event of my behaving badly again she was ready to return to Dresden any

moment, and that she had numerous friends there, who would be glad to

protect and succour her if she were forced to carry out her threat. Be

this as it may, one look at her convinced me how greatly she had aged

in this short time, and how much I ought to pity her, and this feeling

succeeded in banishing all bitterness from my heart.

I did my utmost to give her confidence and to make her believe that our

present misfortunes were but momentary. This was no easy task, as she

would constantly compare the diminutive aspect of the town of Zürich

with the more noble majesty of Dresden, and seemed to feel bitterly

humiliated. The friends whom I introduced to her found no favour in her

eyes. She looked upon the Cantonal Secretary, Sulzer, as a ‘mere town

clerk who would not be of any importance in. Germany’; and the wife of

my host Muller absolutely disgusted her when, in answer to Minna’s

complaints about my terrible position, she replied that my greatness

lay in the very fact of my having faced it. Then again Minna appeased

me by tolling me of the expected arrival of some of my Dresden

belongings, which she thought would be indispensable to our new home.

The property of which she spoke consisted of a Breitkopf and Hartel

grand-piano that looked better than it sounded, and of the ‘title-page’

of the Nibelungen by Cornelius in a Gothic frame that used to hang over

my desk in Dresden.

With this nucleus of household effects we now decided to take small

lodgings in the so-called ‘hinteren Escherhausern’ in the Zeltweg. With

great cleverness Minna had succeeded in selling the Dresden furniture

to advantage, and out of the proceeds of this sale she had brought

three hundred marks with her to Zürich to help towards setting up our

new home. She told me that she had saved my small but very select

library for me by giving it into the safe custody of the publisher,

Heinrich Brockhaus (brother of my sister’s husband and member of the

Saxon Diet), who had insisted upon looking after it. Great, therefore,

was her dismay when, upon asking this kind friend to send her the

books, he replied that he was holding them as security for a debt of

fifteen hundred marks which I had contracted with him during my days of

trouble in Dresden, and that he intended to keep them until that sum

was returned. As even after the lapse of many years I found it

impossible to refund this money, these books, collected for my own

special wants, were lost to me for ever.

Thanks more particularly to my friend Sulzer, the Cantonal Secretary,

whom my wife at first despised so much on account of his title which

she misunderstood, and who, although he was far from well-off himself,

thought it only natural that he should help me, however moderately, out

of my difficulties, we soon succeeded in making our little place look

so cosy that my simple Zürich friends felt quite at home in it. My

wife, with all her undeniable talents, hero found ample scope in which

to distinguish herself, and I remember how ingeniously she made a

little what-not out of the box in which she had kindly brought my music

and manuscript to Zürich.

But it was soon time to think of how to earn enough money to provide

for us all. My idea of giving public lectures was treated with contempt

by my wife, who looked upon it as an insult to her pride. She could

acquiesce only in one plan, that suggested by Liszt, namely, that I

should write an opera for Paris. To satisfy her, and in view of the

fact that I could see no chance of a remunerative occupation close at

hand, I actually reopened a correspondence on this matter with my great

friend and his secretary Belloni in Paris. In the meantime I could not

be idle, so I accepted an invitation from the Zürich musical society to

conduct a classical composition at one of their concerts, and to this

end I worked with their very poor orchestra at Beethoven’s Symphony in

A major. Although the result was successful, and I received five

napoleons for my trouble, it made my wife very unhappy, for she could

not forget the excellent orchestra, and the much more appreciative

public, which a short time before in Dresden would have seconded and

rewarded similar efforts on my part. Her one and only ideal for me was

that, by hook or by crook, and with a total disregard of all artistic

scruples, I should make a brilliant reputation for myself in Paris.

While we were both absolutely at a loss to discover whence we should

obtain the necessary funds for our journey to Paris and our sojourn

there, I again plunged into my philosophical study of art, as being the

only sphere still left open to me.

Harrassed by the cares of a terrible struggle for existence, I wrote

the whole of Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft in the chilly atmosphere of a

sunless little room on the ground floor during the months of November

and December of that year. Minna had no objection to this occupation

when I told her of the success of my first pamphlet, and the hope I had

of receiving even better pay for this more extensive work.

Thus for a while I enjoyed comparative peace, although in my heart a

spirit of unrest had begun to reign, thanks to my growing acquaintance

with Feuerbach’s works. I had always had an inclination to fathom the

depths of philosophy, just as I had been led by the mystic influence of

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony to search the deepest recesses of music. My

first efforts at satisfying this longing had failed. None of the

Leipzig professors had succeeded in fascinating me with their lectures

on fundamental philosophy and logic. I had procured Schelling’s work,

Transcendental Idealism, recommended to me by Gustav Schlesinger, a

friend of Laube’s, but it was in vain that I racked my brains to try

and make something out of the first pages, and I always returned to my

Ninth Symphony.

During the latter part of my stay in Dresden I had returned to these

old studies, the longing for which suddenly revived within me, and to

these I added the deeper historical studies which had always fascinated

me. As an introduction to philosophy I now chose Hegel’s Philosophy of

History. A good deal of this impressed me deeply, and it now seemed as

if I should ultimately penetrate into the Holy of Holies along this

path. The more incomprehensible many of his speculative conclusions

appeared, the more I felt myself desirous of probing the question of

the ‘Absolute’ and everything connected therewith to the core. For I so

admired Hegel’s powerful mind that it seemed to me he was the very

keystone of all philosophical thought.

The revolution intervened; the practical tendencies of a social

reconstruction distracted my attention, and as I have already stated,

it was a German Catholic priest and political agitator (formerly a

divinity student named Menzdorff, who used to wear a Calabrian hat)[18]

who drew my attention to ‘the only real philosopher of modern times,’

Ludwig Feuerbach. My new Zürich friend, the piano teacher, Wilhelm

Baumgartner, made me a present of Feuerbach’s book on Tod und

Unsterblichkeit (‘Death and Immortality’). The well-known and stirring

lyrical style of the author greatly fascinated me as a layman. The

intricate questions which he propounds in this book as if they were

being discussed for the first time by him, and which he treats in a

charmingly exhaustive manner, had often occupied my mind since the very

first days of my acquaintance with Lehrs in Paris, just as they occupy

the mind of every imaginative and serious man. With me, however, this

was not lasting, and I had contented myself with the poetic suggestions

on these important subjects which appear here and there in the works of

our great poets.

[18] A broad-rimmed, tall, white felt hat, tapering to a point,

originally worn by the inhabitants of Calabria, and in 1848 a sign of

Republicanism.—EDITOR.

The frankness with which Feuerbach explains his views on these

interesting questions, in the more mature parts of his book, pleased me

as much by their tragic as by their social-radical tendencies. It

seemed right that the only true immortality should be that of sublime

deeds and great works of art. It was more difficult to sustain any

interest in Das Wesen des Christenthums (‘The Essence of Christianity’)

by the same author, for it was impossible whilst reading this work not

to become conscious, however involuntarily, of the prolix and unskilful

manner in which he dilates on the simple and fundamental idea, namely,

religion explained from a purely subjective and psychological point of

view. Nevertheless, from that day onward I always regarded Feuerbach as

the ideal exponent of the radical release of the individual from the

thraldom of accepted notions, founded on the belief in authority. The

initiated will therefore not wonder that I dedicated my Kunstwerk der

Zukunft to Feuerbach and addressed its preface to him.

My friend Sulzer, a thorough disciple of Hegel, was very sorry to see

me so interested in Feuerbach, whom he did not even recognise as a

philosopher at all. He said that the best thing that Feuerbach had done

for me was that he had been the means of awakening my ideas, although

he himself had none. But what had really induced me to attach so much

importance to Feuerbach was the conclusion by means of which he had

seceded from his master Hegel, to wit, that the best philosophy was to

have no philosophy—a theory which greatly simplified what I had

formerly considered a very terrifying study—and secondly, that only

that was real which could be ascertained by the senses.

The fact that he proclaimed what we call ‘spirit’ to be an aesthetic

perception of our senses, together with his statement concerning the

futility of philosophy—these were the two things in him which rendered

me such useful assistance in my conceptions of an all-embracing work of

art, of a perfect drama which should appeal to the simplest and most

purely human emotions at the very moment when it approached its

fulfilment as Kunstwerk der Zukunft. It must have been this which

Sulzer had in his mind when he spoke deprecatingly of Feuerbach’s

influence over me. At all events, after a while I certainly could not

return to his works, and I remember that his newly published book, Uber

das Wesen der Religion (‘Lectures on the Essence of Religion’), scared

me to such an extent by the dullness of its title alone, that when

Herwegh opened it for my benefit, I closed it with a bang under his

very nose.

At that time I was working with great enthusiasm upon the draft of a

connected essay, and was delighted one day to receive a visit from the

novelist and Tieckian scholar, Eduard von Billow (the father of my

young friend Billow), who was passing through Zürich. In my tiny little

room I read him my chapter on poetry, and could not help noticing that

he was greatly startled at my ideas on literary drama and on the advent

of the new Shakespeare. I thought this all the more reason why Wigand

the publisher should accept my new revolutionary book, and expected him

to pay me a fee which would be in proportion to the greater size of the

work. I asked for twenty louis d’or, and this sum he agreed to pay me.

The prospect of receiving this amount induced me to carry out the plan,

which need had forced upon me, of travelling to Paris and of trying my

luck there as a composer of opera. This plan had very serious

drawbacks; not only did I hate the idea, but I knew that I was doing an

injustice to myself by believing in the success of my enterprise, for I

felt that I could never seriously throw myself into it heart and soul.

Everything, however, combined to make me try the experiment, and it was

Liszt in particular who, confident of this being my only way to fame,

insisted upon my reopening the negotiations into which Belloni and I

had entered during the previous summer. To show with what earnestness I

tried to consider the chances of carrying out my plan, I drafted out

the plot of the opera, which the French poet would only have to put

into verse, because I never for a moment fancied that it would be

possible for him to think out and write a libretto for which I would

only need to compose the music. I chose for my subject the legend of

Wieland der Schmied, upon which I commented with some stress at the end

of my recently finished Kunstwerk der Zukunft, and the version of which

by Simrock, taken from the Wilkyna legend, had greatly attracted me.

I sketched out the complete scenario with precise indication of the

dialogue for three acts, and with a heavy heart decided to hand it over

to my Parisian author to be worked out. Liszt thought he saw a means of

making my music known through his relations with Seghers, the musical

director of a society then known as the ‘Concerts de St. Cecile.’ In

January of the following year the Tannhäuser Overture was to be given

under his baton, and it therefore seemed advisable that I should reach

Paris some time before this event. This undertaking, which appeared to

be so difficult owing to my complete lack of funds, was at last

facilitated in a manner quite unexpected.

I had written home for help, and had appealed to all the old friends I

could think of, but in vain. By the family of my brother Albert in

particular, whose daughter had recently entered upon a brilliant

theatrical career, I was treated in much the same way as one treats an

invalid by whom one dreads to become infected. In contrast to their

harshness I was deeply touched by the devotion of the Ritter family,

who had remained in Dresden; for, apart from my acquaintance with young

Karl, I scarcely knew these people at all. Through the kindness of my

old friend Heine, who had been informed of my position, Frau Julie

Ritter, the venerable mother of the family, had thought it her duty to

place, through a business friend, the sum of fifteen hundred marks at

my disposal. At about the same time I received a letter from Mme.

Laussot, who had called upon me in Dresden the year before, and who now

in the most affecting terms assured me of her continued sympathy.

These were the first signs of that new phase in my life upon which I

entered from this day forth, and in which I accustomed myself to look

upon the outward circumstances of my existence as being merely

subservient to my will. And by this means I was able to escape from the

hampering narrowness of my home life.

For the moment the proffered financial assistance was very distasteful

to me, for it seemed to forbid my raising any further objections to the

realisation of the detested Paris schemes. When, however, on the

strength of this favourable change in my affairs, I suggested to my

wife that we might, after all, content ourselves with remaining in

Zürich, she flew into the most violent passion over my weakness and

lack of spirit, and declared that if I did not make up my mind to

achieve something in Paris, she would lose all faith in me. She said,

moreover, that she absolutely refused to be a witness of my misery and

grief as a wretched literary man and insignificant conductor of local

concerts in Zürich.

We had entered upon the year 1850; I had decided to go to Paris, if

only for the sake of peace, but had to postpone my journey on account

of ill-health. The reaction following upon the terrible excitement of

recent times had not failed to have its effect on my overwrought

nerves, and a state of complete exhaustion had followed. The continual

colds, in spite of which I had been obliged to work in my very

unhealthy room, had at last given rise to alarming symptoms. A certain

weakness of the chest became apparent, and this the doctor (a political

refugee) undertook to cure by the application of pitch plasters. As the

result of this treatment and the irritating effect it had upon my

nerves, I lost my voice completely for a while; whereupon I was told

that I must go away for a change. On going out to buy my ticket for the

journey, I felt so weak and broke out into such terrible perspiration

that I hastened to return to my wife in order to consult her as to the

advisability, in the circumstances, of abandoning the idea of the

expedition altogether. She, however, maintained (and perhaps rightly)

not only that my condition was not dangerous, but that it was to a

large extent due to imagination, and that, once in the right place, I

would soon recover.

An inexpressible feeling of bitterness stimulated my nerves as in anger

and despair I quickly left the house to buy the confounded ticket for

the journey, and in the beginning of February I actually started on the

road to Paris. I was filled with the most extraordinary feelings, but

the spark of hope which was then kindled in my breast certainly had

nothing whatever to do with the belief that had been imposed upon me

from without, that I was to make a success in Paris as a composer of

operas.

I was particularly anxious to find quiet rooms, for peace had now

become my first necessity, no matter where I happened to be staying.

The cabman who drove me from street to street through the most isolated

quarters, and whom I at last accused of keeping always to the most

animated parts of the city, finally protested in despair that one did

not come to Paris to live in a convent. At last it occurred to me to

look for what I wanted in one of the cites through which no vehicle

seemed to drive, and I decided to engage rooms in the Cite de Provence.

True to the plans which had been forced upon me, I at once called on

Herr Seghers about the performance of the Tannhäuser Overture.

It turned out that in spite of my late arrival I had missed nothing,

for they were still racking their brains as to how to procure the

necessary orchestral parts.

I therefore had to write to Liszt, asking him to order the copies, and

had to wait for their arrival. Belloni was not in town, things were

therefore at a standstill, and I had plenty of time to think over the

object of my visit to Paris, while an unceasing accompaniment was

poured out to my meditations by the barrel-organs which infest the

cites of Paris.

I had much difficulty in convincing an agent of the government, from

whom I received a visit soon after my arrival, that my presence in

Paris was due to artistic reasons, and not to my doubtful position as a

political refugee.

Fortunately he was impressed by the score, which I showed him, as well

as by Liszt’s article on the Tannhäuser Overture, written the year

before in the Journal des Debats, and he left me, politely inviting me

to continue my avocations peacefully and industriously, as the police

had no intention of disturbing me.

I also looked up my older Parisian acquaintances. At the hospitable

house of Desplechins I met Semper, who was trying to make his position

as tolerable as possible by writing some inferior artistic work. He had

left his family in Dresden, from which town we soon received the most

alarming news. The prisons were gradually filling there with the

unfortunate victims of the recent Saxon movement Of Röckel, Bakunin,

and Heubner, all we could hear was that they had been charged with high

treason, and that they were awaiting the death sentence.

In view of the tidings which continually arrived concerning the cruelty

and brutality with which the soldiers treated the prisoners, we could

not help considering our own lot a very happy one.

My intercourse with Semper, whom I saw frequently, was generally

enlivened by a gaiety which was occasionally of rather a risky nature;

he was determined to rejoin his family in London, where the prospect of

various appointments was open to him. My latest attempts at writing,

and the thoughts expressed in my work, interested him greatly, and gave

rise to animated conversations in which we were joined by Kietz, who

was at first amusing, but evidently boring Semper considerably. I found

the former in the identical position in which I had left him many years

ago: he had made no headway with his painting, and would have been glad

if the revolution had taken a more decided turn, so that, under cover

of the general confusion, he might have escaped from his embarrassing

position with his landlord. He made at this time quite a good pastel

portrait of me in his very best and earliest style. While I was sitting

I unfortunately spoke to him about my Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft, and

thereby laid the foundation for him of troubles that lasted many years,

as he tried to instil my new ideas into the Parisian bourgeoisie at

whose tables he had hitherto been a welcome guest. Notwithstanding, he

remained as of old a good, obliging, true-hearted fellow, and even

Semper could not help putting up with him cheerfully. I also looked up

my friend Anders. It was a difficult matter to find him at any hour of

the day, since out of sleeping hours he was closeted in the library,

where he could receive no one, and afterwards retired to the

reading-room to spend his hours of rest, and generally went to dine

with certain bourgeois families where he gave music lessons. He had

aged considerably, but I was glad to find him, comparatively speaking,

in better health than the state in which I had last seen him had

allowed me to hope, as when I left Paris before he had seemed to be in

a decline. Curiously enough, a broken leg had been the means of

improving his health, the treatment necessary for it having taken him

to a hydro, where his condition had much improved. His one idea was to

see me achieve a great success in Paris, and he wished to secure a seat

in advance for the first performance of my opera, which he took for

granted was to appear, and kept repeating that it would be so very

trying for him to occupy a place in any part of the theatre where there

would be likely to be a crush. He could not see the use of my present

literary work; in spite of this I was again engaged on it exclusively,

as I soon ascertained there was no likelihood of my overture to

Tannhäuser being produced. Liszt had shown the greatest zeal in

obtaining and forwarding the orchestral parts; but Herr Seghers

informed me that as far as his own orchestra was concerned, he found

himself in a republican democracy where each instrument had an equal

right to voice its opinion, and it had been unanimously decided that

for the remainder of the winter season, which was now drawing to a

close, my overture could be dispensed with. I gathered enough from this

turn of affairs to realise how precarious my position was.

It is true, the result of my writings was hardly less discouraging. A

copy of the Wigand edition of my Kunstwerk der Zukunft was forwarded to

me full of horrible misprints, and instead of the expected remuneration

of twenty louis d’or, my publisher explained that for the present he

could only pay me half this sum, as, owing to the fact that at first

the sale of the Kunst und Revolution had been very rapid, he had been

led to attach too high a commercial value to my writings, a mistake he

had speedily discovered when he found there was no demand for Die

Nibelungen.

On the other hand, I received an offer of remunerative work from Adolph

Kolatschek, who was also a fugitive, and was just going to bring out a

German monthly journal as the organ of the progressive party. In

response to this invitation I wrote a long essay on Kunst und Klima

(‘Art and Climate’), in which I supplemented the ideas I had already

touched upon in my Kunstwerk der Zukunft. Besides this I had, since my

arrival in Paris, worked out a more complete sketch of Wieland der

Schmied. It is true that this work had no longer any value, and I

wondered with apprehension what I could write home to my wife, now that

the last precious remittance had been so aimlessly sacrificed. The

thought of returning to Zürich was as distasteful to me as the prospect

of remaining any longer in Paris. My feelings with regard to the latter

alternative were intensified by the impression made upon me by

Meyerbeer’s opera The Prophet, which had just been produced and which I

had not heard before. Rearing itself on the ruins of the hopes for new

and more noble endeavour which had animated the better works of the

past year—the only result of the negotiations of the provisional French

republic for the encouragement of art—I saw this work of Meyerbeer’s

break upon the world like the dawn heralding this day of disgraceful

desolation. I was so sickened by this performance, that though I was

unfortunately placed in the centre of the stalls and would willingly

have avoided the disturbance necessarily occasioned by one of the

audience moving during the middle of an act, even this consideration

did not deter me from getting up and leaving the house. When the famous

mother of the prophet finally gives vent to her grief in the well-known

series of ridiculous roulades, I was filled with rage and despair at

the thought that I should be called upon to listen to such a thing, and

never again did I pay the slightest heed to this opera.

But what was I to do next? Just as the South American republics had

attracted me during my first miserable sojourn in Paris, so now my

longing was directed towards the East, where I could live my life in a

manner worthy of a human being far away from this modern world. While I

was in this frame of mind I was called upon to answer another inquiry

as to my state of health from Mme. Laussot in Bordeaux. It turned out

that my answer prompted her to send me a kind and pressing invitation

to go and stay at her house, at least for a short time, to rest and

forget my troubles. In any circumstances an excursion to more southerly

regions, which I had not yet seen, and a visit to people who, though

utter strangers, showed such friendly interest in me, could not fail to

prove attractive and flattering. I accepted, settled my affairs in

Paris, and went by coach via Orleans, Tours, and Angouleme, down the

Gironde to the unknown town, where I was received with great courtesy

and cordiality by the young wine merchant Eugene Laussot, and presented

to my sympathetic young friend, his wife. A closer acquaintance with

the family, in which Mrs. Taylor, Mme. Laussot’s mother, was now also

included, led to a clearer understanding of the character of the

sympathy bestowed upon me in such a cordial and unexpected manner by

people hitherto unknown to me. Jessie, as the young wife was called at

home, had, during a somewhat lengthy stay in Dresden, become very

intimate with the Ritter family, and I had no reason to doubt the

assurance given me, that the Laussots’ interest in me and my work was

principally owing to this intimacy. After my flight from Dresden, as

soon as the news of my difficulties had reached the Ritters, a

correspondence had been carried on between Dresden and Bordeaux with a

view to ascertaining how best to assist me. Jessie attributed the whole

idea to Frau Julie Ritter who, while not being well enough off herself

to make me a sufficient allowance, was endeavouring to come to an

understanding with Jessie’s mother, the well-to-do widow of an English

lawyer, whose income entirely supported the young couple in Bordeaux.

This plan had so far succeeded, that shortly after my arrival in

Bordeaux Mrs. Taylor informed me that the two families had combined,

and that it had been decided to ask me to accept the help of three

thousand francs a year until the return of better days. My one object

now was to enlighten my benefactors as to the exact conditions under

which I should be accepting such assistance. I could no longer reckon

upon achieving any success as a composer of opera either in Paris or

elsewhere; what line I should take up instead I did not know; but, at

all events, I was determined to keep myself free from the disgrace

which would reflect upon my whole life if I used such means as this

offer presented to secure success. I feel sure I am not wrong in

believing that Jessie was the only one who understood me, and though I

only experienced kindness from the rest of the family, I soon

discovered the gulf by which she, as well as myself, was separated from

her mother and husband. While the husband, who was a handsome young

man, was away the greater part of the day attending to his business,

and the mother’s deafness excluded her to a great extent from our

conversations, we soon discovered by a rapid exchange of ideas that we

shared the same opinions on many important matters, and this led to a

great feeling of friendship between us. Jessie, who was at that time

about twenty-two, bore little resemblance to her mother, and no doubt

took after her father, of whom I heard most flattering accounts. A

large and varied collection of books loft by this man to his daughter

showed his tastes, for besides carrying on his lucrative profession as

a lawyer, he had devoted himself to the study of literature and

science. From him Jessie had also learned German as a child, and she

spoke that language with great fluency. She had been brought up on

Grimm’s fairy-tales, and was, moreover, thoroughly acquainted with

German poetry, as well as with that of England and France, and her

knowledge of them was as thorough as the most advanced education could

demand. French literature did not appeal to her much. Her quick powers

of comprehension were astonishing. Everything which I touched upon she

immediately grasped and assimilated. It was the same with music: she

read at sight with the greatest facility, and was an accomplished

player. During her stay in Dresden she had been told that I was still

in search of the pianist who could play Beethoven’s great Sonata in B

flat major, and she now astonished me by her finished rendering of this

most difficult piece. The emotion aroused in me by finding such an

exceptionally developed talent suddenly changed to anxiety when I heard

her sing. Her sharp, shrill voice, in which there was strength but no

real depth of feeling, so shocked me that I could not refrain from

begging her to desist from singing in future. With regard to the

execution of the sonata, she listened eagerly to my instructions as to

how it should be interpreted, though I could not feel that she would

succeed in rendering it according to my ideas. I read her my latest

essays, and she seemed to understand even the most extraordinary

descriptions perfectly. My poem on Siegfried’s Tod moved her deeply,

but she preferred my sketch of Wieland der Schmied. She admitted

afterwards that she would prefer to imagine herself filling the role of

Wieland’s worthy bride than to find herself in the position and forced

to endure the fate of Gutrune in Siegfried. It followed inevitably that

the presence of the other members of the family proved embarrassing

when we wanted to talk over and discuss these various subjects. If we

felt somewhat troubled at having to confess to ourselves that Mrs.

Taylor would certainly never be able to understand why I was being

offered assistance, I was still more disconcerted at realising after a

time the complete want of harmony between the young couple,

particularly from an intellectual point of view. The fact that Laussot

had for some time been well aware of his wife’s dislike for him was

plainly shown when he one day so far forgot himself as to complain

loudly and bitterly that she would not even love a child of his if she

had one, and that he therefore thought it fortunate that she was not a

mother. Astonished and saddened, I suddenly gazed into an abyss which

was hidden here, as is often the case, under the appearance of a

tolerably happy married life. About this time, and just as my visit,

which had already lasted three weeks, was drawing to a close, I

received a letter from my wife that could not have had a more

unfortunate effect on my state of mind. She was, on the whole, pleased

at my having found new friends, but at the same time explained that if

I did not immediately return to Paris, and there endeavour to secure

the production of my overture with the results anticipated, she would

not know what to think of me, and would certainly fail to understand me

if I returned to Zürich without having effected my purpose. At the same

time my depression was intensified in a terrible way by a notice in the

papers announcing that Röckel, Bakunin, and Heubner had been sentenced

to death, and that the date of their execution was fixed. I wrote a

short but stirring letter of farewell to the two first, and as I saw no

possibility of having it conveyed to the prisoners, who were confined

in the fortress of Konigstein, I decided to send it to Frau von

Lüttichau, to be forwarded to them by her, because I thought she was

the only person in whose power it might lie to do this for me, while at

the same time she had sufficient generosity and independence of mind to

enable her to respect and carry out my wishes, in spite of any possible

difference of opinion she might entertain. I was told some time

afterwards that Lüttichau had got hold of the letter and thrown it into

the fire. For the time being this painful impression helped me to the

determination to break with every one and everything, to lose all

desire to learn more of life or of art, and, even at the risk of having

to endure the greatest privations, to trust to chance and put myself

beyond the reach of everybody. The small income settled upon me by my

friends I wished to divide between myself and my wife, and with my half

go to Greece or Asia Minor, and there, Heaven alone knew how, seek to

forget and be forgotten. I communicated this plan to the only

confidante I had left to me, chiefly in order that she might be able to

enlighten my benefactors as to how I intended disposing of the income

they had offered me. She seemed pleased with the idea, and the resolve

to abandon herself to the same fate seemed to her also, in her

resentment against her position, to be quite an easy matter. She

expressed us much by hints and a word dropped here and there. Without

clearly realising what it would lead to, and without coming to any

understanding with her, I left Bordeaux towards the end of April, more

excited than soothed in spirit, and filled with regret and anxiety. I

returned to Paris, for the time being, stunned and full of uncertainty

as to what to do next. Feeling very unwell, exhausted, and at the same

time excited from want of sleep, I reached my destination and put up at

the Hotel Valois, where I remained a week, struggling to gain my

self-control and to face my strange position. Even if I had wished to

resume the plans which had been instrumental in bringing me to Paris, I

soon convinced myself that little or nothing could be done. I was

filled with distress and anger at being called upon to waste my

energies in a direction contrary to my tastes, merely to satisfy the

unreasonable demands made upon me. I was at length obliged to answer my

wife’s last pressing communication, and wrote her a long and detailed

letter in which I kindly, but at the same time frankly, retraced the

whole of our life together, and explained that I was fully determined

to set her free from any immediate participation in my fate, as I felt

quite incapable of so arranging it so as to meet with her approval. I

promised her the half of whatever means I should have at my disposal

now or in the future, and told her she must accept this arrangement

with a good grace, because the occasion had now arisen to take that

step of parting from me which, on our first meeting again in

Switzerland, she had declared herself ready to do. I ended my letter

without bidding her a final farewell. I thereupon wrote to Bordeaux

immediately to inform Jessie of the step I had taken, though my means

did not as yet allow of my forming any definite plan which I could

communicate to her for my complete flight from the world. In return she

announced that she was determined to do likewise, and asked for my

protection, under which she intended to place herself when once she had

set herself free. Much alarmed, I did all in my power to make her

realise that it was one thing for a man, placed in such a desperate

situation as myself, to cut himself adrift in the face of

insurmountable difficulties, but quite another matter for a young

woman, at least to all outward appearances, happily settled, to decide

to break up her home, for reasons which probably no one except myself

would be in a position to understand. Regarding the unconventionality

of her resolve in the eyes of the world, she assured me that it would

be carried out as quietly as possible, and that for the present she

merely thought of arranging to visit her friends the Ritters in

Dresden. I felt so upset by all this that I yielded to my craving for

retirement, and sought it at no great distance from Paris. Towards the

middle of April I went to Montmorency, of which I had heard many

agreeable accounts, and there sought a modest hiding-place. With great

difficulty I dragged myself to the outskirts of the little town, where

the country still bore a wintry aspect, and turned into the little

strip of garden belonging to a wine merchant, which was filled with

visitors only on Sundays, and there refreshed myself with some bread

and cheese and a bottle of wine. A crowd of hens surrounded me, and I

kept throwing them pieces of bread, and was touched by the

self-sacrificing abstemiousness with which the cock gave all to his

wives though I aimed particularly at him. They became bolder and

bolder, and finally flew on to the table and attacked my provisions;

the cock flew after them, and noticing that everything was topsy-turvy,

pounced upon the cheese with the eagerness of a craving long

unsatisfied. When I found myself being driven from the table by this

chaos of fluttering wings, I was filled with a gaiety to which I had

long been a stranger. I laughed heartily, and looked round for the

signboard of the inn. I thereby discovered that my host rejoiced in the

name of Homo. This seemed a hint from Fate, and I felt I must seek

shelter here at all costs. An extraordinarily small and narrow bedroom

was shown me, which I immediately engaged. Besides the bed it held a

rough table and two cane-bottomed chairs. I arranged one of these as a

washhand-stand, and on the table I placed some books, writing

materials, and the score of Lohengrin, and almost heaved a sigh of

content in spite of my extremely cramped accommodation. Though the

weather remained uncertain and the woods with their leafless trees did

not seem to offer the prospect of very enticing walks, I still felt

that here there was a possibility of my being forgotten, and being also

in my turn allowed to forget the events that had lately filled me with

Midi desperate anxiety. My old artistic instinct awoke again. I looked

over my Lohengrin score, and quickly decided to send it to Liszt and

leave it to him to bring it out as best he could. Now that I had got

rid of this score also, I felt as free as a bird and as careless as

Diogenes about what might befall me. I even invited Kietz to come and

stay with me and share the pleasures of my retreat. He did actually

come, as he had done during my stay in. Mendon; but he found me even

more modestly installed than I had been there. He was quite prepared to

take pot-luck, however, and cheerfully slept on an improvised bed,

promising to keep the world in touch with me upon his return to Paris.

I was suddenly startled from my state of complacency by the news that

my wife had come to Paris to look me up. I had an hour’s painful

struggle with myself to settle the course I should pursue, and decided

not to allow the step I had taken in regard to her to be looked upon as

an ill-considered and excusable vagary. I left Montmorency and betook

myself to Paris, summoned Kietz to my hotel, and instructed him to tell

my wife, who had already been trying to gain admittance to him, that he

knew nothing more of me except that I had left Paris. The poor fellow,

who felt as much pity for Minna as for me, was so utterly bewildered on

this occasion, that he declared that he felt as though he were the axis

upon which all the misery in the world turned. But he apparently

realised the significance and importance of my decision, as it was

necessary he should, and acquitted himself in this delicate matter with

intelligence and good feeling. That night t left Paris by train for

Clermont-Tonnerre, from whence I travelled on to Geneva, there to await

news from Frau Ritter in Dresden. My exhaustion was such that, even had

I possessed the necessary means, I could not as yet have contemplated

undergoing the fatigue of a long journey. By way of gaining time for

further developments I retired to Villeneuve, at the other end of the

Lake of Geneva, where I put up at the Hotel Byron, which was quite

empty at the time. Here I learned that Karl Ritter had arrived in

Zürich, as he said he would, with the intention of paying me a visit.

Impressing upon him the necessity for the strictest secrecy, I invited

him to join me at the Lake of Geneva, and in the second week in May we

met at the Hotel Byron. The characteristic which pleased me in him was

his absolute devotion, his quick comprehension of my position and the

necessity of my resolutions, as well as his readiness to submit without

question to all my arrangements, even where he himself was concerned.

He was full of my latest literary efforts, told me what an impression

they had made on his acquaintances, and thereby induced me to spend the

few days of rest I was enjoying in preparing my poem of Siegfried’s Tod

for publication.

I wrote a short preface dedicating this poem to my friends as a relic

of the time when I had hoped to devote myself entirely to art, and

especially to the composition of music. I sent this manuscript to Herr

Wigand in Leipzig, who returned it to me after some time with the

remark, that if I insisted on its being printed in Latin characters he

would not be able to sell a single copy of it. Later on I discovered

that he deliberately refused to pay me the ten louis d’or due to me for

Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft, which I had directed him to send to my wife.

Disappointing as all this was, I was nevertheless unable to engage in

any further work, as only a few days after Karl’s arrival the realities

of life made themselves felt in an unexpected manner, most upsetting to

my tranquillity of mind. I received a wildly excited letter from Mme.

Laussot to tell me that she had not been able to resist telling her

mother of her intentions, that in so doing she had immediately aroused

the suspicion that I was to blame, and in consequence of this her

disclosure had been communicated to M. Laussot, who vowed he would

search everywhere for me in order to put a bullet through my body. The

situation was clear enough, and I decided to go to Bordeaux immediately

in order to come to an understanding with my opponent I at once wrote

fully to M. Eugene, endeavouring to make him see matters in their true

light, but at the same time declared myself incapable of understanding

how a man could bring himself to keep a woman with him by force, when

she no longer wished to remain. I ended by informing him that I should

reach Bordeaux at, the same time as my letter, and immediately upon my

arrival there would let him know at what hotel to find me; also that I

would not tell his wife of the step I was taking, and that he could

consequently act without restraint. I did not conceal from him, what

indeed was the fact, that I was undertaking this journey under great

difficulties, as under the circumstances I considered it impossible to

wait to have my passport endorsed by the French envoy. At the same time

I wrote a few lines to Mme. Laussot, exhorting her to be calm and

self-possessed, but, true to my purpose, refrained from even hinting at

any movement on my part. (When, years afterwards, I told Liszt this

story, he declared I had acted very stupidly in not, telling Mme.

Laussot of my intentions.) I took leave of Karl the same day, in order

to set out next morning from Geneva on my tedious journey across

France. But I was so exhausted by all this that I could not help

thinking I was going to die. That same night I wrote to Frau Ritter in

Dresden, to this effect, giving her a short account of the incredible

difficulties I had been drawn into. As a matter of fact, I suffered

great inconvenience at the French frontier on account of my passport; I

was made to give my exact place of destination, and it was only upon my

assuring them that pressing family affairs required my immediate

presence, that the authorities showed exceptional leniency and allowed

me to proceed.

I travelled by Lyons through Auvergne by stage-coach for three days and

two nights, till at length I reached Bordeaux. It was the middle of

May, and as I surveyed the town from a height at early dawn I saw it

lit up by a fire that had broken out. I alighted at the Hotel Quatre

Soeurs, and at once sent a note to M. Laussot, informing him that I

held myself at his disposal and would remain in all day to receive him.

It was nine o’clock in the morning when I sent him this message. I

waited in vain for an answer, till at last, late in the afternoon, I

received a summons from the police-station to present myself

immediately. There I was first of all asked whether my passport was in

order. I acknowledged the difficulty I found myself in with regard to

it, and explained that family matters had necessitated my placing

myself in this position.

I was thereupon informed that precisely this family matter, which had

no doubt brought me there, was the cause of their having to deny me the

permission to remain in Bordeaux any longer. In answer to my question,

they did not conceal the fact that these proceedings against me were

being carried out at the express wish of the family concerned. This

extraordinary revelation immediately restored my good-humour. I asked

the police inspector whether, after such a trying journey, I might not

be allowed a couple of days’ rest before returning; this request he

readily granted, and told me that in any case there could be no chance

of my meeting the family in question, as they had left Bordeaux at

mid-day. I used these two days to recover from my fatigue, and also

wrote a letter to Jessie, in which I told her exactly what had taken

place, without concealing my contempt at the behaviour of her husband,

who could expose his wife’s honour by a denunciation to the police. I

also added that our friendship could certainly not continue until she

had released herself from so humiliating a position. The next thing was

to get this letter safely delivered. The information furnished me by

the police officials was not sufficient to enlighten me as to what had

exactly taken place in the Laussot family, whether they had left home

for some length of time or merely for a day, so I simply made up my

mind to go to their house. I rang the bell and the door sprang open;

without meeting any one I walked up to the first-floor flat, the door

of which stood open, and went from room to room till I reached Jessie’s

boudoir, where I placed my letter in her work-basket and returned the

way I had come. I received no reply, and set out upon my return journey

as soon as the term of rest granted me had expired. The fine May

weather had a cheering effect upon me, and the clear water, as well as

the agreeable name of the Dordogne, along whose banks the post-chaise

travelled for some distance, gave me great pleasure.

I was also entertained by the conversation of two fellow-travellers, a

priest and an officer, about the necessity of putting an end to the

French Republic. The priest showed himself much more humane and

broad-minded than his military interlocutor, who could only repeat the

one refrain, ‘Il faut en finir.’ I now had a look at Lyons, and in a

walk round the town tried to recall the scenes in Lamartine’s Histoire

des Girondins, where he so vividly describes the siege and surrender of

the town during the period of the Convention Nationale. At last I

arrived at Geneva, and returned to the Byron hotel, where Karl Ritter

was awaiting me. During my absence he had heard from his family, who

wrote very kindly concerning me. His mother had at once reassured him

as to my condition, and pointed out that with people suffering from

nervous disorders the idea of approaching death was a frequent symptom,

and that there was consequently no occasion to feel anxious about me.

She also announced her intention of coming to visit us in Villeneuve

with her daughter Emilie in a few days’ time. This news made me take

heart again; this devoted family, so solicitous for my welfare, seemed

sent by Providence to lead me, as I so longed to be led, to a new life.

Both ladies arrived in time to celebrate my thirty-seventh birthday on

the twenty-second of May. The mother, Frau Julie, particularly made a

deep impression upon me. I had only met her once before in Dresden,

when Karl had invited me to be present at the performance of a

quartette of his own composition, given at his mother’s house. On this

occasion the respect and devotion shown me by each member of the family

had delighted me. The mother had hardly spoken to me, but when I was

leaving she was moved to tears as she thanked me for my visit. I was

unable to understand her emotion at the time, but now when I reminded

her of it she was surprised, and explained that she had felt so touched

at my unexpected kindness to her son.

She and her daughter remained with us about a week. We sought diversion

in excursions to the beautiful Valais, but did not succeed in

dispelling Frau Ritter’s sadness of heart, caused by the knowledge of

recent events of which she had now been informed, as well as by her

anxiety at the course my life was taking. As I afterwards learned, it

had cost the nervous, delicate woman a great effort to undertake this

journey, and when I urged her to leave her house to come and settle in

Switzerland with her family, so that we might all be united, she at

last pointed out to me that in proposing what seemed to her such an

eccentric undertaking, I was counting upon a strength and energy she no

longer possessed. For the present she commended her son, whom she

wished to leave with me, to my care, and gave me the necessary means to

keep us both for the time being. Regarding the state of her fortune,

she told me that her income was limited, and now that it was impossible

to accept any help from the Laussots, she did not know how she would be

able to come to my assistance sufficiently to assure my independence.

Deeply moved, we took leave of this venerable woman at the end of a

week, and she returned to Dresden with her daughter, and I never saw

her again.

Still bent upon discovering a means of disappearing from the world, I

thought of choosing a wild mountain spot where I could retire with

Karl. For this purpose we sought the lonely Visper Thal in the canton

Valais, and not without difficulty made our way along the impracticable

roads to Zermatt. There, at the foot of the colossal and beautiful

Matterhorn, we could indeed consider ourselves cut off from the outer

world. I tried to make things as comfortable as I could in this

primitive wilderness, but discovered only too soon that Karl could not

reconcile himself to his surroundings. Even on the second day he owned

that he thought it horrid, and suggested that it would be more pleasant

in the neighbourhood of one of the lakes. We studied the map of

Switzerland, and chose Thun for our next destination. Unfortunately I

again found myself reduced to a state of extreme nervous fatigue, in

which the slightest effort produced a profuse and weakening

perspiration. Only by the greatest strength of will was I able to make

my way out of the valley; but at last we reached Thun, and with renewed

courage engaged a couple of modest but cheerful rooms looking out on to

the road, and proposed to wait and see how we should like it. In spite

of the reserve which still betrayed his shyness of character, I found

conversation with my young friend always pleasant and enlivening. I now

realised the pitch of fluent and overflowing vivacity to which the

young man could attain, particularly at night before retiring to rest,

when he would squat down beside my bed, and in the agreeable, pure

dialect of the German Baltic provinces, give free expression to

whatever had excited his interest. I was exceedingly cheered during

these days by the perusal of the Odyssey, which I had not read for so

long and which had fallen into my hands by chance. Homer’s

long-suffering hero, always homesick yet condemned to perpetual

wandering, and always valiantly overcoming all difficulties, was

strangely sympathetic to me. Suddenly the peaceful state I had scarcely

yet entered upon was disturbed by a letter which Karl received from

Mme. Laussot. He did not know whether he ought to show it to me, as he

thought Jessie had gone mad. I tore it out of his hand, and found she

had written to say that she felt obliged to let my friend know that she

had been sufficiently enlightened about me to make her drop my

acquaintance entirely. I afterwards discovered, chiefly through the

help of Frau Ritter, that in consequence of my letter and my arrival in

Bordeaux, M. Laussot, together with Mrs. Taylor, had immediately taken

Jessie to the country, intending to remain there until the news was

received of my departure, to accelerate which he had applied to the

police authorities. While they were away, and without telling her of my

letter and my journey, they had obtained a promise from the young woman

to remain quiet for a year, give up her visit to Dresden, and, above

all, to drop all correspondence with me; since, under these conditions,

she was promised her entire freedom at the end of that time, she had

thought it better to give her word. Not content with this, however, the

two conspirators had immediately set about calumniating me on all

sides, and finally to Mme. Laussot herself, saying that I was the

initiator of this plan of elopement. Mrs. Taylor had written to my wife

complaining of my intention to commit adultery, at the same time

expressing her pity for her and offering her support; the unfortunate

Minna, who now thought she had found a hitherto unsuspected reason for

my resolve to remain separated from her, wrote back complaining of me

to Mrs. Taylor. The meaning of an innocent remark I had once made had

been strangely misinterpreted, and matters wore now aggravated by

making it appear as though I had intentionally lied. In the course of

playful conversation Jessie had once told me that she belonged to no

recognised form of religion, her father Having teen a member of a

certain sect which did not baptise either according to the Protestant

or the Roman Catholic ritual; whereupon I had comforted her by assuring

her that I had come in contact with much more questionable sects, as

shortly after my marriage in Königsberg I had learned that it had been

solemnised by a hypocrite. God alone knows in what form this had been

repeated to the worthy British matron, but, at all events, she told my

wife that I had said I was ‘not legally married to her.’ In any case,

my wife’s answer to this had no doubt furnished further material with

which to poison Jessie’s mind against me, and this letter to my young

friend was the result. I must admit that, seen by this light, the

circumstance at which I felt most indignant was the way my wife had

been treated, and while I was perfectly indifferent as to what the rest

of the party thought of me, I immediately accepted Karl’s offer to go

to Zürich and see her, so as to give her the explanation necessary to

her peace of mind. While awaiting his return, I received a letter from

Liszt, telling me of the deep impression made upon him by my Lohengrin

score, which had caused him to make up his mind as to the future in

store for me. He at the same time announced that, as I had given him

the permission to do so, he intended doing all in his power to bring

about the production of my opera at the forthcoming Herder festival in

Weimar. About this time I also heard from Frau Ritter, who, in

consequence of events of which she was well aware, thought herself

called upon to beg me not to take the matter too much to heart. At this

moment Karl also returned from Zürich, and spoke with great warmth of

my wife’s attitude. Not having found me in Paris, she had pulled

herself together with remarkable energy, and in pursuance of an earlier

wish of mine, had rented a house on the lake of Zürich, installed

herself comfortably, and remained there in the hope of at last hearing

from me again. Besides this, he had much to tell me of Sulzer’s good

sense and friendliness, the latter having stood by, my wife and shown

her great sympathy. In the midst of his narrative Karl suddenly

exclaimed, ‘Ah! these could be called sensible people; but with such a

mad Englishwoman nothing could be done.’ To all this I said not a word,

but finally with a smile asked him whether he would like to go over to

Zürich? He sprang up exclaiming, ‘Yes, and as soon as possible.’ ‘You

shall have your way,’ said I; ‘let us pack. I can see no sense in

anything either here or there.’ Without breathing another syllable

about all that had happened, we left the next day for Zürich.