part in a dull but respectable way. The day was rather cool, but

wonderfully bright and sunshiny, after the gloomy weather we had just

been having. Without a word this curious creature saluted me and then

remained standing, as though bewitched. He simply gazed into my face

with wonder and rapture, in order to find out, so he at last managed to

tell me in strange confusion, how a man looked who that very day was to

face such an exceptional fate. I smiled and reflected that it was

indeed a day of crisis, and promised him that I would soon drink a

glass with him, at the Stadt Hamburg inn, of the excellent wine he had

recommended to me with so much agitation.

No subsequent experience of mine can be compared with the sensations

which marked the day of the first production of Rienzi. At all the

first performances of my works in later days, I have been so absorbed

by an only too well-founded anxiety as to their success, that I could

neither enjoy the opera nor form any real estimate of its reception by

the public. As for my subsequent experiences at the general rehearsal

of Tristan und Isolde, this took place under such exceptional

circumstances, and its effect upon me differed so fundamentally from

that produced by the first performance of Rienzi, that no comparison

can possibly be drawn between the two.

The immediate success of Rienzi was no doubt assured beforehand. But

the emphatic way in which the audience declared their appreciation was

thus far exceptional, that in cities like Dresden the spectators are

never in a position to decide conclusively upon a work of importance on

the first night, and consequently assume an attitude of chilling

restraint towards the works of unknown authors. But this was, in the

nature of things, an exceptional case, for the numerous staff of the

theatre and the body of musicians had inundated the city beforehand

with such glowing reports of my opera, that the whole population

awaited the promised miracle in feverish expectation. I sat with Minna,

my sister Clara, and the Heine family in a pit-box, and when I try to

recall my condition during that evening, I can only picture it with all

the paraphernalia of a dream. Of real pleasure or agitation I felt none

at all: I seemed to stand quite aloof from my work; whereas the sight

of the thickly crowded auditorium agitated me so much, that I was

unable even to glance at the body of the audience, whose presence

merely affected me like some natural phenomenon—something like a

continuous downpour of rain—from which I sought shelter in the farthest

corner of my box as under a protecting roof. I was quite unconscious of

applause, and when at the end of the acts I was tempestuously called

for, I had every time to be forcibly reminded by Heine and driven on to

the stage. On the other hand, one great anxiety filled me with growing

alarm: I noticed that the first two acts had taken as long as the whole

of Freischutz, for instance. On account of its warlike calls to arms

the third act begins with an exceptional uproar, and when at its close

the clock pointed to ten, which meant that the performance had already

lasted full four hours, I became perfectly desperate. The fact that

after this act, also, I was again loudly called, I regarded merely as a

final courtesy on the part of the audience, who wished to signify that

they had had quite enough for one evening, and would now leave the

house in a body. As we had still two acts before us, I thought it

settled that we should not be able to finish the piece, and apologised

for my lack of wisdom in not having previously effected the necessary

curtailments. Now, thanks to my folly, I found myself in the unheard-of

predicament of being unable to finish an opera, otherwise extremely

well received, simply because it was absurdly long. I could only

explain the undiminished zeal of the singers, and particularly of

Tichatschek, who seemed to grow lustier and cheerier the longer it

lasted, as an amiable trick to conceal from me the inevitable

catastrophe. But my astonishment at finding the audience still there in

full muster, even in the last act—towards midnight—filled me with

imbounded perplexity. I could no longer trust my eyes or ears, and

regarded the whole events of the evening as a nightmare. It was past

midnight when, for the last time, I had to obey the thunderous calls of

the audience, side by side with my trusty singers.

My feeling of desperation at the unparalleled length of my opera was

augmented by the temper of my relatives, whom I saw for a short time

after the performance. Friedrich Brockhaus and his family had come over

with some friends from Leipzig, and had invited us to the inn, hoping

to celebrate an agreeable success over a pleasant supper, and possibly

to drink my health. But on arriving, kitchen and cellar were closed,

and every one was so worn out that nothing was to be heard but outcries

at the unparalleled case of an opera lasting from six o’clock till past

twelve. No further remarks were exchanged, and we stole away feeling

quite stupefied.

About eight the next morning I put in an appearance at the clerks’

office, in order that in case there should be a second performance I

might arrange the necessary curtailment of the parts. If, during the

previous summer, I had contested every beat with the faithful

chorus-master Fischer, and proved them all to be indispensable, I was

now possessed by a blind rage for striking out. There was not a single

part of my score which seemed any longer necessary—what the audience

had been made to swallow the previous evening now appeared but a chaos

of sheer impossibilities, each and all of which might be omitted

without the slightest damage or risk of being unintelligible. My one

thought now was how to reduce my convolution of monstrosities to decent

limits. By dint of unsparing and ruthless abbreviations handed over to

the copyist, I hoped to avert a catastrophe, for I expected nothing

less than that the general manager, together with the city and the

theatre, would that very day give me to understand that such a thing as

the performance of my Last of the Tribunes might perhaps be permitted

once as a curiosity, but not oftener. All day long, therefore, I

carefully avoided going near the theatre, so as to give time for my

heroic abbreviations to do their salutary work, and for news of them to

spread through the city. But at midday I looked in again upon the

copyists, to assure myself that all had been duly performed as I had

ordered. I then learned that Tichatschek had also been there, and,

after inspecting the omissions that I had arranged, had forbidden their

being carried out. Fischer, the chorus-master, also wished to speak to

me about them: work was suspended, and I foresaw great confusion. I

could not understand what it all meant, and feared mischief if the

arduous task were delayed. At length, towards evening, I sought out

Tichatschek at the theatre. Without giving him a chance to speak, I

brusquely asked him why he had interrupted the copyists’ work. In a

half-choked voice he curtly and defiantly rejoined, ‘I will have none

of my part cut out—it is too heavenly.’ I stared at him blankly, and

then felt as though I had been suddenly bewitched: such an unheard-of

testimony to my success could not but shake me out of my strange

anxiety. Others joined him, Fischer radiant with delight and bubbling

with laughter. Every one spoke of the enthusiastic emotion which

thrilled the whole city. Next came a letter of thanks from the

Commissioner acknowledging my splendid work. Nothing now remained for

me but to embrace Tichatschek and Fischer, and go on my way to inform

Minna and Clara how matters stood.

After a few days’ rest for the actors, the second performance took

place on 26th October, but with various curtailments, for which I had

great difficulty in obtaining Tichatschek’s consent. Although it was

still of much more than average length, I heard no particular

complaints, and at last adopted Tichatschek’s view that, if he could

stand it, so could the audience. For six performances therefore, all of

which continued to receive a similar avalanche of applause, I let the

matter run its course.

My opera, however, had also excited interest among the elder princesses

of the royal family. They thought its exhausting length a drawback, but

were nevertheless unwilling to miss any of it. Lüttichau consequently

proposed that I should give the piece at full length, but half of it at

a time on two successive evenings. This suited me very well, and after

an interval of a few weeks we announced Rienzi’s Greatness for the

first day, and His Fall for the second. The first evening we gave two

acts, and on the second three, and for the latter I composed a special

introductory prelude. This met with the entire approval of our august

patrons, and especially of the two eldest, Princesses Amalie and

Augusta. The public, on the contrary, simply regarded this in the light

of now being asked to pay two entrance fees for one opera, and

pronounced the new arrangement a decided fraud. Its annoyance at the

change was so great that it actually threatened to be fatal to the

attendance, and after three performances of the divided Rienzi the

management was obliged to go back to the old arrangement, which I

willingly made possible by introducing my cuttings again.

From this time forward the piece used to fill the house to overflowing

as often as it could be presented, and the permanence of its success

became still more obvious when I began to realise the envy it drew upon

me from many different quarters. My first experience of this was truly

painful, and came from the hands of the poet, Julius Mosen, on the very

day after the first performance. When I first reached Dresden in the

summer I had sought him out, and, having a really high opinion of his

talent, our intercourse soon became more intimate, and was the means of

giving me much pleasure and instruction. He had shown me a volume of

his plays, which on the whole appealed to me exceptionally. Among these

was a tragedy, Cola Rienzi, dealing with the same subject as my opera,

and in a manner partly new to me, and which I thought effective. With

reference to this poem, I had begged him to take no notice of my

libretto, as in the quality of its poetry it could not possibly bear

comparison with his own; and it cost him little sacrifice to grant the

request. It happened that just before the first performance of my

Rienzi, he had produced in Dresden Bernhard von Weimar, one of his

least happy pieces, the result of which had brought him little

pleasure. Dramatically it was a thing with no life in it, aiming only

at political harangue, and had shared the inevitable fate of all such

aberrations. He had therefore awaited the appearance of my Rienzi with

some vexation, and confessed to me his bitter chagrin at not being able

to procure the acceptance of his tragedy of the same name in Dresden.

This, he presumed, arose from its somewhat pronounced political

tendency, which, certainly in a spoken play on a similar subject, would

be more noticeable than in an opera, where from the very start no one

pays any heed to the words. I had genially confirmed him in this

depreciation of the subject matter in opera; and was therefore the more

startled when, on finding him at my sister Louisa’s the day after the

first performance, he straightway overwhelmed me with a scornful

outburst of irritation at my success. But he found in me a strange

sense of the essential unreality in opera of such a subject as that

which I had just illustrated with so much success in Rienzi, so that,

oppressed by a secret sense of shame, I had no serious rejoinder to

offer to his candidly poisonous abuse. My line of defence was not yet

sufficiently clear in my own mind to be available offhand, nor was it

yet backed by so obvious a product of my own peculiar genius that I

could venture to quote it. Moreover, my first impulse was only one of

pity for the unlucky playwright, which I felt all the more constrained

to express, because his burst of fury gave me the inward satisfaction

of knowing that he recognised my great success, of which I was not yet

quite clear myself.

But this first performance of Rienzi did far more than this. It gave

occasion for controversy, and made an ever-widening breach between

myself and the newspaper critics. Herr Karl Bank, who for some time had

been the chief musical critic in Dresden, had been known to me before

at Magdeburg, where he once visited me and listened with delight to my

playing of several fairly long passages from my Liebesverbot. When we

met again in Dresden, this man could not forgive me for having been

unable to procure him tickets for the first performance of Rienzi. The

same thing happened with a certain Herr Julius Schladebach, who

likewise settled in Dresden about that time as a critic. Though I was

always anxious to be gracious to everybody, yet I felt just then an

invincible repugnance for showing special deference to any man because

he was a critic. As time went on, I carried this rule to the point of

almost systematic rudeness, and was consequently all my life through

the victim of unprecedented persecution from the press. As yet,

however, this ill-will had not become pronounced, for at that time

journalism had not begun to give itself airs in Dresden. There were so

few contributions sent from there to the outside press that our

artistic doings excited very little notice elsewhere, a fact which was

certainly not without its disadvantages for me. Thus for the present

the unpleasant side of my success scarcely affected me at all, and for

a brief space I felt myself, for the first and only time in my life, so

pleasantly borne along on the breath of general good-will, that all my

former troubles seemed amply requited.

For further and quite unexpected fruits of my success now appeared with

astonishing rapidity, though not so much in the form of material

profit, which for the present resolved itself into nine hundred marks,

paid me by the General Board as an exceptional fee instead of the usual

twenty golden louis. Nor did I dare to cherish the hope of selling my

work advantageously to a publisher, until it had been performed in some

other important towns. But fate willed it, that by the sudden death of

Rastrelli, royal director of music, which occurred shortly after the

first production of Rienzi, an office should unexpectedly become

vacant, for the filling of which all eyes at once turned to me.

While the negotiations over this matter were slowly proceeding, the

General Board gave proof in another direction of an almost passionate

interest in my talents. They insisted that the first performance of the

Fliegender Holländer should on no account be conceded to the Berlin

opera, but reserved as an honour for Dresden. As the Berlin authorities

raised no obstacle, I very gladly handed over my latest work also to

the Dresden theatre. If in this I had to dispense with Tichatschek’s

assistance, as there was no leading tenor part in the play, I could

count all the more surely on the helpful co-operation of

Schroder-Devrient, to whom a worthier task was assigned in the leading

female part than that which she had had in Rienzi. I was glad to be

able thus to rely entirely upon her, as she had grown strangely out of

humour with me, owing to her scanty share in the success of Rienzi. The

completeness of my faith in her I proved with an exaggeration by no

means advantageous to my own work, by simply forcing the leading male

part on Wachter, a once capable, but now somewhat delicate baritone. He

was in every respect wholly unsuited to the task, and only accepted it

with unfeigned hesitation. On submitting my play to my adored prima

donna, I was much relieved to find that its poetry made a special

appeal to her. Thanks to the genuine personal interest awakened in me

under very peculiar circumstances by the character and fate of this

exceptional woman, our study of the part of Senta, which often brought

us into close contact, became one of the most thrilling and momentously

instructive periods of my life.

It is true that the great actress, especially when under the influence

of her famous mother, Sophie Schroder, who was just then with her on a

visit, showed undisguised vexation at my having composed so brilliant a

work as Rienzi for Dresden without having specifically reserved the

principal part for her. Yet the magnanimity of her disposition

triumphed even over this selfish impulse: she loudly proclaimed me ‘a

genius,’ and honoured me with that special confidence which, she said,

none but a genius should enjoy. But when she invited me to become both

the accomplice and adviser in her really dreadful love affairs, this

confidence certainly began to have its risky side; nevertheless there

were at first occasions on which she openly proclaimed herself before

all the world as my friend, making most flattering distinctions in my

favour.

First of all I had to accompany her on a trip to Leipzig, where she was

giving a concert for her mother’s benefit, which she thought to make

particularly attractive by including in its programme two selections

from Rienzi—the aria of Adriano and the hero’s prayer (the latter sung

by Tichatschek), and both under my personal conductorship. Mendelssohn,

who was also on very friendly terms with her, had been enticed to this

concert too, and produced his overture to Ruy Blas, then quite new. It

was during the two busy days spent on this occasion in Leipzig that I

first came into close contact with him, all my previous knowledge of

him having been limited to a few rare and altogether profitless visits.

At the house of my brother-in-law, Fritz Brockhaus, he and Devrient

gave us a good deal of music, he playing her accompaniment to a number

of Schubert’s songs. I here became conscious of the peculiar unrest and

excitement with which this master of music, who, though still young,

had already reached the zenith of his fame and life’s work, observed or

rather watched me. I could see clearly that he thought but little of a

success in opera, and that merely in Dresden. Doubtless I seemed in his

eyes one of a class of musicians to whom he attached no value, and with

whom he proposed to have no intercourse. Nevertheless my success had

certain characteristic features, which gave it a more or less alarming

aspect. Mendelssohn’s most ardent desire for a long time past had been

to write a successful opera, and it was possible he now felt annoyed

that, before he had succeeded in doing so, a triumph of this nature

should suddenly be thrust into his face with blunt brutality, and based

upon a style of music which he might feel justified in regarding as

poor. He probably found it no less exasperating that Devrient, whose

gifts he acknowledged, and who was his own devoted admirer, should now

so openly and loudly sound my praises. These thoughts were dimly

shaping themselves in my mind, when Mendelssohn, by a very remarkable

statement, drove me, almost with violence, to adopt this

interpretation. On our way home together, after the joint concert

rehearsal, I was talking very warmly on the subject of music. Although

by no means a talkative man, he suddenly interrupted me with curiously

hasty excitement by the assertion that music had but one great fault,

namely, that more than any other art it stimulated not only our good,

but also our evil qualities, such, for instance, as jealousy. I blushed

with shame to have to apply this speech to his own feelings towards me;

for I was profoundly conscious of my innocence of ever having dreamed,

even in the remotest degree, of placing my own talents or performances

as a musician in comparison with his. Yet, strange to say, at this very

concert he showed himself in a light by no means calculated to place

him beyond all possibility of comparison with myself. A rendering of

his Hebrides Overture would have placed him so immeasurably above my

two operatic airs, that all shyness at having to stand beside him would

have been spared me, as the gulf between our two productions was

impassable. But in his choice of the Ruy Blas Overture he appears to

have been prompted by a desire to place himself on this occasion so

close to the operatic style that its effectiveness might be reflected

upon his own work. The overture was evidently calculated for a Parisian

audience, and the astonishment Mendelssohn caused by appearing in such

a connection was shown by Robert Schumann in his own ungainly fashion

at its close. Approaching the musician in the orchestra, he blandly,

and with a genial smile, expressed his admiration of the ‘brilliant

orchestral piece’ just played..

But in the interests of veracity let me not forget that neither he nor

I scored the real success of that evening. We were both wholly eclipsed

by the tremendous effect produced by the grey-haired Sophie Schroder in

a recitation of Burger’s Lenore. While the daughter had been taunted in

the newspapers with unfairly employing all sorts of musical attractions

to cozen a benefit concert out of the music lovers of Leipzig for a

mother who never had anything to do with that art, we, who were there

as her musical aiders and abettors, had to stand like so many idle

conjurers, while this aged and almost toothless dame declaimed Burger’s

poem with truly terrifying beauty and grandeur. This episode, like so

much else that I saw during these few days, gave me abundant food for

thought and meditation.

A second excursion, also undertaken with Devrient, took me in the

December of that year to Berlin, where the singer had been invited to

appear at a grand state concert. I for my part wanted an interview with

Director Küstner about the Fliegender Holländer. Although I arrived at

no definite result regarding my own personal business, this short visit

to Berlin was memorable for my meeting with Franz Liszt, which

afterwards proved of great importance. It took place under singular

circumstances, which placed both him and me in a situation of peculiar

embarrassment, brought about in the most wanton fashion by Devrient’s

exasperating caprice.

I had already told my patroness the story of my earlier meeting with

Liszt. During that fateful second winter of my stay in Paris, when I

had at last been driven to be grateful for Schlesinger’s hack-work, I

one day received word from Laube, who always bore me in mind, that F.

Liszt was coming to Paris. He had mentioned and recommended me to him

when he was in Germany, and advised me to lose no time in looking him

up, as he was ‘generous,’ and would certainly find means of helping me.

As soon as I heard that he had really arrived, I presented myself at

the hotel to see him. It was early in the morning. On my entrance I

found several strange gentlemen waiting in the drawing-room, where,

after some time, we were joined by Liszt himself, pleasant and affable,

and wearing his indoor coat. The conversation was carried on in French,

and turned upon his experiences during his last professional journey in

Hungary. As I was unable to take part, on account of the language, I

listened for some time, feeling heartily bored, until at last he asked

me pleasantly what he could do for me. He seemed unable to recall

Laube’s recommendation, and all the answer I could give was that I

desired to make his acquaintance. To this he had evidently no

objection, and informed me he would take care to have a ticket sent me

for his great matinee, which was to take place shortly. My sole attempt

to introduce an artistic theme of conversation was a question as to

whether he knew Lowe’s Erlkonig as well as Schubert’s. His reply in the

negative frustrated this somewhat awkward attempt, and I ended my visit

by giving him my address. Thither his secretary, Belloni, presently

sent me, with a few polite words, a card of admission to a concert to

be given entirely by the master himself in the Salle Erard. I duly

wended my way to the overcrowded hall, and beheld the platform on which

the grand piano stood, closely beleaguered by the cream of Parisian

female society, and witnessed their enthusiastic ovations of this

virtuoso, who was at that time the wonder of the world. Moreover, I

heard several of his most brilliant pieces, such as ‘Variations on

Robert le Diable,’ but carried away with me no real impression beyond

that of being stunned. This took place just at the time when I

abandoned a path which had been contrary to my truer nature, and had

led me astray, and on which I now emphatically turned my back in silent

bitterness. I was therefore in no fitting mood for a just appreciation

of this prodigy, who at that time was shining in the blazing light of

day, but from whom I had turned my face to the night. I went to see

Liszt no more.

As already mentioned, I had given Devrient a bare outline of this

story, but she had noted it with particular attention, for I happened

to have touched her weak point of professional jealousy. As Liszt had

also been commanded by the King of Prussia to appear at the grand state

concert at Berlin, it so happened that the first time they met Liszt

questioned her with great interest about the success of Rienzi. She

thereupon observed that the composer of that opera was an altogether

unknown man, and proceeded with curious malice to taunt him with his

apparent lack of penetration, as proved by the fact that the said

composer, who now so keenly excited his interest, was the very same

poor musician whom he had lately ‘turned away so contemptuously’ in

Paris. All this she told me with an air of triumph, which distressed me

very much, and I at once set to work to correct the false impression

conveyed by my former account. As we were still debating this point in

her room, we were startled by hearing from the next the famous bass