part chiefly because it gave her the chance of showing ‘brilliancy.’

And, indeed, there was a finale in which my ‘German master’ had

actually tried to steal a march on Donizetti. The Princess had been

poisoned by a golden rose, a present from the wicked Bishop of Mainz,

and had become delirious. Adolph von Nassau, with the knights of the

German empire, swears vengeance, and, accompanied by the chorus, pours

out his feelings in a stretta of such incredible vulgarity and

amateurishness that Donizetti would have thrown it at the head of any

of his pupils who had dared to compose such a thing. Marschner now

arrived for the dress rehearsal; he was very pleased, and, without

compelling me to falsehood, he gave me sufficient opportunities for

exercising my powers in the art of concealing my real thoughts. At all

events I must have succeeded fairly well, for he had every reason to

think himself considerately and kindly treated by me.

During the performance the public behaved very much as the singers had

done at the rehearsals. We had brought a still-born child into the

world. But Marschner was comforted by the fact that his drinking

quartette was encored. This was reminiscent of one of Becker’s songs:

Sie sollen ihn nicht haben, den freien deutschen Rhein (‘They shall not

have it, our free German Rhine’). After the performance the composer

was my guest at a supper party at which, I am sorry to say, the

singers, who had had enough of it, would not attend. Herr Ferdinand

Hiller had the presence of mind to insist, in his toast to Marschner,

that ‘whatever one might say, all stress must be laid on the GERMAN

master and GERMAN art.’ Strangely enough, Marschner himself

contradicted him by saying that there was something wrong with German

operatic compositions, and that one ought to consider the singers and

how to write more brilliantly for their voices than he had succeeded in

doing up to the present.

Highly gifted as Marschner was, there can be no doubt that the decline

of his genius was due partly to a tendency which even in the ageing

master himself, as he frankly admitted, was effecting an important and

most salutary change. In later years I met him once more in Paris at

the time of my memorable production of Tannhäuser. I did not feel

inclined to renew the old relations, for, to tell the truth, I wanted

to spare myself the unpleasantness of witnessing the consequences of

his change of views, of which we had seen the beginning in Dresden. I

learned that he was in a state of almost helpless childishness, and

that he was in the hands of a young and ambitious woman, who was trying

to make a last attempt at conquering Paris for him. Among other puff

paragraphs calculated to spread Marschner’s glory, I read one which

said that the Parisians must not believe that I (Wagner) was

representative of German art; no—if only Marschner were given a

hearing, it would be discovered that he was beyond a doubt better

suited to the French taste than I could ever be. Marschner died before

his wife had succeeded in establishing this point.

Ferdinand Hiller, on the other hand, who was in Dresden, behaved in a

very charming and friendly manner, particularly at this time. Meyerbeer

also stayed in the same town from time to time; precisely why, nobody

knew. Once he had rented a little house for the summer near the

Pirnaischer Schlag, and under a pretty tree in the garden of this place

he had had a small piano installed, whereon, in this idyllic retreat,

he worked at his Feldlager in Schlesien. He lived in great retirement,

and I saw very little of him. Ferdinand Hiller, on the contrary, took a

commanding position in the Dresden musical world in so far as this was

not already monopolised by the royal orchestra and its masters, and for

many years he worked hard for its success. Having a little private

capital, he established himself comfortably amongst us, and was soon

known as a delightful host, who kept a pleasant house, which, thanks to

his wife’s influence, was frequented by a numerous Polish colony. Frau

Hiller was indeed an exceptional Jewish woman of Polish origin, and she

was perhaps all the more exceptional seeing that she, in company with

her husband, had been baptized a Protestant in Italy. Hiller began his

career in Dresden with the production of his opera, Der Traum in der

Christnacht. Since the unheard-of fact that Rienzi had been able to

rouse the Dresden public to lasting enthusiasm, many an opera composer

had felt himself drawn towards our ‘Florence on the Elbe,’ of which

Laube once said that as soon as one entered it one felt bound to

apologise because one found so many good things there which one

promptly forgot the moment one departed.

The composer of Der Traum in der Christnacht looked upon this work as a

peculiarly ‘German composition.’ Hiller had set to music a gruesome

play by Raupach, Der Muller und sein Kind (‘The Miller and his Child’),

in which father and daughter, within but a short space of time, both

die of consumption. He declared that he had conceived the dialogue and

the music of this opera in what he called the ‘popular style,’ but this

work met with the same fate as that which, according to Liszt, befell

all his compositions. In spite of his undoubted musical merits, which

even Rossini acknowledged, and whether he gave them in French in Paris

or in Italian in Italy, it was his sad experience always to see his

operas fail. In Germany he had tried the Mendelssohnian style, and had

succeeded in composing an oratorio called Die Zerstorung Jerusalems,

which luckily was not taken notice of by the moody theatre-going

public, and which consequently received the unassailable reputation of

being ‘a solid German work.’ He also took Mendelssohn’s place as

director of the Leipzig Gewandhaus concerts when the latter was called

to Berlin in the capacity of general director. Hiller’s evil fortune

still pursued him, however, and he was unable to retain his position,

everybody being given to understand that it was because his wife was

not sufficiently acknowledged as concert prima-donna. Mendelssohn

returned and made Hiller leave, and Hiller boasted of having quarrelled

with him.

Dresden and the success of my Rienzi now weighed so much upon his mind

that he naturally made another attempt to succeed as an opera composer.

Owing to his great energy, and to his position as son of a rich banker

(a special attraction even to the director of a court theatre), it

happened that he induced them to put aside my poor friend Röckel’s

Farinelli (the production of which had been promised him) in favour of

his (Hiller’s) own work, Der Traum in der Christnacht. He was of the

opinion that next to Reissiger and myself, a man of greater musical

reputation than Röckel was needed. Lüttichau, however, was quite

content to have Reissiger and myself as celebrities, particularly as we

got on so well together, and he remained deaf to Hiller’s wishes. To me

Der Traum in der Christnacht was a great nuisance. I had to conduct it

a second time, and before an empty house. Hiller now saw that he had

been wrong in not taking my advice before, and in not shortening the

opera by one act and altering the end, and he now fancied that he was

doing me a great favour by at last declaring himself ready to act on my

suggestion in the event of another performance of his opera being

possible. I really managed to have it played once more. This was,

however, to be the last time, and Hiller, who had read my book of

Tannhäuser, thought that I had a great advantage over him in writing my

own words. He therefore made me promise to help him with the choice and

writing of a subject for his next opera.

Shortly afterwards Hiller was present at a performance of Rienzi, which

was again given before a crowded and enthusiastic house. When, at the

end of the second act, and after frantic recalls from the audience, I

left the orchestra in a great state of excitement, Hiller, who was

waiting for me in the passage, took the opportunity of adding to his

very hasty congratulations, ‘Do give my Traum once more!’ I promised

him laughingly to do this if I had the chance, but I cannot remember

whether it came off or not. While he was waiting for the creation of an

entirely new plot for his next opera, Hiller devoted himself to the

study of chamber music, to which his large and well-furnished room lent

itself most admirably.

A beautiful and solemn event added to the seriousness of the mood in

which I finished the music to Tannhäuser towards the end of the year,

and neutralised the more superficial impressions made upon me by the

stirring events above described. This was the removal of the remains of

Carl Maria von Weber from London to Dresden in December, 1844. As I

have already said, a committee had for years been agitating for this

removal. From information given by a certain traveller, it had become

known that the insignificant coffin which contained Weber’s ashes had

been disposed of in such a careless way in a remote corner of St.

Paul’s, that it was feared it might soon become impossible to identify

it.

My energetic friend, Professor Lowe, whom I have already mentioned, had

availed himself of this information in order to urge the Dresden Glee

Club, which constituted his hobby, to take the matter in hand. The

concert of male singers arranged to this end had been a fair success

financially, and they now wanted to induce the theatre management to

make similar efforts, when suddenly they met with serious opposition

from this very quarter. The management of the Dresden theatre told the

committee that the King had religious scruples with regard to

disturbing the peace of the dead. However much we felt inclined to

doubt the genuineness of these reasons, nothing could be done, and I

was next approached on the subject, in the hope that my influential

position might lend weight to my appeal. I entered into the spirit of

the enterprise with great fervour. I consented to be made president;

Herr Hofrat Schulz, director of the ‘Antiken-Cabinet,’ who was a

well-known authority on artistic matters, and another gentleman, a

Christian banker, were also elected members of the committee, and the

movement thus received fresh life. Prospectuses were sent round,

exhaustive plans were made, and numerous meetings held. Here, again, I

met with opposition on the part of my chief, Lüttichau; if he could

have done so, he would have forbidden me to move in the matter by

making the most of the King’s scruples referred to above. But he had

had a warning not to pick a quarrel with me after his experience in the

summer, when, contrary to his expectations, the music written by me to

celebrate the King’s arrival had found favour with the monarch. As his

antipathy to the proceedings was not so very serious, Lüttichau must

have seen that even the direct opposition of his Majesty could not have

prevented the enterprise from being carried out privately, and that, on

the contrary, the court would cut a sorry figure if the Royal Court

Theatre (to which Weber once belonged) should assume a hostile

attitude. He therefore tried in a would-be friendly way to make me

desist from furthering the cause, well knowing that, without me, the

plan would fail. He tried to convince me that it would be wrong to pay

this exaggerated honour to Weber’s memory, whereas nobody thought of

removing the ashes of Morlacchi from Italy, although the latter had

given his services to the royal orchestra for a much longer period than

Weber had done. What would be the consequence? By way of argument he

said, ‘Suppose Reissiger died on his journey to some watering-place—his

wife would then be as much justified as was Frau von Weber (who had

annoyed him quite enough already) in expecting her husband’s dead body

to be brought home with music and pomp.’ I tried to calm him, and if I

did not succeed in making him see the difference between Reissiger and

Weber, I managed to make him understand that the affair must take its

course, as the Berlin Court Theatre had already announced a benefit

performance to support our undertaking.

Meyerbeer, to whom my committee had applied, was instrumental in

bringing this about, and a performance of Euryanthe was actually given

which yielded the handsome balance of six thousand marks. A few

theatres of lesser importance now followed our lead. The Dresden Court

Theatre, therefore, could not hold back any longer, and as we now had a

fairly large sum at the bank, we were able to cover the expenses of the

removal, as well as the cost of an appropriate vault and monument; we

even had a nucleus fund for a statue of Weber, which we were to fight

for later on. The elder of the two sons of the immortal master

travelled to London to fetch the remains of his father. He brought them

by boat down the Elbe, and finally arrived at the Dresden

landing-stage, from whence they were to be conducted to German soil.

This last journey of the remains was to take place at night. A solemn

torchlight procession was to be formed, and I had undertaken to see to

the funeral music.

I arranged this from two motives out of Euryanthe, using that part of

the music in the overture which relates to the vision of spirits. I

introduced the Cavatina from Euryanthe—Hier dicht am Quell (‘Here near

the source’), which I left unaltered, except that I transposed it into

B flat major, and I finished the whole, as Weber finished his opera, by

a return to the first sublime motive. I had orchestrated this symphonic

piece, which was well suited to the purpose, for eight chosen wind

instruments, and notwithstanding the volume of sound, I had not

forgotten softness and delicacy of instrumentation. I substituted the

gruesome tremolo of the violas, which appears in that part of the

overture adapted by me, by twenty muffled drums, and as a whole

attained to such an exceedingly impressive effect, especially to us who

were full of thoughts of Weber, that, even in the theatre where we

rehearsed, Schroder-Devrient, who was present, and who had been an

intimate friend of Weber’s, was deeply moved. I had never carried out

anything more in keeping with the character of the subject; and the

procession through the town was equally impressive.

As the very slow tempo, devoid of any strongly marked accents, offered

numerous difficulties, I had had the stage cleared for the rehearsal,

in order to command a sufficient space for the musicians, once they had

thoroughly practised the piece, to walk round me in a circle playing

all the while. Several of those who witnessed the procession from their

windows assured me that the effect of the procession was indescribably

and sublimely solemn. After we had placed the coffin in the little

mortuary chapel of the Catholic cemetery in Friedrichstadt, where

Madame Devrient met it with a wreath of flowers, we performed, on the

following morning, the solemn ceremony of lowering it into the vault.

Herr Hofrat Schulz and myself, as presidents of the committee, were

allowed the honour of speaking by the graveside, and what afforded me

an appropriate subject for the few, somewhat affecting, words which I

had to pronounce, was the fact that, shortly before the removal of

Weber’s remains, the second son of the master, Alexander von Weber, had

died. The poor mother had been so terribly affected by the sudden death

of this youth, so full of life and health, that had we not been in the

very midst of our arrangements, we should have been compelled to

abandon them; for in this new loss the widow saw a judgment of God who,

in her opinion, looked upon the removal of the remains as an act of

sacrilege prompted by vanity. As the public seemed particularly

disposed to hold the same view, it fell to my lot to set the nature of

our undertaking in the proper light before the eyes of the world. And

this I so far succeeded in doing that, to my satisfaction, I learned

from all sides that my justification of our action had received the

most general acceptance.

On this occasion I had a strange experience with regard to myself, when

for the first time in my life I had to deliver a solemn public speech.

Since then I have always spoken extemporarily; this time, however, as

it was my first appearance as an orator, I had written out my speech,

and carefully learned it by heart. As I was thoroughly under the

influence of my subject, I felt so sure of my memory that I never

thought of making any notes. Thanks to this omission, however, I made

my brother Albert very unhappy. He was standing near me at the

ceremony, and he told me afterwards that, in spite of being deeply

moved, he felt at one moment as if he could have sworn at me for not

having asked him to prompt me. It happened in this way: I began my

speech in a clear and full voice, but suddenly the sound of my own

words, and their particular intonation, affected me to such an extent

that, carried away as I was by my own thoughts, I imagined I SAW as

well as HEARD myself before the breathless multitude. While I thus

appeared objectively to myself I remained in a sort of trance, during

which I seemed to be waiting for something to happen, and felt quite a

different person from the man who was supposed to be standing and

speaking there. It was neither nervousness nor absent-mindedness on my

part; only at the end of a certain sentence there was such a long pause

that those who saw me standing there must have wondered what on earth

to think of me. At last my own silence and the stillness round me

reminded me that I was not there to listen, but to speak. I at once

resumed my discourse, and I spoke with such fluency to the very end

that the celebrated actor, Emil Devrient, assured me that, apart from

the solemn service, he had been deeply impressed simply from the

standpoint of a dramatic orator.

The ceremony concluded with a poem written and set to music by myself,

and, though it presented many difficulties for men’s voices, it was

splendidly rendered by some of the best opera singers. Lüttichau, who

was present, was now not only convinced of the justice of the

enterprise, but also strongly in favour of it. I was deeply thankful

that everything had succeeded so well, and when Weber’s widow, upon

whom I called after the ceremony, told me how profoundly she, too, had

been moved, the only cloud that still darkened my horizon was

dispelled. In my youth I had learned to love music through my

admiration for Weber’s genius, and the news of his death was a terrible

blow to me. To have, as it were, come into contact with him again and

after so many years by this second funeral, was an event that stirred

the very depths of my being.

From all the particulars I have given concerning my intimacy with the

great masters who were my contemporaries, it is easy to see at what

sources I had been able to quench my thirst for intellectual

intercourse. It was not a very satisfactory outlook to turn from

Weber’s grave to his living successors; but I had still to find out how

absolutely hopeless this was.

I spent the winter of 1844-5 partly in yielding to attractions from

outside, and partly in indulging in the deepest meditation. By dint of

great energy, and by getting up very early, even in winter, I succeeded

in completing my score to Tannhäuser early in April, having, as already

stated, finished the composition of it at the end of the preceding

year. In writing down the orchestration I made things particularly

difficult for myself by using the specially prepared paper which the

printing process renders necessary, and which involved me in all kinds

of trying formalities. I had each page transferred to the stone

immediately, and a hundred copies printed from each, hoping to make use

of these proofs for the rapid circulation of my work. Whether my hopes

were to be fulfilled or not, I was at all events fifteen hundred marks

out of pocket when all the expenses of the publication were paid.

In regard to this work which called for so many sacrifices, and which

was so slow and difficult, more details will appear in my

autobiography. At all events, when May came round I was in possession

of a hundred neatly bound copies of my first new work since the

production of the Fliegender Holländer, and Hiller, to whom I showed

some parts of it, formed a tolerably good impression of its value.

These plans for rapidly spreading the fame of my Tannhäuser were made

with the hope of a success which, in view of my needy circumstances,

seemed ever more and more desirable. In the course of one year since I

had begun my own publication of my operas, much had been done to this

end. In September of the year 1844 I had presented the King of Saxony

with a special richly bound copy of the complete pianoforte arrangement

of Rienzi, dedicated to his Majesty. The Fliegender Holländer had also

been finished, and the pianoforte arrangement of Rienzi for duet, as

well as some songs selected from both operas, had either been published

or were about to be published. Apart from this I had had twenty-five

copies made of the scores of both these operas by means of the

so-called autographic transfer process, although only from the writing

of the copyists. All these heavy expenses made it absolutely imperative

that I should try to send my scores to the different theatres, and

induce them to produce my operas, as the outlay on the piano scores had

been heavy, and these could only have a sale if my works got to be

known sufficiently well through the theatre.

I now sent the score of my Rienzi to the more important theatres, but

they all returned my work to me, the Munich Court Theatre even sending

it back unopened! I therefore knew what to expect, and spared myself

the trouble of sending my Dutchman. From a speculative business point

of view the situation was this: the hoped-for success of Tannhäuser

would bring in its wake a demand for my earlier works. The worthy

Meser, my agent, who was the music publisher appointed to the court,

had also begun to feel a little doubtful, and saw that this was the

only thing to do. I started at once on the publication of a pianoforte

arrangement of Tannhäuser, preparing it myself while Röckel undertook

the Fliegender Holländer, and a certain Klink did Rienzi.

The only thing that Meser was absolutely opposed to was the title of my

new opera, which I had just named Der Venusberg; he maintained that, as

I did not mix with the public, I had no idea what horrible jokes were

made about this title. He said the students and professors of the

medical school in Dresden would be the first to make fun of it, as they

had a predilection for that kind of obscene joke. I was sufficiently

disgusted by these details to consent to the change. To the name of my

hero, Tannhäuser, I added the name of the subject of the legend which,

although originally not belonging to the Tannhäuser myth, was thus

associated with it by me, a fact which later on Simrock, the great

investigator and innovator in the world of legend, whom I esteemed so

highly, took very much amiss.

Tannhäuser und der Sangerkrieg auf Wartburg should henceforth be its

title, and to give the work a mediaeval appearance I had the words

specially printed in Gothic characters upon the piano arrangement, and

in this way introduced the work to the public.

The extra expenses this involved were very heavy; but I went to great

pains to impress Meser with my belief in the success of my work. So

deeply were we involved in this scheme, and so great were the

sacrifices it had compelled us to make, that there was nothing else for

it but to trust to a special turn of Fortune’s wheel. As it happened,

the management of the theatre shared my confidence in the success of

Tannhäuser. I had induced Lüttichau to have the scenery for Tannhäuser

painted by the best painters of the great opera house in Paris. I had

seen their work on the Dresden stage: it belonged to the style of

German scenic art which was then fashionable, and really gave the

effect of first-class work.

The order for this, as well as the necessary negotiations with the

Parisian painter, Desplechin, had already been settled in the preceding

autumn. The management agreed to all my wishes, even to the ordering of

beautiful costumes of mediaeval character designed by my friend Heine.

The only thing Lüttichau constantly postponed was the order for the

Hall of Song on the Wartburg; he maintained that the Hall for Kaiser

Karl the Great in Oberon, which had only recently been delivered by

some French painters, would answer the purpose just as well. With

superhuman efforts I had to convince my chief that we did not want a

brilliant throne-room, but a scenic picture of a certain character such

as I saw before my mind’s eye, and that it could be painted only

according to my directions. As in the end I became very irritable and

cross, he soothed me by saying that he had no objection to having this

scene painted, and that he would order it to be commenced at once,

adding that he had not agreed immediately, only with the view of making

my joy the greater, because, what one obtained without difficulty, one

rarely appreciated. This Hall of Song was fated to cause me great

trouble later on.

Thus everything was in full swing; circumstances were favourable, and

seemed to cast a hopeful light upon the production of my new work at

the beginning of the autumn season. Even the public was looking forward

to it, and for the first time I saw my name mentioned in a friendly

manner in a communication to the Allgemeine Zeitung. They actually

spoke of the great expectations they had of my new work, the poem of

which had been written ‘with undoubted poetic feeling.’

Full of hope, I started in July on my holiday, which consisted of a

journey to Marienbad in Bohemia, where my wife and I intended to take

the cure. Again I found myself on the ‘volcanic’ soil of this

extraordinary country, Bohemia, which always had such an inspiring

effect on me. It was a marvellous summer, almost too hot, and I was

therefore in high spirits. I had intended to follow the easy-going mode

of life which is a necessary part of this somewhat trying treatment,

and had selected my books with care, taking with me the poems of

Wolfram von Eschenbach, edited by Simrock and San Marte, as well as the

anonymous epic Lohengrin, with its lengthy introduction by Gorres. With

my book under my arm I hid myself in the neighbouring woods, and

pitching my tent by the brook in company with Titurel and Parcival, I

lost myself in Wolfram’s strange, yet irresistibly charming, poem.

Soon, however, a longing seized me to give expression to the

inspiration generated by this poem, so that I had the greatest

difficulty in overcoming my desire to give up the rest I had been

prescribed while partaking of the water of Marienbad.

The result was an ever-increasing state of excitement. Lohengrin, the

first conception of which dates from the end of my time in Paris, stood

suddenly revealed before me, complete in every detail of its dramatic

construction. The legend of the swan which forms such an important

feature of all the many versions of this series of myths that my

studies had brought to my notice, exercised a singular fascination over

my imagination.

Remembering the doctor’s advice, I struggled bravely against the

temptation of writing down my ideas, and resorted to the most strange

and energetic methods. Owing to some comments I had read in Gervinus’s

History of German Literature, both the Meistersinger von Nurnberg and

Hans Sachs had acquired quite a vital charm for me. The Marker alone,

and the part he takes in the Master-singing, were particularly pleasing

to me, and on one of my lonely walks, without knowing anything

particular about Hans Sachs and his poetic contemporaries, I thought

out a humorous scene, in which the cobbler—as a popular

artisan-poet—with the hammer on his last, gives the Marker a practical

lesson by making him sing, thereby taking revenge on him for his

conventional misdeeds. To me the force of the whole scene was

concentrated in the two following points: on the one hand the Marker,

with his slate covered with chalk-marks, and on the other Hans Sachs

holding up the shoes covered with his chalk-marks, each intimating to

the other that the singing had been a failure. To this picture, by way

of concluding the second act, I added a scene consisting of a narrow,

crooked little street in Nuremberg, with the people all running about

in great excitement, and ultimately engaging in a street brawl. Thus,

suddenly, the whole of my Meistersinger comedy took shape so vividly

before me, that, inasmuch as it was a particularly cheerful subject,

and not in the least likely to over-excite my nerves, I felt I must

write it out in spite of the doctor’s orders. I therefore proceeded to

do this, and hoped it might free me from the thrall of the idea of

Lohengrin; but I was mistaken; for no sooner had I got into my bath at

noon, than I felt an overpowering desire to write out Lohengrin, and

this longing so overcame me that I could not wait the prescribed hour

for the bath, but when a few minutes elapsed, jumped out and, barely

giving myself time to dress, ran home to write out what I had in my

mind. I repeated this for several days until the complete sketch of

Lohengrin was on paper.

The doctor then told me I had better give up taking the waters and

baths, saying emphatically that I was quite unfit for such cures. My

excitement had grown to such an extent that even my efforts to sleep as

a rule ended only in nocturnal adventures. Among some interesting

excursions that we made at this time, one to Eger fascinated me

particularly, on account of its association with Wallenstein and of the

peculiar costumes of the inhabitants.

In mid-August we travelled back to Dresden, where my friends were glad

to see me in such good spirits; as for myself, I felt as if I had

wings. In September, when all our singers had returned from their

summer holidays, I resumed the rehearsals of Tannhäuser with great

earnestness. We had now got so far, at least with the musical part of

the performance, that the possible date of the production seemed quite

close at hand. Schroder-Devrient was one of the first to realise the

extraordinary difficulties which the production of Tannhäuser would

entail. And, indeed, she saw these difficulties so clearly that, to my

great discomfiture, she was able to lay them all before me. Once, when

I called upon her, she read the principal passages aloud with great

feeling and force, and then she asked me how I could have been so

simple-minded as to have thought that so childish a creature as

Tichatschek would be able to find the proper tones for Tannhäuser. I

tried to bring her attention and my own to bear upon the nature of the

music, which was written so clearly in order to bring out the necessary

accent, that, in my opinion, the music actually spoke for him who

interpreted the passage, even if he were only a musical singer and

nothing more. She shook her head, saying that this would be all right

in the case of an oratorio.

She now sang Elizabeth’s prayer from the piano score, and asked me if I

really thought that this music would answer my intentions if sung by a

young and pretty voice without any soul or without that experience of

life which alone could give the real expression to the interpretation.

I sighed and said that, in that case, the youthfulness of the voice and

of its owner must make up for what was lacking: at the same time, I

asked her as a favour to see what she could do towards making my niece,

Johanna, understand her part. All this, however, did not solve the

Tannhäuser problem, for any effort at teaching Tichatschek would only

have resulted in confusion. I was therefore obliged to rely entirely

upon the energy of his voice, and on the singer’s peculiarly sharp

‘speaking’ tone.

Devrient’s anxiety about the principal parts arose partly out of

concern about her own. She did not know what to do with the part of

Venus; she had undertaken it for the sake of the success of the

performance, for although a small part, so much depended upon its being

ideally interpreted! Later on, when the work was given in Paris, I

became convinced that this part had been written in too sketchy a

style, and this induced me to reconstruct it by making extensive

additions, and by supplying all that which I felt it lacked. For the

moment, however, it looked as if no art on the part of the singer could

give to this sketch anything of what it ought to represent. The only

thing that might have helped towards a satisfactory impersonation of

Venus would have been the artist’s confidence in her own great physical

attraction, and in the effect it would help to produce by appealing to

the purely material sympathies of the public. The certainty that these

means were no longer at her disposal paralysed this great singer, who

could hide her age and matronly appearance no longer. She therefore

became self-conscious, and unable to use even the usual means for

gaining an effect. On one occasion, with a little smile of despair, she

expressed herself incapable of playing Venus, for the very simple

reason that she could not appear dressed like the goddess. ‘What on

earth am I to wear as Venus?’ she exclaimed. ‘After all, I cannot be

clad in a belt alone. A nice figure of fun I should look, and you would

laugh on the wrong side of your face!’

On the whole, I still built my hopes upon the general effect of the

music alone, the great promise of which at the rehearsals greatly

encouraged me. Hiller, who had looked through the score and had already

praised it, assured me that the instrumentation could not have been

carried out with greater sobriety. The characteristic and delicate

sonority of the orchestra delighted me, and strengthened me in my

resolve to be extremely sparing in the use of my orchestral material,

in order to attain that abundance of combinations which I needed for my

later works.

At the rehearsal my wife alone missed the trumpets and trombones that

gave such brightness and freshness to Rienzi. Although I laughed at

this, I could not help feeling anxious when she confided to me how

great had been her disappointment when, at the theatre rehearsal, she

noticed the really feeble impression made by the music of the

Sangerkrieg. Speaking from the point of view of the public, who always

want to be amused or stirred in some way or other, she had thus very

rightly called attention to an exceedingly questionable side of the

performance. But I saw at once that the fault lay less with the

conception than with the fact that I had not controlled the production

with sufficient care.

In regard to the conception of this scene I was literally on the horns

of a dilemma, for I had to decide once for all whether this Sangerkrieg

was to be a concert of arias or a competition in dramatic poetry. There

are many people even nowadays, who, in spite of having witnessed a

perfectly successful production of this scene, have not received the

right impression of its purport. Their idea is that it belongs to the

traditional operatic ‘genre,’ which demands that a number of vocal

evolutions shall be juxtaposed or contrasted, and that these different

songs are intended to amuse and interest the audience by means of their

purely musical changes in rhythm and time on the principle of a concert

programme, i.e. by various items of different styles. This was not at

all my idea: my real intention was, if possible, to force the listener,

for the first time in the history of opera, to take an interest in a

poetical idea, by making him follow all its necessary developments. For

it was only by virtue of this interest that he could be made to

understand the catastrophe, which in this instance was not to be

brought about by any outside influence, but must be the outcome simply

of the natural spiritual processes at work. Hence the need of great

moderation and breadth in the conception of the music; first, in order

that according to my principle it might prove helpful rather than the

reverse to the understanding of the poetical lines, and secondly, in

order that the increasing rhythmic character of the melody which marks

the ardent growth of passion may not be interrupted too arbitrarily by

unnecessary changes in modulation and rhythm. Hence, too, the need of a

very sparing use of orchestral instruments for the accompaniment, and

an intentional suppression of all those purely musical effects which

must be utilised, and that gradually, only when the situation becomes

so intense that one almost ceases to think, and can only feel the

tragic nature of the crisis. No one could deny that I had contrived to

produce the proper effect of this principle the moment I played the

Sangerkrieg on the piano. With the view of ensuring all my future

successes, I was now confronted with the exceptional difficulty of

making the opera singers understand how to interpret their parts

precisely in the way I desired. I remembered how, through lack of

experience, I had neglected properly to superintend the production of

the Fliegender Holländer, and as I now fully realised all the

disastrous consequences of this neglect, I began to think of means by

which I could teach the singers my own interpretation. I have already

stated that it was impossible to influence Tichatschek, for if he were

made to do things he could not understand, he only became nervous and

confused. He was conscious of his advantages. He knew that with his

metallic voice he could sing with great musical rhythm and accuracy,

while his delivery was simply perfect. But, to my great astonishment, I

was soon to learn that all this did not by any means suffice; for, to

my horror, at the first performance, that which had strangely escaped

my notice in the rehearsals became suddenly apparent to me. At the

close of the Sangerkrieg, when Tannhäuser (in frantic excitement, and

forgetful of everybody present) has to sing his praise to Venus, and I

saw Tichatschek moving towards Elizabeth and addressing his passionate

outburst to her, I thought of Schroder-Devrient’s warning in very much

the same way as Croesus must have thought when he cried, ‘O Solon!

Solon!’ at the funeral pyre. In spite of the musical excellence of

Tichatschek, the enormous life and melodic charm of the Sangerkrieg

failed entirely.

On the other hand, I succeeded in calling into life an entirely new

element such as probably had never been seen in opera! I had watched

the young baritone Mitterwurzer with great interest in some of his

parts—he was a strangely reticent man, and not at all sociably

inclined, and I had noticed that his delightfully mellow voice

possessed the rare quality of bringing out the inner note of the soul.

To him I entrusted Wolfram, and I had every reason to be satisfied with

his zeal and with the success of his studies. Therefore, if I wished my

intention and method to become known, especially in regard to this

difficult Sangerkrieg, I had to rely on him for the proper execution of

my plans and everything they involved. I began by going through the

opening song of this scene with him; but, after I had done my utmost to

make him understand how I wanted it done, I was surprised to find how

very difficult this particular rendering of the music appeared to him.

He was absolutely incapable of repeating it after me, and with each

renewed effort his singing became so commonplace and so mechanical that

I realised clearly that he had not understood this piece to be anything

more than a phrase in recitative form, which he might render with any

inflections of the voice that happened to be prescribed, or which might

be sung either this way or that, according to fancy, as was usual in

operatic pieces. He, too, was astonished at his own want of capacity,

but was so struck by the novelty and the justice of my views, that he

begged me not to try any more for the present, but to leave him to find

out for himself how best to become familiar with this newly revealed

world. During several rehearsals he only sang in a whisper in order to

get over the difficulty, but at the last rehearsal he acquitted himself

so admirably of his task, and threw himself into it so heartily, that

his work has remained to this day as my most conclusive reason for

believing that, in spite of the unsatisfactory state of the world of

opera to-day, it is possible not only to find, but also properly to

train, the singer whom I should regard as indispensable for a correct

interpretation of my works. It was through the impression made by

Mitterwurzer that I ultimately succeeded in making the public

understand the whole of my work. This man, who had utterly changed

himself in bearing, look, and appearance in order to fit himself to the

role of Wolfram, had, in thus solving the problem, not only become a

thorough artist, but by his interpretation of his part had also proved

himself my saviour at the very moment when my work was threatening to

fail through the unsatisfactory result of the first performance.

By his side the part of Elizabeth made a sweet impression. The youthful

appearance of my niece, her tall and slender form, the decidedly German

cast of her features, as well as the incomparable beauty of her voice,

with its expression of almost childlike innocence, helped her to gain

the hearts of the audience, even though her talent was more theatrical

than dramatic. She soon rose to fame by her impersonation of this part,

and often in later years, when speaking about Tannhäuser performances

in which she had appeared, people used to tell me that its success had

been entirely due to her. Strange to say, in such reports people

referred principally to the charm of her acting at the moment when she

received the guests in the Wartburg Hall; and I used to account for

this by remembering the untiring efforts with which my talented brother

and I had trained her to perform this very part. And yet it was never

possible to make her understand the proper interpretation of the prayer

in the third act, and I felt inclined to say, ‘O Solon! Solon!’ as I

had done in the case of Tichatschek, when after the first performance I

was obliged to make a considerable cut in this solo, a proceeding which

greatly reduced its importance for ever afterwards. I heard later that

Johanna, who for a short period actually had the reputation of being a

great singer, had never succeeded in singing the prayer as it ought to

be sung, whereas a French singer, Mademoiselle Marie Sax, achieved this

in Paris to my entire satisfaction.

In the beginning of October we had so far progressed with our

rehearsals that nothing stood in the way of an immediate production of

Tannhäuser save the scenery, which was not yet complete. A few only of

the scenes ordered from Paris had arrived, and even these had come very

late. The Wartburg Valley was beautifully effective and perfect in

every detail. The inner part of the Venusberg, however, gave me much

anxiety: the painter had not understood me; he had painted clusters of

trees and statues, which reminded one of Versailles, and had placed

them in a wild cave; he had evidently not known how to combine the

weird with the alluring. I had to insist on extensive alterations, and

chiefly on the painting out of the shrubs and statues, all of which

required time. The grotto had to lie half hidden in a rosy cloud,

through which the Wartburg Valley had to loom in the distance; this was

to be done in strict obedience to my own ideas.

The greatest misfortune, however, was to befall me in the shape of the

tardy delivery of the scenery for the Hall of Song. This was due to

great negligence on the part of the Paris artists; and we waited and

waited until every detail of the opera had been studied and studied

again ad nauseam. Daily I went to the railway station and examined all

the packages and boxes that had arrived, but there was no Hall of Song.

At last I allowed myself to be persuaded not to postpone the first

performance any longer, and I decided to use the Hall of Karl the Great

out of Oberon, originally suggested to me by Lüttichau, instead of the

real thing. Considering the importance I attached to practical effect,

this entailed a great sacrifice of my personal feelings. And true

enough, when the curtain rose for the second act, the reappearance of

this throne-room, which the public had seen so often, added

considerably to the general disappointment of the audience, who had

anticipated astonishing surprises in this opera.

On the 19th of October the first performance took place. In the morning

of that day a very beautiful young lady was introduced to me by the

leader Lipinsky. Her name was Mme. Ivalergis, and she was a niece of

the Russian Chancellor, Count von Nesselrode. Liszt had spoken to her

about me with such enthusiasm that she had travelled all the way to

Dresden especially to hear the first production of my new work. I

thought I was right in regarding this flattering visit as a good omen.

But although on this occasion she turned away from me, somewhat

perplexed and disappointed by the very unintelligible performance and

the somewhat doubtful reception with which it met, I had sufficient

cause in after-years to know how deeply this remarkable and energetic

woman had nevertheless been impressed.

A great contrast to this visit was one I received from a peculiar man

called C. Gaillard. He was the editor of a Berlin musical paper, which

had only just started, and in which I had read with great astonishment

an entirely favourable and important criticism of my Fliegender

Holländer. Although necessity had compelled me to remain indifferent to

the attitude of the critics, yet this particular notice gave me much

pleasure, and I had invited my unknown critic to come and hear the

first production of Tannhäuser in Dresden.

This he did, and I was deeply touched to find that I had to deal with a

young man who, in spite of being threatened by consumption, and being

also exceedingly badly off, had come at my invitation, simply from a

sense of duty and honour, and not with any mercenary motive. I saw from

his knowledge and capacities that he would never be able to attain a

position of great influence, but his kindness of heart and his

extraordinarily receptive mind filled me with a feeling of profound

respect for him. A few years later I was very sorry to hear that he had

at last succumbed to the terrible disease from which I knew him to be

suffering; for to the very end he remained faithful and devoted to me,

in spite of the most trying circumstances.

Meanwhile I had renewed my acquaintance with the friend I had won

through the production of the Fliegender Holländer in Berlin, and who

for a long time I had never had an opportunity of knowing more

thoroughly. The second time I met her was at Schroder-Devrient’s, with

whom she was already on friendly terms, and of whom she used to speak

as ‘one of my greatest conquests.’

She was already past her first youth, and had no beauty of feature

except remarkably penetrating and expressive eyes that showed the

greatness of soul with which she was gifted. She was the sister of

Frommann, the bookseller of Jena, and could relate many intimate facts

about Goethe, who had stayed at her brother’s house when he was in that

town. She had held the position of reader and companion to the Princess

Augusta of Prussia, and had thus become intimately acquainted with her,

and was regarded by her own association as almost a bosom friend and

confidante of that great lady. Nevertheless, she lived in extreme

poverty, and seemed proud of being able, by means of her talent as a

painter of arabesques, to secure for herself some sort of independence.

She always remained faithfully devoted to me, as she was one of the few

who were uninfluenced by the unfavourable impression produced by the

first performance of Tannhäuser, and promptly expressed her

appreciation of my latest work with the greatest enthusiasm.

With regard to the production itself the conclusions I drew from it

were as follows: the real faults in the work, which I have already

mentioned incidentally, lay in the sketchy and clumsy portrayal of the

part of Venus, and consequently of the whole of the introductory scene

of the first act. In consequence of this defect the drama never even

rose to the level of genuine warmth, still less did it attain to the

heights of passion which, according to the poetic conception of the

part, should so strongly work upon the feelings of the audience as to

prepare them for the inevitable catastrophe in which the scene

culminates, and thus lead up to the tragic denouement. This great scene

was a complete failure, in spite of the fact that it was entrusted to

so great an actress as Schroder-Devrient, and a singer so unusually

gifted as Tichatschek. The genius of Devrient might yet have struck the

right note of passion in the scene had she not chanced to be acting

with a singer incapable of all dramatic seriousness, and whose natural

gifts only fitted him for joyous or declamatory accents, and who was

totally incapable of expressing pain and suffering. It was not until

Wolfram’s touching song and the closing scene of this act were reached

that the audience showed any signs of emotion. Tichatschek wrought such

a tremendous effect in the concluding phrase by the jubilant music of

his voice that, as I was afterwards informed, the end of this first act

left the audience in a great state of enthusiasm. This was maintained,

and even exceeded in the second act, during which Elizabeth and Wolfram

made a very sympathetic impression. It was only the hero of Tannhäuser

who continued to lose ground, and at last so completely failed to hold

the audience that in the final scene he almost broke down himself in

dejection, as though the failure of Tannhäuser were his own. The fatal

defect of his performance lay in his inability to find the right

expression for the theme of the great Adagio passage of the finale

beginning with the words: ‘To lead the sinner to salvation, the

Heaven-sent messenger drew near.’ The importance of this passage I have

explained at length in my subsequent instructions for the production of

Tannhäuser. Indeed, owing to Tichatschek’s absolutely expressionless

rendering, which made it seem terribly long and tedious, I had to omit

it entirely from the second performance. As I did not wish to offend so

devoted and, in his way, so deserving a man as Tichatschek, I let it be

understood I had come to the conclusion that this theme was a failure.

Moreover, as Tichatschek was thought to be an actor chosen by myself to

take the parts of the heroes in my works, this passage, which was so

immeasurably vital to the opera, continued to be omitted in all the

subsequent productions of Tannhäuser, as though this proceeding had

been approved and demanded by me. I therefore cherished no illusions

about the value of the subsequent universal success of this opera on

the German stage. My hero, who, in rapture as in woe, should always

have asserted his feelings with boundless energy, slunk away at the end

of the second act with the humble bearing of a penitent sinner, only to

reappear in the third with a demeanour designed to awaken the

charitable sympathy of the audience. His pronunciation of the Pope’s

excommunication, however, was rendered with his usual full rhetorical

power, and it was refreshing to hear his voice dominating the

accompanying trombones. Granted that this radical defect in the hero’s

acting had left the public in a doubtful and unsatisfied state of

suspense regarding the meaning of the whole, yet the mistake in the

execution of the final scene, arising from my own inexperience in this

new field of dramatic creation, undoubtedly contributed to produce a

chilling uncertainty as to the true significance of the scenic action.

In my first complete version I had made Venus, on the occasion of her

second attempt to recall her faithless lover, appear in a vision to

Tannhäuser when he is in a frenzy of madness, and the awfulness of the

situation, is merely suggested by a faint roseate glow upon the distant

Horselberg. Even the definite announcement of Elizabeth’s death was a

sudden inspiration on the part of Wolfram. This idea I intended to

convey to the listening audience solely by the sound of bells tolling

in the distance, and by a faint gleam of torches to attract their eyes

to the remote Wartburg. Moreover, there was a lack of precision and

clearness in the appearance of the chorus of young pilgrims, whose duty

it was to announce the miracle by their song alone. At that time I had

given them no budding staves to carry, and had unfortunately spoiled

their refrain by a tedious and unbroken monotony of accompaniment.

When at last the curtain fell, I was under the impression, not so much

from the behaviour of the audience, which was friendly, as from my own

inward conviction, that the failure of this work was to be attributed

to the immature and unsuitable material used in its production. My

depression was extreme, and a few friends who were present after the

piece, among them my dear sister Clara and her husband, were equally

affected. That very evening I decided to remedy the defects of the

first night before the second performance. I was conscious of where the

principal fault lay, but hardly dared give expression to my conviction.

At the slightest attempt on my part to explain anything to Tichatschek

I had to abandon it, as I realised the impossibility of success, I

should only have made him so embarrassed and annoyed, that on one

pretext or another he would never have sung Tannhäuser again. In order

to ensure the repetition of my opera, therefore, I took the only course

open to me by arrogating to myself all blame for the failure. I could

thus make considerable curtailments, whereby, of course, the dramatic

significance of the leading role was considerably lessened; this,

however, did not interfere with the other parts of the opera, which had

been favourably received. Consequently, although inwardly very

humiliated, I hoped to gain some advantage for my work at the second

performance, and was particularly desirous that this should take place

with as little delay as possible. But Tichatschek was hoarse, and I had

to possess my soul in patience for fully a week.

I can hardly describe what I suffered during that time; it seemed as if

this delay would completely ruin my work. Every day that elapsed

between the first and second performance left the result of the former

more and more problematic, until at last it appeared to be a generally

acknowledged failure. While the public as a whole expressed angry

astonishment that, after the approval they had shown of my Rienzi, I

had paid no attention to their taste in writing my new work, there were

may kind and judicious friends who were utterly perplexed at its

inefficiency, the principal parts of which they had been unable to

understand, or thought were imperfectly sketched and finished. The

critics, with unconcealed joy, attacked it as ravens attack carrion

thrown out to them. Even the passions and prejudices of the day were

drawn into the controversy in order, if possible, to confuse men’s

minds, and prejudice them against me. It was just at the time when the

German-Catholic agitation, set in motion by Czersky and Ronge as a

highly meritorious and liberal movement, was causing a great commotion.

It was now made out that by Tannhäuser I had provoked a reactionary

tendency, and that precisely as Meyerbeer with his Huguenots had

glorified Protestantism, so I with my latest opera would glorify

Catholicism.

The rumour that in writing Tannhäuser I had been bribed by the Catholic

part was believed for a long time. While the effort was being made to

ruin my popularity by this means, I had the questionable honour of

being approached, first by letter, afterwards in person, by a certain

M. Rousseau, at that time editor of the Prussian Staatszeitung, who

wished for my friendship and help. I knew of him only in connection

with a scathing criticism of my Fliegender Holländer. He informed me

that he had been sent from Austria to further the Catholic cause in

Berlin, but that he had had so many sad experiences of the

fruitlessness of his efforts, that he was now returning to Vienna to

continue his work in this direction undisturbed, with which work I had,

by my Tannhäuser, proclaimed myself fully in accord.

That remarkable paper, the Dresdener Anzeiger, which was a local organ

for the redress of slander and scandal, daily published some fresh bit

of news to my prejudice. At last I noticed that these attacks were met

by witty and forcible little snubs, and also that encouraging comments

appeared in my favour, which for some time surprised me very much, as I

knew that only enemies and never friends interested themselves in such

cases. But I learned, to my amusement, from Röckel, that he and my

friend Heine had carried out this inspiriting campaign on my behalf.

The ill-feeling against me in this quarter was only troublesome because

at that unfortunate period I was hindered from expressing myself

through my work. Tichatschek continued hoarse, and it was said he would

never sing in my opera again. I heard from Lüttichau that, scared by

the failure of Tannhäuser, he was holding himself in readiness to

countermand the order for the promised scenery for the Hall of Song, or

to cancel it altogether. I was so terrified at the cowardice which was

thus revealed, that I myself began to look upon Tannhäuser as doomed.

My prospects and my whole position, when viewed in this mood, may be

readily gathered from my communications, especially those referring to

my negotiations for the publication of my works.

This terrible week dragged out like an endless eternity. I was afraid

to look anybody in the face, but was one day obliged to go to Meser’s

music shop, where I met Gottfried Semper just buying a text-book of

Tannhäuser. Only a short time before I had been very much put out in

discussing this subject with him; he would listen to nothing I had to

say about the Minnesangers and Pilgrims of the Middle Ages in

connection with art, but gave me to understand that he despised me for

my choice of such material.

While Meser assured me that no inquiry whatever had been received for

the numbers of Tannhäuser already published, it was strange that my

most energetic antagonist should be the only person who had actually

bought and paid for a copy. In a peculiarly earnest and impressive

manner he remarked to me that it was necessary to be thoroughly

acquainted with the subject if a just opinion was to be passed on it,

and that for this purpose, unfortunately, nothing but the text was

available. This very meeting with Semper, strange as it may appear, was

the first really encouraging sign that I can remember.

But I found my greatest consolation in those days of trouble and

anxiety in Röckel, who from that time forward entered into a lifelong

intimacy with me. He had, without my being aware of it, disputed,

explained, quarrelled, and petitioned on my behalf, and thereby roused

himself to a veritable enthusiasm for Tannhäuser. The evening before

the second performance, which was at last to take place, we met over a

glass of beer, and his bright demeanour had such a cheering effect upon

me that we became very lively. After contemplating my head for some

time, he swore that it was impossible to destroy me, that there was a

something in me, something, probably, in my blood, as similar

characteristics also appeared in my brother Albert, who was otherwise

so unlike me. To speak more plainly, he called it the peculiar HEAT of

my temperament; this heat, he thought, might consume others, whereas I

appeared to feel at my best when it glowed most fiercely, for he had

several times seen me positively ablaze. I laughed, and did not know

what to make of his nonsense. Well, he said, I should soon see what he

meant in Tannhäuser, for it was simply absurd to think the work would

not live; and he was absolutely certain of its success. I thought over

the matter on my way home, and came to the conclusion that if

Tannhäuser did indeed win its way, and become really popular,

incalculable possibilities might be attained.

At last the time arrived for our second performance. For this I thought

I had made due preparation by lessening the importance of the principal

part, and lowering my original ideals about some of the more important

portions, and I hoped by accentuating certain undoubtedly attractive

passages to secure a genuine appreciation of the whole. I was greatly

delighted with the scenery which had at last arrived for the Hall of

Song in the second act, the beautiful and imposing effect of which

cheered us all, for we looked upon it as a good omen. Unfortunately I

had to bear the humiliation of seeing the theatre nearly empty. This,

more than anything else, sufficed to convince me what the opinion of

the public really was in regard to my work. But, if the audience was

scanty, the majority, at any rate, consisted of the first friends of my

art, and the reception of the piece was very cordial. Mitterwurzer

especially aroused the greatest enthusiasm. As for Tichatschek, my

anxious friends, Röckel and Heine, thought it necessary to endeavour by

every artifice to keep him in a good humour for his part. In order to

give practical assistance in making the undoubted obscurity of the last

scene clear, my friends had asked several young people, more especially

artists, to give vent to torrents of applause at those parts which are

not generally regarded by the opera-going public as provoking any

demonstration. Strange to say, the outburst of applause thus provoked

after the words, ‘An angel flies to God’s throne for thee, and will

make his voice heard; Heinrich, thou art saved,’ made the entire

situation suddenly clear to the public. At all subsequent productions

this continued to be the principal moment for the expression of

sympathy on the part of the audience, although it had passed quite

unnoticed on the first night. A few days later a third performance took

place, but this time before a full house, Schroder-Devrient, depressed

at the small share she was able to take in the success of my work,

watched the progress of the opera from the small stage box; she

informed me that Lüttichau had come to her with a beaming face, saying

he thought we had now carried Tannhäuser happily through.

And this certainly proved to be the case; we often repeated it in the

course of the winter, but noticed that when two performances followed

close upon one another, there was not such a rush for the second, from

which we concluded that I had not yet gained the approval of the great

opera-going public, but only of the more cultured section of the

community. Among these real friends of Tannhäuser there were many, as I

gradually discovered, who as a rule never visited the theatre at all,

and least of all the opera. This interest on the part of a totally new

public continued to grow in intensity, and expressed itself in a

delightful and hitherto unknown manner by a strong sympathy for the

author. It was particularly painful to me, on Tichatschek’s account, to

respond alone to the calls of the audience after almost every act;

however, I had at last to submit, as my refusal would only have exposed

the vocalist to fresh humiliations, for when he appeared on the stage

with his colleagues without me, the loud shouts for me were almost

insulting to him. With what genuine eagerness did I wish that the

contrary were the case, and that the excellence of the execution might

overshadow the author. The conviction that I should never attain this

with my Tannhäuser in Dresden guided me in all my future undertakings.

But, at all events, in producing Tannhäuser in this city I had

succeeded in making at least the cultured public acquainted with my

peculiar tendencies, by stimulating their mental faculties and

stripping the performance of all realistic accessories. I did not,

however, succeed in making these tendencies sufficiently clear in a

dramatic performance, and in such an irresistible and convincing manner

as also to familiarise the uncultivated taste of the ordinary public

with them when they saw them embodied on the stage.

By enlarging the circle of my acquaintances, and making interesting

friends, I had a good opportunity during the winter of obtaining

further information on this point in a way that was both instructive

and encouraging. My acquaintance and close intimacy at this time with

Dr. Hermann Franck of Breslau, who had for some time been living

quietly in Dresden, was also very inspiring. He was very comfortably

off, and was one of those men who, by a wide knowledge and good

judgment, combined with considerable gifts as an author, won an

excellent reputation for himself in a large and select circle of

private friends, without, however, making any great name for himself

with the public. He endeavoured to use his knowledge and abilities for

the general good, and was induced by Brockhaus to edit the Deutsche

Allgemeine Zeitung when it first started. This paper had been founded

by Brockhaus some years earlier. However, after editing it for a year,

Franck resigned this post, and from that time forward it was only on

the very rarest occasions that he could be persuaded to touch anything

connected with journalism. His curt and spirited remarks about his

experiences in connection with the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung

justified his disinclination to engage in any work connected with the

public press. My appreciation was all the greater, therefore, when,

without any persuasion on my part, he wrote a full report on Tannhäuser

for the Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung. This appeared in October or

November, 1845, in a supplement to that paper, and although it

contained the first account of a work which has since been so widely

discussed, I regard it, after mature consideration, as the most

far-reaching and exhaustive that has ever been written. By this means

my name figured for the first time in the great European political

paper, whose columns, in consequence of a remarkable change of front

which was to the interests of the proprietors, have since been open to

any one who wished to make merry at the expense of me or my work.

The point which particularly attracted me in Dr. Franck was the

delicate and tactful art he displayed in his criticism and his methods

of discussion. There was something distinguished about them that was

not so much the outcome of rank and social position as of genuine

world-wide culture.

The delicate coldness and reserve of his manner charmed rather than

repelled me, as it was a characteristic I had not met with hitherto.

When I found him expressing himself with some reserve in regard to

persons who enjoyed a reputation to which I did not think they were

always entitled, I was very pleased to see during my intercourse with

him that in many ways I exercised a decisive influence over his

opinion. Even at that time I did not care to let it pass unchallenged

when people evaded the close analysis of the work of this or that

celebrity, by referring in terms of eulogy to his ‘good-nature.’ I even

cornered my worldly wise friend on this point, when a few years later I

had the satisfaction of getting from him a very concise explanation of

Meyerbeer’s ‘good-nature,’ of which he had once spoken, and he recalled

with a smile the extraordinary questions I had put to him at the time.

He was, however, quite alarmed when I gave him a very lucid explanation

of the disinterestedness and conspicuous altruism of Mendelssohn in the

service of art, of which he had spoken enthusiastically. In a

conversation about Mendelssohn he had remarked how delightful it was to

find a man able to make real sacrifices in order to free himself from a

false position that was of no service to art. It was assuredly a grand

thing, he said, to have renounced a good salary of nine thousand marks

as general musical conductor in Berlin, and to have retired to Leipzig

as a simple conductor at the Gewandhaus concerts, and Mendelssohn was

much to be admired on that account. Just at that time I happened to be

in a position to give some correct details regarding this apparent

sacrifice on the part of Mendelssohn, because when I had made a serious

proposal to our general management about increasing the salaries of

several of the poorer members of the orchestra, Lüttichau was requested

to inform me that, according to the King’s latest commands, the

expenditure on the state bands was to be so restricted that for the

present the poorer chamber musicians could not claim any consideration,

for Herr von Falkenstein, the governor of the Leipzig district, who was

a passionate admirer of Mendelssohn’s, had gone so far as to influence

the King to appoint the latter secret conductor, with a secret salary

of six thousand marks. This sum, together with the salary of three

thousand marks openly granted him by the management of the Leipzig

Gewandhaus, would amply compensate him for the position he had

renounced in Berlin, and he had consequently consented to migrate to

Leipzig. This large grant had, for decency’s sake, to be kept secret by

the board administering the band funds, not only because it was

detrimental to the interests of the institution, but also because it

might give offence to those who were acting as conductors at a lower

salary, if they knew another man had been appointed to a sinecure. From

these circumstances Mendelssohn derived not only the advantage of

having the grant kept a secret, but also the satisfaction of allowing

his friends to applaud him as a model of self-sacrificing zeal for

going to Leipzig; which they could easily do, although they knew him to

be in a good financial position. When I explained this to Franck, he

was astonished, and admitted it was one of the strangest cases he had

ever come across in connection with undeserved fame.

We soon arrived at a mutual understanding in our views about many other

artistic celebrities with whom we came in contact at that time in

Dresden. This was a simple matter in the case of Ferdinand Hiller, who

was regarded as the chief of the ‘good-natured’ ones. Regarding the

more famous painters of the so-called Dusseldorf School, whom I met

frequently through the medium of Tannhäuser, it was not quite so easy

to come to a conclusion, as I was to a great extent influenced by the

fame attached to their well-known names; but here again Franck startled

me with opportune and conclusive reasons for disappointment. When it

was a question between Bendemann and Hubner, it seemed to me that

Hubner might very well be sacrificed to Bendemann. The latter, who had

only just completed the frescoes for one of the reception-rooms at the

royal palace, and had been rewarded by his friends with a banquet,

appeared to me to have the right to be honoured as a great master. I

was very much astonished, therefore, when Franck calmly pitied the King

of Saxony for having had his room ‘bedaubed’ by Bendemann!

Nevertheless, there was no denying that these people were

‘good-natured.’ My intercourse with them became more frequent, and at

all events offered me opportunities of mixing with the more cultured

artistic society, in distinction to the theatrical circles with which I

had usually associated; yet I never derived from it the least

enthusiasm or inspiration. The latter, however, appears to have been

Hiller’s main object, and that winter he organised a sort of social

circle which held weekly meetings at the home of one or the other of

its members in turn. Reinecke, who was both painter and poet, joined

this society, together with Hubner and Bendemann, and had the bad

fortune to write the new text for an opera for Hiller, the fate of

which I will describe later on. Robert Schumann, the musician, who was

also in Dresden at this time, and was busy working out on opera, which

eventually developed into Genovefa, made advances to Hiller and myself.

I had already known Schumann in Leipzig, and we had both entered upon

our musical careers at about the same time. I had also occasionally

sent small contributions to the Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, of which he

had formerly been editor, and more recently a longer one from Paris on

Rossini’s Stabat Mater. He had been asked to conduct his Paradies und

Peri at a concert to be given at the theatre; but his peculiar

awkwardness in conducting on that occasion aroused my sympathy for the

conscientious and energetic musician whose work made so strong an

appeal to me, and a kindly and friendly confidence soon grew up between

us. After a performance of Tannhäuser, at which he was present, he

called on me one morning and declared himself fully and decidedly in

favour of my work. The only objection he had to make was that the

stretta of the second finale was too abrupt, a criticism which proved

his keenness of perception; and I was able to show him, by the score,

how I had been compelled, much against my inclination, to curtail the

opera, and thereby create the position to which he had taken exception.

We often met when out walking and, as far as it was possible with a

person so sparing of words, we exchanged views on matters of musical

interest. He was looking forward to the production, under my baton, of

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, as he had attended the performances at

Leipzig, and had been very much disappointed by Mendelssohn’s

conducting, which had quite misunderstood the time of the first

movement. Otherwise his society did not inspire me particularly, and

the fact that he was too conservative to benefit by my views was soon

shown, more especially in his conception of the poem of Genovefa. It

was clear that my example had only made a very transient impression on

him, only just enough, in fact, to make him think it advisable to write

the text of an opera himself. He afterwards invited me to hear him read

his libretto, which was a combination of the styles of Hebbel and

Tieck. When, however, out of a genuine desire for the success of his

work, about which I had serious misgivings, I called his attention to

some grave defects in it, and suggested the necessary alterations, I

realised how matters stood with this extraordinary person: he simply

wanted me to be swayed by himself, but deeply resented any interference

with the product of his own ideals, so that thenceforward I let matters

alone.

In the following winter, our circle, thanks to the assiduity of Hiller,

was considerably widened, and it now became a sort of club whose object

was to meet freely every week in a room at Engel’s restaurant at the

Postplatz. Just about this time the famous J. Schnorr of Munich was

appointed director of the museums in Dresden, and we entertained him at

a banquet. I had already seen some of his large and well-executed

cartoons, which made a deep impression on me, not only on account of

their dimensions, but also by reason of the events they depicted from

old German history, in which I was at that time particularly

interested. It was through Schnorr that I now became acquainted with

the ‘Munich School’ of which he was the master. My heart overflowed

when I thought what it meant for Dresden, if such giants of German art

were to shake hands there. I was much struck by Schnorr’s appearance

and conversation, and I could not reconcile his whining pedagogic

manner with his mighty cartoons; however, I thought it a great stroke

of luck when he also took to frequenting Engel’s restaurant on

Saturdays. He was well versed in the old German legends, and I was

delighted when they formed the topic of conversation. The famous

sculptor, Hänel, used also to attend these meetings, and his marvellous

talent inspired me with the greatest respect, although I was not an

authority on his work, and could only judge of it by my own feelings. I

soon saw that his bearing and manner were affected; he was very fond of

expressing his opinion and judgment on questions of art, and I was not

in a position to decide whether they were reliable or otherwise. In

fact, it often occurred to me that I was listening to a Philistine

swaggerer. It was only when my old friend Pecht, who had also settled

in Dresden for a time, clearly and emphatically explained to me Hänel’s

standing as an artist, that I conquered all my secret doubts, and tried

to find some pleasure in his works. Rietschel, who was also a member of

our society, was the very antithesis of Hänel. I often found it

difficult to believe that the pale delicate man, with the whining

nervous way of expressing himself, was really a sculptor; but as

similar peculiarities in Schnorr did not prevent me from recognising

him as a marvellous painter, this helped me to make friends with

Rietschel, as he was quite free from affectation, and had a warm

sympathetic soul that drew me ever closer to him. I also remember

hearing from him a very enthusiastic appreciation of my personality as

a conductor. In spite, however, of being fellow-members of our

versatile art club, we never attained a footing of real comradeship,

for, after all, no one thought much of anybody else’s talents. For

instance, Hiller had arranged some orchestral concerts, and to

commemorate them he was entertained at the usual banquet by his

friends, when his services were gratefully acknowledged with due

rhetorical pathos. Yet I never found, in my private intercourse with

Hiller’s friends, the least enthusiasm in regard to his work; on the

contrary, I only noticed expressions of doubt and apprehensive shrugs.

These feted concerts soon came to an end. At our social evenings we

never discussed the works of the masters who were present; they were

not even mentioned, and it was soon evident that none of the members

knew what to talk about. Semper was the only man who, in his

extraordinary fashion, often so enlivened our entertainments that

Rietschel, inwardly sympathetic, though painfully startled, would

heartily complain against the unrestrained outbursts that led not

infrequently to hot discussions between Semper and myself. Strange to

say, we two always seemed to start from the hypothesis that we were

antagonists, for he insisted upon regarding me as the representative of

mediaeval Catholicism, which he often attacked with real fury. I

eventually succeeded in persuading him that my studies and inclinations

had always led me to German antiquity, and to the discovery of ideals

in the early Teutonic myths. When we came to paganism, and I expressed

my enthusiasm for the genuine heathen legends, he became quite a

different being, and a deep and growing interest now began to unite us

in such a way that it quite isolated us from the rest of the company.

It was, however, impossible ever to settle anything without a heated

argument, not only because Semper had a peculiar habit of contradicting

everything flatly, but also because he knew his views were opposed to

those of the entire company. His paradoxical assertions, which were

apparently only intended to stir up strife, soon made me realise,

beyond any doubt, that he was the only one present who was passionately

in earnest about everything he said, whereas all the others were quite

content to let the matter drop when convenient. A man of the latter

type was Gutzkow, who was often with us; he had been summoned to

Dresden by the general management of our court theatre, to act in the

capacity of dramatist and adapter of plays. Several of his pieces had

recently met with great success: Zopf und Schwert, Das Urbild des

Tartuffe, and Uriel Acosta, shed an unexpected lustre on the latest

dramatic repertoire, and it seemed as though the advent of Gutzkow

would inaugurate a new era of glory for the Dresden theatre, where my

operas had also been first produced. The good intentions of the

management were certainly undeniable. My only regret on that occasion

was that the hopes my old friend Laube entertained of being summoned to

Dresden to fill that post were unrealised. He also had thrown himself

enthusiastically into the work of dramatic literature. Even in Paris I

had noticed the eagerness with which he used to study the technique of

dramatic composition, especially that of Scribe, in the hope of

acquiring the skill of that writer, without which, as he soon

discovered, no poetical drama in German could be successful. He

maintained that he had thoroughly mastered this style in his comedy,

Rococo, and he cherished the conviction that he could work up any

imaginable material into an effective stage play.

At the same time, he was very careful to show equal skill in the

selection of his material. In my opinion this theory of his was a

complete failure, as his only successful pieces were those in which

popular interest was excited by catch-phrases. This interest was always

more or less associated with the politics of the day, and generally

involved some obvious diatribes about ‘German unity’ and ‘German

Liberalism.’ As this important stimulus was first applied by way of

experiment to the subscribers to our Residenz Theater, and afterwards

to the German public generally, it had, as I have already said, to be

worked out with the consummate skill which, presumably, could only be

learned from modern French writers of comic opera.

I was very glad to see the result of this study in Laube’s plays, more

especially as when he visited us in Dresden, which he often did on the

occasion of a new production, he admitted his indebtedness with modest

candour, and was far from pretending to be a real poet. Moreover, he

displayed great skill and an almost fiery zeal, not only in the

preparation of his pieces, but also in their production, so that the

offer of a post at Dresden, the hope of which had been held out to him,

would at least, from a practical point of view, have been a benefit to

the theatre. Finally, however, the choice fell on his rival Gutzkow, in

spite of his obvious unsuitability for the practical work of dramatist.

It was evident that even as regards his successful plays his triumph

was mainly due to his literary skill, because these effective plays

were immediately followed by wearisome productions which made us

realise, to our astonishment, that he himself could not have been aware

of the skill he had previously displayed. It was, however, precisely

these abstract qualities of the genuine man of letters which, in the

eyes of many, cast over him the halo of literary greatness; and when

Lüttichau, thinking more of a showy reputation than of permanent

benefit to his theatre, decided to give the preference to Gutzkow, he

thought his choice would give a special impetus to the cause of higher

culture. To me the appointment of Gutzkow as the director of dramatic

art at the theatre was peculiarly objectionable, as it was not long

before I was convinced of his utter incompetence for the task, and it

was probably owing to the frankness with which I expressed my opinion

to Lüttichau that our subsequent estrangement was originally due. I had

to complain bitterly of the want of judgment and the levity of those

who so recklessly selected men to fill the posts of managers and

conductors in such precious institutions of art as the German royal

theatres. To obviate the failure I felt convinced must follow on this

important appointment, I made a special request that Gutzkow should not

be allowed to interfere in the management of the opera; he readily

yielded, and thus spared himself great humiliation. This action,

however, created a feeling of mistrust between us, though I was quite

ready to remove this as far as possible by coming into personal contact

with him whenever opportunity offered on those evenings when the

artists used to gather at the club, as already described. I would

gladly have made this strange man, whose head was anxiously bowed down

on his breast, relax and unburden himself in his conversations with me,

but I was unsuccessful, on account of his constant reserve and

suspicion, and his studied aloofness. An opportunity arose for a

discussion between us when he wanted the orchestra to take a

melodramatic part (which they afterwards did) in a certain scene of his

Uriel Acosta, where the hero had to recant his alleged heresy. The

orchestra had to execute the soft tremolo for a given time on certain

chords, but when I heard the performance it appeared to me absurd, and

equally derogatory both for the music and the drama.

On one of these evenings I tried to come to an understanding with

Gutzkow concerning this, and the employment of music generally as a

melodramatic auxiliary to the drama, and I discussed my views on the

subject in accordance with the highest principles I had conceived. He

met all the chief points of my discussion with a nervous distrustful

silence, but finally explained that I really went too far in the

significance which I claimed for music, and that he failed to

understand how music would be degraded if it were applied more

sparingly to the drama, seeing that the claims of verse were often

treated with much less respect when it was used as a mere accessory to

operatic music. To put it practically, in fact, it would be advisable

for the librettist not to be too dainty in this matter; it wasn’t

possible always to give the actor a brilliant exit; at the same time,

however, nothing could be more painful than when the chief performer

made his exit without any applause. In such cases a little distracting

noise in the orchestra really supplied a happy diversion. This I

actually heard Gutzkow say; moreover, I saw that he really meant it!

After this I felt I had done with him.

It was not long before I had equally little to do with all the

painters, musicians, and other zealots in art belonging to our society.

At the same time, however, I came into closer contact with Berthold

Auerbach. With great enthusiasm, Alwine Frommann had already drawn my

attention to Auerbach’s Pastoral Stories. The account she gave of these

modest works (for that is how she characterised them) sounded quite

attractive. She said that they had had the same refreshing effect on

her circle of friends in Berlin as that produced by opening the window

of a scented boudoir (to which she compared the literature they had

hitherto been used to), and letting in the fresh air of the woods.

After that I read the Pastoral Stories of the Black Forest, which had

so quickly become famous, and I, too, was strongly attracted by the

contents and tone of these realistic anecdotes about the life of the

people in a locality which it was easy enough to identify from the

vivid descriptions. As at this time Dresden seemed to be becoming ever

more and more the rendezvous for the lights of our literary and

artistic world, Auerbach also reconciled himself to taking up his

quarters in this city; and for quite a long time, lived with his friend

Hiller, who thus again had a celebrity at his side of equal standing

with himself. The short, sturdy Jewish peasant boy, as he was placed to

represent himself to be, made a very agreeable impression. It was only

later that I understood the significance of his green jacket, and above

all of his green hunting-cap, which made him look exactly what the

author of Swabian Pastoral Stories ought to look like, and this

significance was anything but a naive one. The Swiss poet, Gottfried

Keller, once told me that, when Auerbach was in Zürich, and he had

decided on taking him up, he (Auerbach) had drawn his attention to the

best way in which to introduce one’s literary effusions to the public,

and to make money, and he advised him, above all things, to get a coat

and cap like his own, for being, as he said, like himself, neither

handsome nor well grown, it would be far better deliberately to make

himself look rough and queer; so saying, he placed his cap on his head

in such a way as to look a little rakish. For the time being, I

perceived no real affectation in Auerbach; he had assimilated so much

of the tone and ways of the people, and had done this so happily, that,

in any case, one could not help asking oneself why, with these

delightful qualities, he should move with such tremendous ease in

spheres that seemed absolutely antagonistic. At all events, he always

seemed in his true element even in those circles which really seemed

most opposed to his assumed character; there he stood in his green

coat, keen, sensitive, and natural, surrounded by the distinguished

society that flattered him; and he loved to show letters he had

received from the Grand Duke of Weimar and his answers to them, all the

time looking at things from the standpoint of the Swabian peasant

nature which suited him so admirably.

What especially attracted me to him was the fact that he was the first

Jew I ever met with whom one could discuss Judaism with absolute

freedom. He even seemed particularly desirous of removing, in his

agreeable manner, all prejudice on this score; and it was really

touching to hear him speak of his boyhood, and declare that he was

perhaps the only German who had read Klopstock’s Messiah all through.

Having one day become absorbed in this work, which he read secretly in

his cottage home, he had played the truant from school, and when he

finally arrived too late at the school-house, his teacher angrily

exclaimed: ‘You confounded Jew-boy, where have you been? Lending money

again?’ Such experiences had only made him feel pensive and melancholy,

but not bitter, and he had even been inspired with real compassion for

the coarseness of his tormentors. These were traits in his character

which drew me very strongly to him. As time went on, however, it seemed

to me a serious matter that he could not get away from the atmosphere

of these ideas, for I began to feel that the universe contained no

other problem for him than the elucidation of the Jewish question. One

day, therefore, I protested as good-naturedly and confidentially as I

could, and advised him to let the whole problem of Judaism drop, as

there were, after all, many other standpoints from which the world

might be criticised. Strange to say, he thereupon not only lost his

ingeniousness, but also fell to whining in an ecstatic fashion, which

did not seem to me very genuine, and assured me that that would be an

impossibility for him, as there was still so much in Judaism which

needed his whole sympathy. I could not help recalling the surprising

anguish which he had manifested on this occasion, when I learned, in

the course of time, that he had repeatedly arranged Jewish marriages,

concerning the happy result of which I heard nothing, save that he had,

by this means, made quite a fortune. When, several years afterwards, I

again saw him in Zürich, I observed that his appearance had

unfortunately changed in a manner quite disconcerting: he looked really

extraordinarily common and dirty; his former refreshing liveliness had

turned into the usual Jewish restlessness, and it was easy to see that

all he said was uttered as if he regretted that his words could not be

turned to better account in a newspaper article.

During his time in Dresden, however, Auerbach’s warm agreement with my

artistic projects really did me good, even though it may have been only

from his Semitic and Swabian standpoint; so did the novelty of the

experience I was at that time undergoing as an artist, in meeting with

ever-increasing regard and recognition among people of note, of

acknowledged importance and of exceptional culture. If, after the

success obtained by Rienzi, I still remained with the circle of the

real theatrical world, the greater success following on Tannhäuser

certainly brought me into contact with such people as I have mentioned

above, who, though to be sure they considerably enlarged my ideas, at

the same time impressed me very unfavourably with what was apparently

the pinnacle of the artistic life of the period. At any rate, I felt

neither rewarded nor, fortunately, even diverted by the acquaintances I

won by the first performance of my Tannhäuser that winter. On the

contrary, I felt an irresistible desire to withdraw into my shell and

leave these gay surroundings into which, strangely enough, I had been

introduced at the instigation of Hiller, whom I soon recognised as

being a nonentity. I felt I must quickly compose something, as this was

the only means of ridding myself of all the disturbing and painful

excitement Tannhäuser had produced in me.

Only a few weeks after the first performances I had worked out the

whole of the Lohengrin text. In November I had already read this poem

to my intimate friends, and soon afterwards to the Hiller set. It was

praised, and pronounced ‘effective.’ Schumann also thoroughly approved

of it, although he did not understand the musical form in which I

wished to carry it out, as he saw no resemblance in it to the old

methods of writing individual solos for the various artists. I then had

some fun in reading different parts of my work to him in the form of

arias and cavatinas, after which he laughingly declared himself

satisfied.

Serious reflection, however, aroused my gravest doubts as to the tragic

character of the material itself, and to these doubts I had been led,

in a manner both sensible and tactful, by Franck. He thought it

offensive to effect Elsa’s punishment through Lohengrin’s departure;

for although he understood that the characteristics of the legend were

expressed precisely by this highly poetical feature, he was doubtful as

to whether it did full justice to the demands of tragic feeling in its

relation to dramatic realism. He would have preferred to see Lohengrin

die before our eyes owing to Elsa’s loving treachery. As, however, this

did not seem feasible, he would have liked to see Lohengrin spell-bound

by some powerful motive, and prevented from getting away. Although, of

course, I would not agree to any of these suggestions, I went so far as

to consider whether I could not do away with the cruel separation, and

still retain the incident of Lohengrin’s departure, which was

essential. I then sought for a means of letting Elsa go away with

Lohengrin, as a form of penance which would withdraw her also from the

world. This seemed more promising to my talented friend. While I was

still very doubtful about all this, I gave my poem to Frau von

Lüttichau, so that she might peruse it, and criticise the point raised

by Franck. In a little letter, in which she expressed her pleasure at

my poem, she wrote briefly, but very decidedly, on the knotty question,

and declared that Franck must be devoid of all poetry if he did not

understand that it was exactly in the way I had chosen, and in no

other, that Lohengrin must depart. I felt as if a load had fallen from

my heart. In triumph I showed the letter to Franck, who, much abashed,

and by way of excusing himself, opened a correspondence with Frau von

Lüttichau, which certainly cannot have been lacking in interest, though

I was never able to see any of it. In any case, the upshot of it was

that Lohengrin remained as I had originally conceived it. Curiously

enough, some time later, I had a similar experience with regard to the

same subject, which again put me in a temporary state of uncertainty.

When Adolf Stahr gravely raised the same objection to the solution of

the Lohengrin question, I was really taken aback by the uniformity of

opinion; and as, owing to some excitement, I was just then no longer in

the same mood as when I composed Lohengrin, I was foolish enough to

write a hurried letter to Stahr in which, with but a few slight

reservations, I declared him to be right. I did not know that, by this,

I was causing real grief to Liszt, who was now in the same position

with regard to Stahr as Frau von Lüttichau had been with regard to

Franck. Fortunately, however, the displeasure of my great friend at my

supposed treachery to myself did not last long; for, without having got

wind of the trouble I had caused him, and thanks to the torture I

myself was going through, I came to the proper decision in a few days,

and, as clear as daylight, I saw what madness it had been. I was

therefore able to rejoice Liszt with the following laconical protest

which I sent him from my Swiss resort: ‘Stahr is wrong, and Lohengrin

is right.’

For the present I remained occupied with the revision of my poem, for

there could be no question of planning the music to it just now. That

peaceful and harmonious state of mind which is so favourable to

creative work, and always so necessary to me for composing, I now had

to secure with the greatest difficulty, for it was one of the things I

always had the hardest struggle to obtain. All the experiences

connected with the performance of Tannhäuser having filled me with true

despair as to the whole future of my artistic operations, I saw it was

hopeless to think of its production being extended to other German

theatres—for I had not been able to achieve this end even with the

successful Rienzi. It was perfectly obvious, therefore, that my work

would, at the utmost, be conceded a permanent place in the Dresden

repertoire. As the result of all this, my pecuniary affairs, which have

already been described, had got into such a serious state that a

catastrophe seemed inevitable. While I was preparing to meet this in

the best way I could, I tried to stupefy myself, on the one hand, by

plunging into the study of history, mythology, and literature, which

were becoming ever dearer and dearer to me, and on the other by working

incessantly at my artistic enterprises. As regards the former, I was

chiefly interested in the German Middle Ages, and tried to make myself

familiar with every point relative to this period. Although I could not

set about this task with philological precision, I proceeded with such

earnestness that I studied the German records, published by Grimm, for

instance, with the greatest interest. As I could not put the results of

such studies immediately into my scenes, there were many who could not

understand why, as an operatic composer, I should waste my time on such

barren work. Different people remarked later on, that the personality

of Lohengrin had a charm quite its own; but this was ascribed to the

happy selection of the subject, and I was specially praised for

choosing it. Material from the German Middle Ages, and later on,

subjects from Scandinavian antiquity, were therefore looked forward to

by many, and, in the end, they were astonished that I gave them no

adequate result of all my labours. Perhaps it will be of help to them

if I now tell them to take the old records and such works to their aid.

I forgot at that time to call Hiller’s attention to my documents, and

with great pride he seized upon a subject out of the history of the

Hohenstaufen. As, however, he had no success with his work, he may

perhaps think I was a little artful for not having spoken to him of the

old records.

Concerning my other duties, my chief undertaking for this winter

consisted in an exceptionally carefully prepared performance of

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, which took place in the spring on Palm

Sunday. This performance involved many a struggle, besides a host of

experiences which were destined to exercise a strong influence over my

further development. Roughly they were as follows: the royal orchestra

had only one opportunity a year of showing their powers independently

in a musical performance outside the Opera or the church. For the

benefit of the Pension Fund for their widows and orphans, the old

so-called Opera House was given up to a big performance originally only

intended for oratorios. Ultimately, in order to make it more

attractive, a symphony was always added to the oratorio; and, as

already mentioned, I had performed on such occasions, once the Pastoral

Symphony, and later Haydn’s Creation. The latter was a great joy to me,

and it was on this occasion that I first made its acquaintance. As we

two conductors had stipulated for alternate performances, the Symphony

on Palm Sunday of the year 1846 fell to my lot. I had a great longing

for the Ninth Symphony, and I was led to the choice of this work by the

fact that it was almost unknown in Dresden. When the directors of the

orchestra, who were the trustees of the Pension Fund, and who had to

promote its increase, got to know of this, such a fright seized them

that they interviewed the general director, Lüttichau, and begged him,

by virtue of his high authority, to dissuade me from carrying out my

intention. They gave as a reason for this request, that the Pension

Fund would surely suffer through the choice of this symphony, as the

work was in ill-repute in the place, and would certainly keep people

from going to the concert. The symphony had been performed many years

before by Reissiger at a charity concert, and, as the conductor himself

honestly admitted, had been an absolute failure. Now it needed my whole

ardour, and all the eloquence I could command, to prevail over the

doubts of our principal. With the orchestral directors, however, there

was nothing for me to do but quarrel, as I heard that they were

complaining all over the town about my indiscretion. In order to add

shame to their trouble, I made up my mind to prepare the public in such

a way for the performance, upon which I had resolved, and for the work

itself, that at least the sensation caused would lead to a full hall

and thus, in a very favourable manner, guarantee satisfactory returns,

and contradict their belief that the fund was menaced. Thus the Ninth

Symphony had, in every conceivable way, become for me a point of

honour, for the success of which I had to exercise all my powers to the

utmost. The committee had misgivings regarding the outlay needed for

procuring the orchestral parts, so I borrowed them from the Leipzig

Concert Society.

Imagine my feelings, however, on now seeing for the first time since my

earliest boyhood the mysterious pages of this score, which I studied

conscientiously! In those days the sight of these same pages had filled

me with the most mystic reveries, and I had stayed up for nights

together to copy them out. Just as at the time of my uncertainty in

Paris, on hearing the rehearsal of the first three movements performed

by the incomparable orchestra of the Conservatoire, I had been carried

back through years of error and doubt to be placed in marvellous touch

with my earliest days, while all my inmost aspirations had been

fruitfully stimulated in a new direction, so now in the same way the

memory of that music was secretly awakened in me as I again saw before

my own eyes that which in those early days had likewise been only a

mysterious vision. I had by this time experienced much which, in the

depths of my soul, drove me almost unconsciously to a process of

summing-up, to an almost despairing inquiry concerning my fate. What I

dared not acknowledge to myself was the fact of the absolute insecurity

of my existence both from the artistic and financial point of view; for

I saw that I was a stranger to my own mode of life as well as to my

profession, and I had no prospects whatsoever. This despair, which I

tried to conceal from my friends, was now converted into genuine

exaltation, thanks entirely to the Ninth Symphony. It is not likely

that the heart of a disciple has ever been filled with such keen

rapture over the work of a master, as mine was at the first movement of

this symphony. If any one had come upon me unexpectedly while I had the

open score before me, and had seen me convulsed with sobs and tears as

I went through the work in order to consider the best manner of

rendering it, he would certainly have asked with astonishment if this

were really fitting behaviour for the Conductor Royal of Saxony!

Fortunately, on such occasions I was spared the visits of our orchestra

directors, and their worthy conductor Reissiger, and even those of F.

Hiller, who was so versed in classical music.

In the first place I drew up a programme, for which the book of words

for the chorus—always ordered according to custom—furnished me with a

good pretext. I did this in order to provide a guide to the simple

understanding of the work, and thereby hoped to appeal not to the

critical judgment, but solely to the feelings, of the audience. This

programme, in the framing of which some of the chief passages in

Goethe’s Faust were exceedingly helpful to me, was very well received,

not only on that occasion in Dresden, but later on in other places.

Besides this, I made use of the Dresden Anzeiger, by writing all kinds

of short and enthusiastic anonymous paragraphs, in order to whet the

public taste for a work which hitherto had been in ill-repute in

Dresden.

Not only did these purely extraneous exertions succeed in making the

receipts of that year by far exceed any that had been taken

theretofore, but the orchestra directors themselves, during the

remaining years of my stay in Dresden, made a point of ensuring

similarly large profits by repeated performances of the celebrated

symphony. Concerning the artistic side of the performance, I aimed at

making the orchestra give as expressive a rendering as possible, and to

this end made all kinds of notes, myself, in the various parts, so as

to make quite sure that their interpretation would be as clear and as

coloured as could be desired. It was principally the custom which

existed then of doubling the wind instruments, that led me to a most

careful consideration of the advantages this system presented, for, in

performances on a large scale, the following somewhat crude rule

prevailed: all those passages marked piano were executed by a single

set of instruments, while those marked forte were carried out by a

duplicated set. As an instance of the way in which I took care to

ensure an intelligible rendering by this means, I might point to a

certain passage in the second movement of the symphony, where the whole

of the string instruments play the principal and rhythmical figure in C

major for the first time; it is written in triple octaves, which play

uninterruptedly in unison and, to a certain degree, serve as an

accompaniment to the second theme, which is only performed by feeble

wood instruments. As fortissimo is indicated alike for the whole

orchestra, the result in every imaginable rendering must be that the

melody for the wood instruments not only completely disappears, but

cannot even be heard through the strings, which, after all, are only

accompanying. Now, as I never carried my piety to the extent of taking

directions absolutely literally, rather than sacrifice the effect

really intended by the master to the erroneous indications given, I

made the strings play only moderately loudly instead of real

fortissimo, up to the point where they alternate with the wind

instruments in taking up the continuation of the new theme: thus the

motive, rendered as it was as loudly as possible by a double set of

wind instruments, was, I believe for the first time since the existence

of the symphony, heard with real distinctness. I proceeded in this

manner throughout, in order to guarantee the greatest exactitude in the

dynamical effects of the orchestra. There was nothing, however

difficult, which was allowed to be performed in such a way as not to

arouse the feelings of the audience in a particular manner. For

example, many brains had been puzzled by the Fugato in 6/8 time which

comes after the chorus, Froh wie seine Sonnen fliegen, in the movement

of the finale marked alia marcia. In view of the preceding inspiriting

verses, which seemed to be preparing for combat and victory, I

conceived this Fugato really as a glad but earnest war-song, and I took

it at a continuously fiery tempo, and with the utmost vigour. The day

following the first performance I had the satisfaction of receiving a

visit from the musical director Anacker of Freiburg, who came to tell

me somewhat penitently, that though until then he had been one of my

antagonists, since the performance of the symphony he certainly

reckoned himself among my friends. What had absolutely overwhelmed him,

he said, was precisely my conception and interpretation of the Fugato.

Furthermore, I devoted special attention to that extraordinary passage,

resembling a recitative for the ‘cellos and basses, which comes at the

beginning of the last movement, and which had once caused my old friend

Pohlenz such great humiliation in Leipzig. Thanks to the exceptional

excellence of our bass players, I felt certain of attaining to absolute

perfection in this passage. After twelve special rehearsals of the

instruments alone concerned, I succeeded in getting them to perform in

a way which sounded not only perfectly free, but which also expressed

the most exquisite tenderness and the greatest energy in a thoroughly

impressive manner.

From the very beginning of my undertaking I had at once recognised,

that the only method of achieving overwhelming popular success with

this symphony was to overcome, by some ideal means, the extraordinary

difficulties presented by the choral parts. I realised that the demands

made by these parts could be met only by a large and enthusiastic body

of singers. It was above all necessary, then, to secure a very good and

large choir; so, besides adding the somewhat feeble Dreissig ‘Academy

of Singing’ to our usual number of members in the theatre chorus, in

spite of great difficulties I also enlisted the help of the choir from

the Kreuzschule, with its fine boys’ voices, and the choir of the

Dresden seminary, which had had much practice in church singing. In a

way quite my own I now tried to get these three hundred singers, who

were frequently united for rehearsals, into a state of genuine ecstasy;

for instance, I succeeded in demonstrating to the basses that the

celebrated passage Seid umschlungen, Millionen, and especially Bruder,

uber’m Sternenzelt muss ein guter Vater wohnen, could not be sung in an

ordinary manner, but must, as it were, be proclaimed with the greatest

rapture. In this I took the lead in a manner so elated that I really

think I literally transported them to a world of emotion utterly

strange to them for a while; and I did not desist till my voice, which

had been heard clearly above all the others, began to be no longer

distinguishable even to myself, but was drowned, so to speak, in the

warm sea of sound.

It gave me particular pleasure, with Mitterwurzer’s cooperation, to

give a most overwhelmingly expressive rendering of the recitative for

baritone: Freunde, nicht diese Tone. In view of its exceptional

difficulties this passage might almost be considered impossible to

perform, and yet he executed it in a way which showed what fruit our

mutual interchange of ideas had borne. I also took care that, by means

of the complete reconstruction of the hall, I should obtain good

acoustic conditions for the orchestra, which I had arranged according

to quite a new system of my own. As may be imagined, it was only with

the greatest difficulty that the money for this could be found;

however, I did not give up, and owing to a totally new construction of

the platform, I was able to concentrate the whole of the orchestra

towards the centre, and surround it, in amphitheatre fashion, by the

throng of singers who were accommodated on seats very considerably

raised. This was not only of great advantage to the powerful effect of

the choir, but it also gave great precision and energy to the finely

organised orchestra in the purely symphonic movements.

Even at the general rehearsal the hall was overcrowded. Reissiger was

guilty of the incredible stupidity of working up the public mind

against the symphony and drawing attention to Beethoven’s very

regrettable error. Gade, on the other hand, who came to visit us from

Leipzig, where he was then conducting the Gewandhaus Concerts, assured

me after the general rehearsal, that he would willingly have paid

double the price of his ticket in order to hear the recitative by the

basses once more; whilst Hiller considered that I had gone too far in

my modification of the tempo. What he meant by this I learned

subsequently when I heard him conducting intricate orchestral works;

but of this I shall have more to say later on.

There was no denying that the performance was, on the whole, a success;

in fact, it exceeded all our expectations, and was particularly well

received by the non-musical public. Among these I remember the

philologist Dr. Kochly, who came to me at the end of the evening and

confessed that it was the first time he had been able to follow a

symphonic work from beginning to end with intelligent interest. This

experience left me with a pleasant feeling of ability and power, and

strongly confirmed me in the belief, that if I only desired anything

with sufficient earnestness, I was able to achieve it with irresistible

and overwhelming success. I now had to consider, however, what the

difficulties were, which hitherto had prevented a similarly happy

production of my own new conceptions. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, which

was still such a problem to so many, and had, at all events, never

attained to popularity, I had been able to make a complete success;

yet, as often as it was put on the stage, my Tannhäuser taught me that

the possibilities of its success had yet to be discovered. How was this

to be done? This was and remained the secret question which influenced

all my subsequent development.

I dared not, however, indulge at that time in any meditation on this

point with the view of arriving at any particular results, for the real

significance of my failure, of which I was inwardly convinced, stood

absolutely bare before me with all its terrifying lessons. Albeit, I

could no longer delay taking even the most disagreeable steps with the

view of warding off the catastrophe which menaced my financial

position.

I was led to this, thanks to the influence of a ridiculous omen. My

agent, the purely nominal publisher of my three operas—Rienzi, the

Fliegender Holländer, and Tannhäuser—the eccentric court music

publisher, C. F. Meser, invited me one day to the cafe known as the

‘Verderber’ to discuss our money affairs. With great qualms we talked

over the possible results of the Annual Easter Fair, and wondered

whether they would be tolerably good or altogether bad. I gave him

courage, and ordered a bottle of the best Haut-Sauterne. A venerable

flask made its appearance; I filled the glasses, and we drank to the

good success of the Fair; when suddenly we both yelled as though we had

gone mad, while, with horror, we tried to rid our mouths of the strong

Tarragon vinegar with which we had been served by mistake. ‘Heavens!’

cried Meser, ‘nothing could be worse!’ ‘True enough,’ I answered, ‘no

doubt there is much that will turn to vinegar for us.’ My good-humour

revealed to me in a flash that I must try some other way of saving

myself than by means of the Easter Fair.

Not only was it necessary to refund the capital which had been got

together by dint of ever-increasing sacrifices, in order to defray the

expenses of the publication of my operas; but, owing to the fact that I

had been obliged ultimately to seek aid from the usurers, the rumour of

my debts had spread so far abroad, that even those friends who had

helped me at the time of my arrival in Dresden were seized with anxiety

on my account. At this time I met with a really sad experience at the

hands of Madame Schroder-Devrient, who, as the result of her

incomprehensible lack of discretion, did much to bring about my final

undoing. When I first settled in Dresden, as I have already pointed

out, she lent me three thousand marks, not only to help me to discharge

my debts, but also to allow me to contribute to the maintenance of my

old friend Kietz in Paris. Jealousy of my niece Johanna, and suspicion

that I had made her (my niece) come to Dresden in order to make it

easier for the general management to dispense with the services of the

great artist, had awakened in this otherwise so noble-minded woman the

usual feelings of animosity towards me, which are so often met with in

the theatrical profession. She had now given up her engagement; she

even declared openly that I had been partly instrumental in obtaining

her dismissal; and abandoning all friendly regard for me, whereby she

deeply wronged me in every respect, she placed the I.O.U. I had given

her in the hands of an energetic lawyer, and without further ado this

man sued me for the payment of the money. Thus I was forced to make a

clean breast of everything to Lüttichau, and to beseech him to

intervene for me, and if possible to obtain a royal advance that would

enable me to clear my position, which was so seriously compromised.

My principal declared himself willing to support any request I might

wish to address to the King on this matter. To this end I had to note

down the amount of my debts; but as I soon discovered that the

necessary sum could only be assigned to me as a loan from the Theatre

Pension Fund, at an interest of five per cent., and that I should

moreover have to secure the capital of the Pension Fund by a life

insurance policy, which would cost me annually three per cent, of the

capital borrowed, I was, for obvious reasons, tempted to leave out of

my petition all those of my debts which were not of a pressing nature,

and for the payment of which I thought I could count on the receipts

which I might finally expect from my publishing enterprises.

Nevertheless, the sacrifices I had to make in order to repay the help

offered me increased to such an extent, that my salary of conductor, in

itself very slender, promised to be materially diminished for some time

to come. I was forced to make the most irksome efforts to gather

together the necessary sum for the life insurance policy, and was

therefore obliged frequently to appeal to Leipzig. In addition to this,

I had to overcome the most appalling doubts in regard both to my health

and to the probable length of my life, concerning which I fancied I had

heard all sorts of malicious apprehensions expressed by those who had

observed me but casually in the miserable condition which I was in at

that time. My friend Pusinelli, as a doctor who was very intimate with

me, eventually managed to give such satisfactory information concerning

the state of my health, that I succeeded in insuring my life at the

rate of three per cent.

The last of these painful journeys to Leipzig was, at all events, made

under pleasant circumstances owing to a kind invitation from the old

Maestro Louis Spohr. I was particularly pleased over this, because to

me it meant nothing less than an act of reconciliation. As a matter of

fact, Spohr had written to me on one occasion, and had declared that,

stimulated by the success of my Fliegender Holländer and his own

enjoyment of it, he had once more decided to take up the career of a

dramatic composer, which of recent years had brought him such scant

success. His last work was an opera—Die Kreuz-fahrer—which he had sent

to the Dresden theatre in the course of the preceding year in the hope,

as he himself assured me, that I would urge on its production. After

asking this favour, he drew my attention to the fact that in this work

he had made an absolutely new departure from his earlier operas, and

had kept to the most precise rhythmically dramatic declamation, which

had certainly been made all the more easy for him by the ‘excellent

subject.’ Without being actually surprised, my horror was indeed great

when, after studying not only the text, but also the score, I

discovered that the old maestro had been absolutely mistaken in regard

to the account he had given me of his work. The custom in force at that

time that the decision concerning the production of works should not,

as a rule, rest with one of the conductors alone, did not tend to make

me any less fearful of declaring myself emphatically in favour of this

work. In addition to this, it was Reissiger, who, as he had often

boasted, was an old friend of Spohr’s, whose turn it was to select and

produce a new work. Unfortunately, as I learned later, the general

management had returned Spohr’s opera to its author in such a curt

manner as to offend him, and he complained bitterly of this to me.

Genuinely concerned at this, I had evidently managed to calm and

appease him, for the invitation mentioned above was clearly a friendly

acknowledgment of my efforts. He wrote that it was very painful for him

to have to touch at Dresden on his way to one of the watering-places;

as, however, he had a real longing to make my acquaintance, he begged

me to meet him in Leipzig, where he was going to stay for a few days.

This meeting with him did not leave me unimpressed. He was a tall,

stately man, distinguished in appearance, and of a serious and calm

temperament. He gave me to understand, in a touching, almost apologetic

manner, that the essence of his education and of his aversion from the

new tendencies in music, had its origin in the first impressions he had

received on hearing, as a very young boy, Mozart’s Magic Flute, a work

which was quite new at that time, and which had a great influence on

his whole life. Regarding my libretto to Lohengrin, which I had left

behind for him to read, and the general impression which my personal

acquaintance had made on him, he expressed himself with almost

surprising warmth to my brother-in-law, Hermann Brockhaus, at whose

house we had been invited to dine, and where, during the meal, the

conversation was most animated. Besides this, we had met at real

musical evenings at the conductor Hauptmann’s as well as at

Mendelssohn’s, on which occasion I heard the master take the violin in

one of his own quartettes. It was precisely in these circles that I was

impressed by the touching and venerable dignity of his absolutely calm

demeanour. Later on, I learned from witnesses—for whose testimony, be

it said, I cannot vouch—that Tannhäuser, when it was performed at

Cassel, had caused him so much confusion and pain that he declared he

could no longer follow me, and feared that I must be on the wrong road.

In order to recover from all the hardships and cares I had gone

through, I now managed to obtain a special favour from the management,

in the form of a three months’ leave, in which to improve my health in

rustic retirement, and to get pure air to breathe while composing some

new work. To this end I had chosen a peasant’s house in the village of

Gross-Graupen, which is half-way between Pillnitz and the border of

what is known as ‘Saxon Switzerland.’ Frequent excursions to the

Porsberg, to the adjacent Liebethaler, and to the far distant bastion

helped to strengthen my unstrung nerves. While I was first planning the

music to Lohengrin, I was disturbed incessantly by the echoes of some

of the airs in Rossini’s William Tell, which was the last opera I had

had to conduct. At last I happened to hit on an effective means of

stopping this annoying obtrusion: during my lonely walks I sang with

great emphasis the first theme from the Ninth Symphony, which had also

quite lately been revived in my memory. This succeeded! At Pirna, where

one can bathe in the river, I was surprised, on one of my almost

regular evening constitutionals, to hear the air from the Pilgrim’s

Chorus out of Tannhäuser whistled by some bather, who was invisible to

me. This first sign of the possibility of popularising the work, which

I had with such difficulty succeeded in getting performed in Dresden,

made an impression on me which no similar experience later on has ever

been able to surpass. Sometimes I received visits from friends in

Dresden, and among them Hans von Bulow, who was then sixteen years old,

came accompanied by Lipinsky. This gave me great pleasure, because I

had already noticed the interest which he took in me. Generally,

however, I had to rely only on my wife’s company, and during my long

walks I had to be satisfied with my little dog Peps. During this summer

holiday, of which a great part of the time had at the beginning to be

devoted to the unpleasant task of arranging my business affairs, and

also to the improvement of my health, I nevertheless succeeded in

making a sketch of the music to the whole of the three acts of

Lohengrin, although this cannot be said to have consisted of anything

more than a very hasty outline.

With this much gained, I returned in August to Dresden, and resumed my

duties as conductor, which every year seemed to become more and more

burdensome to me. Moreover, I immediately plunged once more into the

midst of troubles which had only just been temporarily allayed. The

business of publishing my operas, on the success of which I still

counted as the only means of liberating me from my difficult position,

demanded ever-fresh sacrifices if the enterprise were to be made worth

while. But as my income was now very much reduced, even the smallest

outlays necessarily led me into ever-new and more painful

complications; and I once more lost all courage.

On the other hand, I tried to strengthen myself by again working

energetically at Lohengrin. While doing this, I proceeded in a manner

that I have not since repeated. I first of all completed the third act,

and in view of the criticism already mentioned of the characters and

conclusion of this act, I determined to try to make it the very pivot

of the whole opera. I wished to do this, if only for the sake of the

musical motive appearing in the story of the Holy Grail; but in other

respects the plan struck me as perfectly satisfactory.

Owing to previous suggestions on my part, Gluck’s Iphigenia in Aulis

was to be produced this winter. I felt it my duty to give more care and

attention to this work, which interested me particularly on account of

its subject, than I had given to the study of the Armida. In the first

place, I was upset by the translation in which the opera with the

Berlin score was presented to us. In order not to be led into false

interpretations through the instrumental additions which I considered

very badly applied in this score, I wrote for the original edition from

Paris. When I had made a thorough revision of the translation, with a

view merely to the correctness of declamation, I was spurred on by my

increasing interest to revise the score itself. I tried to bring the

poem as far as possible into agreement with Euripides’ play of the same

name, by the elimination of everything which, in deference to French

taste, made the relationship between Achilles and Iphigenia one of

tender love. The chief alteration of all was to cut out the inevitable

marriage at the end. For the sake of the vitality of the drama I tried

to join the arias and choruses, which generally followed immediately

upon each other without rhyme or reason, by connecting links, prologues

and epilogues. In this I did my best, by the use of Gluck’s themes, to

make the interpolations of a strange composer as unnoticeable as

possible. In the third act alone was I obliged to give Iphigenia, as

well as Artemis, whom I had myself introduced, recitatives of my own

composition. Throughout the rest of the work I revised the whole

instrumentation more or less thoroughly, but only with the object of

making the existing version produce the effect I desired. It was not

till the end of the year that I was able to finish this tremendous

task, and I had to postpone the completion of the third act of

Lohengrin, which I had already begun, until the New Year.

The first thing to claim my attention at the beginning of the year

(1847) was the production of Iphigenia. I had to act as stage manager

in this case, and was even obliged to help the scene-painters and the

mechanicians over the smallest details. Owing to the fact that the

scenes in this opera were generally strung together somewhat clumsily

and without any apparent connection, it was necessary to recast them

completely, in order so to animate the representation as to give to the

dramatic action the life it lacked. A good deal of this faultiness of

construction seemed to me due to the many conventional practices which

were prevalent at the Paris Opera in Gluck’s time. Mitterwurzer was the

only actor in the whole cast who gave me any pleasure. In the role of

Agamemnon he showed a thorough grasp of that character, and carried out

my instructions and suggestions to the letter, so that he succeeded in

giving a really splendid and intelligent rendering of the part. The

success of the whole performance was far beyond my expectations, and

even the directors were so surprised at the exceptional enthusiasm

aroused by one of Gluck’s operas, that for the second performance they,

on their own initiative, had my name put on the programme as ‘Reviser.’

This at once drew the attention of the critics to this work, and for

once they almost did me justice; my treatment of the overture, the only

part of the opera which these gentlemen heard rendered in the usual

trivial way, was the only thing that they could find fault with. I have

discussed and given an accurate account of all that relates to this in

a special article on ‘Gluck’s Overture to Iphigenia in Aulis’ and I

only wish to add here that the musician who made such strange comments

on this occasion was Ferdinand Hiller.

As in former years, the winter meetings of the various artistic

elements in Dresden which Hiller had inaugurated, continued to take

place; but they now assumed more the character of ‘salons’ in Hiller’s

own house, and it seemed to me intended solely for the purpose of

laying the foundations for a general recognition of Hiller’s artistic

greatness. He had already founded, among the more wealthy patrons of

art, the chief of whom was the banker Kaskel, a society for running

subscription concerts. As it was impossible for the royal orchestra to

be placed at his disposal for this purpose, he had to content himself

with members of the town and military bands for his orchestra, and it

cannot be denied that, thanks to his perseverance, he attained a

praiseworthy result. As he produced many compositions which were still

unknown in Dresden, especially from the domain of more modern music, I

was often tempted to go to his concerts. His chief bait to the general

public, however, seemed to lie in the fact that he presented unknown

singers (among whom, unfortunately, Jenny Lind was not to be found) and

virtuosos, one of which, Joachim, who was then very young, I became

acquainted with.

Hiller’s treatment of those works with which I was already well

acquainted, showed what his musical power was really worth. The

careless and indifferent manner in which he interpreted a Triple

Concerto by Sebastian Bach positively astounded me. In the tempo di

minuetto of the Eighth Symphony of Beethoven, I found that Hiller’s

rendering was even more astonishing than Reissiger’s and Mendelssohn’s.

I promised to be present at the performance of this symphony if I could

rely on his giving a correct rendering of the tempo of the third

phrase, which was generally so painfully distorted, He assured me that

he thoroughly agreed with me about it, and my disappointment at the

performance was all the greater when I found the well-known waltz

measure adopted again. When I called him to account about it he excused

himself with a smile, saying that he had been seized with a fit of

temporary abstraction just at the beginning of the phrase in question,

which had made him forget his promise. For inaugurating these concerts,

which, as a matter of fact, only lasted for two seasons, Hiller was

given a banquet, which I also had much pleasure in attending.

People in these circles were surprised at that time to hear me speak,

often with great animation, about Greek literature and history, but

never about music. In the course of my reading, which I zealously

pursued, and which drew me away from my professional activities to

retirement and solitude, I was at that time impelled by my spiritual

needs to turn my attention once more to a systematic study of this

all-important source of culture, with the object of filling the

perceptible gap between my boyhood’s knowledge of the eternal elements

of human culture and the neglect of this field of learning due to the

life I had been obliged to lead. In order to approach the real goal of

my desires—the study of Old and Middle High German—in the right frame

of mind, I began again from the beginning with Greek antiquity, and was

now filled with such overwhelming enthusiasm for this subject that,

whenever I entered into conversation, and by hook or by crook had

managed to get it round to this theme, I could only speak in terms of

the strongest emotion. I occasionally met some one who seemed to listen

to what I had to say; on the whole, however, people preferred to talk

to me only about the theatre because, since my production of Gluck’s

Iphigenia, they thought themselves justified in thinking I was an

authority on this subject. I received special recognition from a man to

whom I quite rightly gave the credit of being at least as well versed

as myself in the matter. This was Eduard Devrient, who had been forced

at that time to resign his position as stage manager-in-chief owing to

a plot against him on the part of the actors, headed by his own brother

Emil. We were brought into closer sympathy by our conversations in

connection with this, which led him into dissertations on the

triviality and thorough hopelessness of our whole theatrical life,

especially under the ruining influence of ignorant court managers,

which could never be overcome.

We were also drawn together by his intelligent understanding of the