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My Life, Volume II

R >> Richard Wagner >> My Life, Volume II




By way of compensation I found abundant refreshment and regular
exercise in solitary walks in the Bois de Boulogne, gaily
accompanied by my little dog Fips, during which I learned once
more to appreciate the sylvan beauty of this artificial pleasure-
ground. Life also had become quieter, as is usually the case at
this season in Paris. Bulow, after hearing that his dejeuner at
Vachette's had produced the extraordinary result of an imperial
command for the production of Tannhauser, had long since gone
back to Germany; and in August I also set out on my carefully
planned excursion to the German Rhine districts. There I first
turned my steps, via Cologne, to Coblenz, where I expected to
find Princess Augusta of Prussia. Learning, however, that she was
in Baden, I made my way towards Soden, whence I fetched Minna for
a further tour, accompanied by her recently acquired friend,
Mathilde Schiffner. We touched at Frankfort, where I met my
brother Albert for the first time since leaving Dresden, as he
also happened to be passing through this city.

When I was there it occurred to me that this was the residence of
Schopenhauer, but a singular timidity restrained me from calling
upon him. My temper just then seemed too distraught and too far
removed from all that which might have formed a subject for
conversation with Schopenhauer, even if I had felt strongly
attracted towards him, and which alone could have furnished a
reason for intruding myself upon him, in spite of such
disinclination. As with so many other things in my life, I again
deferred one of its most precious opportunities until that
fervently expected 'more favourable season,' which I presumed was
sure to come some day. When, a year after this flying visit, I
again stayed some time in Frankfort to superintend the production
of my Meistersinger, I imagined that at last this more favourable
opportunity for seeing Schopenhauer had come. But, alas! he died
that very year, a fact which led me to many bitter reflections on
the uncertainty of fate.

During this earlier visit another fondly cherished hope also came
to nothing. I had reckoned on being able to induce Liszt to meet
me in Frankfort, but instead found only a letter declaring it
impossible to grant the fulfilment of my wish.

From this town we went straight to Baden-Baden. Here I abandoned
Minna and her friend to the seductions of the roulette-table,
while I availed myself of a letter of introduction from Count
Pourtales to Countess Hacke, a lady-in-waiting on her Royal
Highness, through whom I hoped to be presented to her exalted
patroness. After a little delay I duly received an invitation to
meet her in the Trinkhalle at five o'clock in the afternoon. It
was a wet, cold day, and at that hour the whole surroundings of
the place seemed absolutely devoid of life as I approached my
momentous rendezvous. I found Augusta pacing to and fro with
Countess Hacke, and as I approached she graciously stopped. Her
conversation consisted almost entirely of assurances that she was
completely powerless in every respect, in response to which I
imprudently cited the hint received from the King of Saxony that
I should offer her my personal thanks for previous intervention
on my behalf. This she seemed evidently to resent, and dismissed
me with an air of indifference meant to show that she took very
little interest in my concerns. My old friend Alwine Frommann
told me later that she did not know what there was about me that
displeased the Princess, but thought it might possibly be my
Saxon accent.

This time I left the much-praised paradise of Baden without
carrying away any very friendly impression, and at Mannheim
boarded a steamer, accompanied only by Minna, on which for the
first time I was borne along the famous Rhine. It struck me as
very strange that I should so often have crossed the Rhine
without having once made the acquaintance of this most
characteristic historical thoroughfare of mediaeval Germany. A
hasty return to Cologne concluded this excursion, which had
lasted only a week, and from which I returned to face once more
the solution of the problems of my Parisian enterprise, now
opening out painfully before me.

One factor which seemed likely greatly to relieve the
difficulties confronting me was to be found in the friendly
relationship into which the young banker, Emil Erlanger, was
pleased to enter towards me. This I owed, in the first place, to
an extraordinary man named Albert Beckmann, a former Hanoverian
revolutionary, and afterwards private librarian to Louis
Napoleon, who was at this time a press agent for several
interests, respecting which I was never quite clear. This man
succeeded in making my acquaintance as an open admirer, in which
capacity he showed himself remarkably obliging. He now informed
me that M. Erlanger, by whom he was also employed in connection
with the press, would be pleased to know me. I was on the point
of bluntly declining the honour, saying that I wanted to know
nothing about any banker except with regard to his money, when he
answered my jest by telling me in all seriousness that it was
precisely in this way that M. Erlanger desired to serve me. As a
result of this invitation I made the acquaintance of a genuinely
agreeable man, who, having often heard my music in Germany, had
become inspired by a sympathetic interest in my person. He
frankly expressed a desire that I should commit the management of
my financial business entirely to his hands, which meant, in
fact, nothing less than that he would permanently hold himself
responsible for any needful subsidies, in return for which I was
to assign to him all the eventual proceeds of my Paris
undertakings. This offer was distinctly novel, and moreover
exactly fell in with the needs of my peculiar situation. And, in
fact, so far as my subsequent financial security was concerned, I
had no further difficulties to encounter until my position in
Paris was fully decided. And although my later intercourse with
M. Erlanger was accompanied by many circumstances which no man's
kindly courtesy could have relieved, yet I ever found in him a
truly devoted friend, who earnestly studied both my own personal
welfare and the success of my enterprises.

This eminently satisfactory turn of events was calculated to
inspire me with high courage had the circumstances been somewhat
different. As it was, it had no power to excite in me even the
slightest enthusiasm for an undertaking of which the hollowness
and unsuitability for me personally were clearly revealed every
time I approached it. It was with a feeling of ill-humour that I
met every demand made by this venture, and yet it represented the
foundation of the confidence reposed in me. My mind was
subjected, however, to a certain refreshing uncertainty as to the
character of my scheme by a new acquaintance who was introduced
to me in connection with it. M. Royer informed me that he could
not 'pass' the translation which I had taken infinite pains to
conjure into existence through the two men who had volunteered to
help me. He most earnestly recommended a thorough revision by M.
Charles Truinet, whose pseudonym was Nuitter. This man was still
young and extraordinarily attractive, with something friendly and
open in his manner. He had called on me a few months ago to offer
his co-operation in the translation, of my operas, on the
introduction of Ollivier, his colleague at the Paris bar. Proud
of my connection with Lindau, however, I had refused his help;
but the time had now come when, in consequence of M. Royer's
strictures, Truinet's renewed offer of his services had to be
taken into consideration. He understood no German, but maintained
that as far as this was concerned he could place sufficient
reliance upon his old father, who had travelled for a long time
in Germany and had acquired the essentials of our language. As a
matter of fact, there was no need for special knowledge in this
respect, as the sole problem seemed to be to make the French
verses less stiff and stilted which poor Roche had constructed
under the shameful control of Lindau, who used to make out that
he knew everything better than any one else. The inexhaustible
patience with which Truinet proceeded from one change to another
in order to satisfy my requirements, even with regard to the
musical fitness of the version, won my sympathy for this last
collaborator. From this time forward we had to keep Lindau away
from the slightest interference in this new modelling of the
'book.' He had been recognised as quite incompetent. Roche, on
the other hand, was retained, in so far as his work served as a
basis for the new versification. As it was difficult for him to
leave his custom office, he was excused from troubling about the
remaining part of the work, as Truinet was quite free and could
keep in daily touch with me. I now saw that Truinet's law degree
was merely ornamental, and that he never had any thought of
conducting a case. His chief interests lay in the administration
of the Grand Opera, to which he was attached as keeper of the
archives. First with one collaborator and then with another he
had also worked at little plays for the vaudeville and theatres
of a lower order, and even for the Bouffes Parisiens; but he was
ashamed of these productions and always knew how to evade talking
about this sphere of activity. I was greatly obliged to him for
the final arrangement of a text to my Tannhauser which could be
sung and which was regarded on all sides as 'acceptable.' But I
cannot remember ever having been attracted by anything poetic or
even aesthetic in his nature. His value, however, as an
experienced, warm-hearted, staunchly devoted friend at all times,
especially in periods of the greatest distress, made itself more
and more clearly felt. I can hardly remember ever meeting a man
of such sound judgment on the most difficult points, or one so
actively ready when occasion arose to uphold the view I
advocated.

We had first of all to join forces in promoting an entirely new
piece of work. In obedience to a need I had always felt, I had
seized the occasion of this carefully prepared production of
Tannhauser to expand and considerably fill out the first Venus
scene. For this purpose I wrote the text in loosely constructed
German verses, so as to leave the translator quite free to work
them out in a suitable French form: people told me that Truinet's
verses were not at all bad; and with these as a basis I composed
the extra music for the scene, and only fitted a German text to
it afterwards. My annoying discussions with the management on the
subject of a big ballet had determined me to make extensive
additions to the scene of the 'Venusberg.' I thought that this
would give the staff of the ballet a choreographic task of so
magnificent a character that there would no longer be any
occasion to grumble at me for my obstinacy in this matter. The
musical composition of the two scenes occupied most of my time
during the month of September, and at the same time I began the
pianoforte rehearsals of Tannhauser in the foyer of the Grand
Opera.

The company, part of which had been freshly engaged for this
purpose, were now assembled, and I was interested in learning the
way in which a new work is studied at the French Opera.

The characteristic features of the system in Paris may be
described simply as extreme frigidity and extraordinary accuracy.
M. Vauthrot, the chorus-master, excelled in both these qualities.
He was a man whom I could not help regarding as hostile to me,
because I had never been able to win from him a single expression
of enthusiasm. On the other hand, he proved to me by the most
punctilious solicitude how conscientious he really was about his
work. He insisted on considerable alterations in the text, so as
to obtain a favourable medium for singing. My knowledge of the
scores of Auber and Boieldieu had misled me into assuming that
the French people were entirely indifferent as to whether the
mute syllables in poetry and singing were to be sounded or not.
Vauthrot maintained that this was only the case with composers,
but not with good singers. He was always feeling misgivings about
the length of my work, which I met with the observation that I
could not understand how he could be afraid of boring the public
with any opera after they had been accustomed to find pleasure in
Rossini's Semiramis, which was often produced. Upon this he
paused to reflect, and agreed with me so far as the monotony of
action and of music in that work was concerned. He told me not to
forget, however, that the public neither cared for action nor
music, but that their whole attention was directed to the
brilliancy of the singers. Tannhauser gave little scope for
brilliancy, and, as a matter of fact, I had none of that quality
at my disposal. The only singer in my company who had any claim
to such a distinction was Mme. Tedesco, a rather grotesque but
voluptuous type of Jewess who had returned from Portugal and
Spain after having had great triumphs in Italian operas. She did
not conceal her satisfaction at having secured an engagement at
the Paris Opera through my unwilling choice of her for the part
of Venus. She gave herself no end of trouble to solve the problem
to the best of her ability--a problem which was entirely beyond
her and which was suited only to a genuine tragedy actress. For a
certain time her efforts appeared to be crowned with success, and
several special rehearsals with Niemann led to a lively affinity
between Tannhauser and Venus. As Niemann mastered the French
pronunciation with considerable skill, these rehearsals, in which
Fraulein Sax also proved delightful, made genuine and encouraging
progress. Up to this point these rehearsals were undisturbed, as
my acquaintance with M. Dietzsch was as yet very slight.
According to the rules of the Opera House, Dietzsch had hitherto
only been present at the pianoforte rehearsals as chef
d'orchestre and future conductor of the opera, so as to make
himself accurately acquainted with the intentions of the singers.
Still less was I disturbed by M. Cormon, the stage manager, who
was also present at the rehearsals, and with a lively skill,
characteristic of the French people, conducted the numerous so-
called 'property' rehearsals, at which the way each scene was to
be played was determined. Even when M. Cormon or others did not
understand me, they were always ready to subordinate themselves
to my decisions; for I continued to be regarded as all-powerful,
and everybody thought that I could enforce what I wanted through
Princess Metternich, a belief which, indeed, was not without
foundation. For instance, I had learned that Prince Poniatowsky
was threatening to place a serious obstacle in the way of
continuing our rehearsals by reviving one of his own operas, the
production of which had fallen through. The undaunted Princess
met my complaints on this subject by obtaining an immediate order
that the Prince's opera should be laid aside. Naturally this did
not tend to ingratiate me with the Prince, and he did not fail to
make me feel his displeasure when I called upon him. In the midst
of all this work I was afforded some recreation by a visit from
my sister Louise with part of her family. To entertain her in my
own home presented the greatest difficulties owing to the strange
fact that it was now becoming absolutely dangerous to approach my
house. When I first took it, the proprietor gave me a fairly long
lease, but would not undertake any repairs. I now discovered the
reason of this was that it had just been decided by the Paris
Committee of Reconstruction to clear the Rue Newton with all its
side streets to facilitate the opening up of a broad boulevard
from one of the bridges to the Barriere de l'Etoile. But up to
the last moment this plan was officially denied, so as to avoid
for as long as possible the liability of paying compensation for
the land that was to be expropriated. To my astonishment I
noticed that excavations were being made close to my front door;
these increased in width, so that at first no carriages could
pass my door, and finally my house was unapproachable even on
foot. Under these circumstances the proprietor had no objection
to make to my leaving the house. His sole stipulation was that I
should sue him for damages, as that was the only way by which he
in his turn could sue the government. About this time my friend
Ollivier was debarred for three months on account of a
parliamentary misdemeanour; he therefore recommended me for the
conduct of my case to his friend Picard, who, as I saw later on
from the legal proceedings, acquitted himself of his task with
much humour. Nevertheless, there was no chance of damages for me
(whether the proprietor obtained any, I cannot say); but, at all
events, I had to content myself with being released from my
agreement. I also obtained leave to look about for another house,
and instituted my search in a neighbourhood less remote from the
Opera. I found a poor cheerless spot in the Rue d'Aumale. Late in
the autumn in stormy weather we completed the arduous task of
moving, in which Louisa's daughter, my niece Ottilie, proved a
capable and willing child. Unfortunately I caught a violent cold
in the course of moving and took few precautions to check it. I
again exposed myself to the growing excitement of the rehearsals,
and eventually I was struck down by typhoid fever.

We had reached the month of November. My relations had to go
home, leaving me behind in a state of unconsciousness, in which I
was consigned to the care of my friend Gasperini. In my fits of
fever I insisted on their calling in all imaginable medical aid,
and, as a matter of fact, Count Hatzfeld did bring in the doctor
attached to the Prussian embassy. The injustice thus done to my
friend, who took the greatest care of me, was due to no mistrust
of him, but to feverish hallucinations which filled my brain with
the most outrageous and luxuriant fancies. In this condition, not
only did I imagine that Princess Metternich and Mme. Kalergis
were arranging a complete court for me, to which I invited the
Emperor Napoleon, but I actually requested that Emil Erlanger
should place a villa near Paris at my disposal, and that I should
be removed to it, as it was impossible for me to recover in the
dark hole where I was. At last I insisted on being taken to
Naples, where I promised myself a speedy recovery in free
intercourse with Garibaldi. Gasperini held bravely out against
all this madness, and he and Minna had to use force in order to
apply the necessary mustard-plasters to the soles of my feet.
During bad nights later on in life similar vain and extravagant
fancies used to return to me, and on waking I have realised with
horror that they were the offspring of that period of fever.
After five days we mastered the fever; but I seemed to be
threatened with blindness, and my weakness was extreme. At last
the injury to my sight passed away, and after a few weeks I again
trusted myself to steal along the few streets between my house
and the Opera, to satisfy my anxiety for the continuation of the
rehearsals.

People here had indulged in the oddest ideas, and seemed to have
assumed that I was as good as dead. I learned that the rehearsals
had been needlessly suspended, and moreover gathered from one
indication after another that the affair had practically
collapsed, although in my intense desire for recovery I tried my
utmost to conceal this from myself. But I was much elated and
pleased to see that the translation of the four operatic
librettos which had so far appeared had been published. I had
written a very exhaustive preface to them addressed to M.
Frederic Villot. The translation of all this had been arranged
for me by M. Challemel Lacour, a man with whom I had become
acquainted at Herwegh's house in days gone by when he was a
political refugee. He was a highly intelligent translator, and
had now done me such admirable service that every one recognised
the value of his work. I had given J. J. Weber, the bookseller in
Leipzig, the German original of the preface to publish under the
title of Zukunftsmusik. This pamphlet also reached me now, and
pleased me, as it probably represented the only result of my
whole Paris undertaking, which looked so brilliant on the
surface.

At the same time I was now in a position to complete the new
composition for Tannhauser, of which the great dance scene in the
Venusberg was still incomplete. I finished it at three o'clock
one morning after staying up all night, just as Minna returned
home from a great ball at the Hotel de Ville to which she had
been with a friend. I had given her some handsome presents for
Christmas, but as far as I myself was concerned I continued, on
the advice of my doctor, to assist the slow process of recovery
by a beefsteak in the morning and a glass of Bavarian beer before
going to bed. We did not watch the old year out; on the contrary,
I retired to bed and slept calmly into 1861.

1861.--The slackness with which the rehearsals of Tannhauser were
being conducted when I fell ill changed at the beginning of the
new year into a more decided handling of all the details
connected with the intended performance. But I could not fail to
notice at the same time that the attitude of all those who took
part was substantially altered. The rehearsals, which were more
numerous than might be expected, gave me the impression that the
management was adhering to the strict execution of a command, but
were not fired by any hope of successful results. Certainly I now
obtained a clearer insight into the actual state of affairs. From
the press, which was entirely in the hands of Meyerbeer, I knew
long ago what I had to expect. The management of the Opera,
probably after repeated efforts to make the chief leaders in the
press tractable, were now likewise convinced that my Tannhauser
venture would only meet with a hostile reception from that
quarter. This view was shared even in the highest circles, and it
seemed as if an attempt was being made to discover some means
whereby to win over to my side that part of the operatic public
which could turn the scales. Prince Metternich sent me an
invitation one day to meet the new cabinet minister, Count
Walewsky. An air of ceremony pervaded the introduction, and made
it particularly significant when the Count in a persuasive speech
endeavoured to convince me that they entertained every wish for
my good fortune and desired to help me to a brilliant success. He
added in conclusion that the power to effect this was in my own
hands, if I would only consent to introduce a ballet into the
second act of my opera; the most celebrated ballet-dancers from
St. Petersburg and London had been proposed to me, and I had only
to make my selection; their engagement would be concluded as soon
as I had entrusted the success of my work to their co-operation.
In declining these proposals I think I was no less eloquent than
he in making them. My complete failure, however, was due to the
fact that I did not appear to understand the worthy minister when
he informed me that the ballet in the first act counted for
nothing, because those devotees of the theatre who only cared for
the ballet on an opera night were accustomed, according to the
new fashion, not to dine until eight o'clock, and so did not
reach the theatre until ten o'clock, when about half the
performance was over. I replied that I could not undertake myself
to oblige these gentlemen, but might well hope duly to impress
another part of the public. But with his imperturbable air of
ceremony he met me with the objection that these gentlemen's
support could alone be counted upon to produce a successful
result, inasmuch as they were powerful enough even to defy the
hostile attitude of the press. This precaution awakened no
response in me, and I offered to withdraw my work altogether,
whereupon I was assured with the greatest earnestness that,
according to the Emperor's command, which had to be universally
respected, I was master of the situation, and my wishes would be
followed in everything. The Count had only thought it his duty to
give me a friendly piece of advice.

The consequences of this conversation soon became evident in many
ways. I threw myself enthusiastically into the work of carrying
out the great dance scenes of the first act, and tried to win
Petitpas, the ballet-master, to my side. I asked for unheard-of
combinations quite different from those generally employed in the
ballet. I drew attention to the dances of the Maenads and
Bacchantes, and astounded Petitpas with the mere proposition that
he would be able to accomplish something of the kind with his
graceful pupils, as it was well within his powers. He explained
to me that by placing my ballet at the beginning of the first act
I had myself renounced all claim to the step-dancers attached to
the Opera, and all he could do was to offer to engage three
Hungarian dancers, who had formerly danced in the fairy scenes at
the Porte St. Martin, to fill the parts of the three graces. As I
was quite content to dispense with the distinguished dancers
belonging to the Opera, I insisted all the more that the rank and
file of the ballet should be actively coached. I wanted to know
that the male staff was present in full force, but I learned that
it was impossible to bring it up to my requirements, unless some
tailors were engaged who, for a monthly salary of fifty francs,
figured in a vague way in the wings during the performances of
the solo dancers. Finally I tried to produce my effects by means
of the costumes, and asked for considerable funds for that
purpose, only to learn, after I had been wearied by one
subterfuge after another, that the management was determined not
to expend a halfpenny on my ballet, which they regarded as
completely wasted. Such was the substance of what my trusty
friend Truinet conveyed to me. This was the first sign out of
many which soon revealed to me the fact, that even in the circles
of the operatic administration itself Tannhauser was already
regarded as labour lost and sheer waste of trouble.

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