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My Life, Volume I

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




After this pleasing adventure I imagined I had exhausted the
attractions of London for the present, for although I could not
gain admittance to the Lower House, my untiring friend, whom I
came across again as I went out, showed me the room where the
Commons sat, explained as much as was necessary, and gave me a
sight of the Speaker's woolsack, and of his mace lying hidden
under the table. He also gave me such careful details of various
things that I felt I knew all there was to know about the capital
of Great Britain. I had not the smallest intention of going to
the Italian opera, possibly because I imagined the prices to be
too ruinous. We thoroughly explored all the principal streets,
often tiring ourselves out; we shuddered through a ghastly London
Sunday, and wound up with a train trip (our very first) to
Gravesend Park, in the company of the captain of the Thetis. On
the 20th of August we crossed over to France by steamer, arriving
the same evening at Boulogne-sur-mer, where we took leave of the
sea with the fervent desire never to go on it again.

We were both of us secretly convinced that we should meet with
disappointments in Paris, and it was partly on that account that
we decided to spend a few weeks at or near Boulogne. It was, in
any case, too early in the season to find the various important
people whom I proposed to see, in town; on the other hand, it
seemed to me a most fortunate circumstance that Meyerbeer should
happen to be at Boulogne. Also, I had the instrumentation of part
of the second act of Rienzi to finish, and was bent on having at
least half of the work ready to show on my arrival in the costly
French capital. We therefore set out to find less expensive
accommodation in the country round Boulogne. Beginning with the
immediate neighbourhood, our search ended in our taking two
practically unfurnished rooms in the detached house of a rural
wine merchant's, situated on the main road to Paris at half an
hour's distance from Boulogne. We next provided scanty but
adequate furniture, and in bringing our wits to bear upon this
matter Minna particularly distinguished herself. Besides a bed
and two chairs, we dug up a table, which, after I had cleared
away my Rienzi papers, served for our meals, which we had to
prepare at our own fireside.

While we were here I made my first call on Meyerbeer. I had often
read in the papers of his proverbial amiability, and bore him no
ill-will for not replying to my letter. My favourable opinion was
soon to be confirmed, however, by his kind reception of me. The
impression he made was good in every respect, particularly as
regards his appearance. The years had not yet given his features
the flabby look which sooner or later mars most Jewish faces, and
the fine formation of his brow round about the eyes gave him an
expression of countenance that inspired confidence. He did not
seem in the least inclined to depreciate my intention of trying
my luck in Paris as a composer of opera; he allowed me to read
him my libretto for Rienzi, and really listened up to the end of
the third act. He kept the two acts that were complete, saying
that he wished to look them over, and assured me, when I again
called on him, of his whole-hearted interest in my work. Be this
as it may, it annoyed me somewhat that he should again and again
fall back on praising my minute handwriting, an accomplishment he
considered especially Saxonian. He promised to give me letters of
recommendation to Duponchel, the manager of the Opera House, and
to Habeneck, the conductor. I now felt that I had good cause to
extol my good fortune which, after many vicissitudes, had sent me
precisely to this particular spot in France. What better fortune
could have befallen me than to secure, in so short a time, the
sympathetic interest of the most famous composer of French opera!
Meyerbeer took me to see Moscheles, who was then in Boulogne, and
also Fraulein Blahedka, a celebrated virtuoso whose name I had
known for many years. I spent a few informal musical evenings at
both houses, and thus came into close touch with musical
celebrities, an experience quite new to me.

I had written to my future brother-in-law, Avernarius, in Paris,
to ask him to find us suitable accommodations, and we started on
our journey thither on 16th September in the diligence, my
efforts to hoist Robber on to the top being attended by the usual
difficulties.

My first impression of Paris proved disappointing in view of the
great expectations I had cherished of that city; after London it
seemed to me narrow and confined. I had imagined the famous
boulevards to be much vaster, for instance, and was really
annoyed, when the huge coach put us down in the Rue de la
Juissienne, to think that I should first set foot on Parisian
soil in such a wretched little alley. Neither did the Rue
Richelieu, where my brother-in-law had his book-shop, seem
imposing after the streets in the west end of London. As for the
chambre garnie, which had been engaged for me in the Rue de la
Tonnellerie, one of the narrow side-streets which link the Rue
St. Honore with the Marche des Innocents, I felt positively
degraded at having to take up my abode there. I needed all the
consolation that could be derived from an inscription, placed
under a bust of Moliere, which read: maison ou naquit Moliere, to
raise my courage after the mean impression the house had first
made upon me. The room, which had been prepared for us on the
fourth floor, was small but cheerful, decently furnished, and
inexpensive. From the windows we could see the frightful bustle
in the market below, which became more and more alarming as we
watched it, and I wondered what we were doing in such a quarter.

Shortly after this, Avenarius had to go to Leipzig to bring home
his bride, my youngest sister Cecilia, after the wedding in that
city. Before leaving, he gave me an introduction to his only
musical acquaintance, a German holding an appointment in the
music department of the Bibliotheque Royale, named E. G. Anders,
who lost no time in looking us up in Moliere's house. He was, as
I soon discovered, a man of very unusual character, and, little
as he was able to help me, he left an affecting and ineffaceable
impression on my memory. He was a bachelor in the fifties, whose
reverses had driven him to the sad necessity of earning a living
in Paris entirely without assistance. He had fallen back on the
extraordinary bibliographical knowledge which, especially in
reference to music, it had been his hobby to acquire in the days
of his prosperity. His real name he never told me, wishing to
guard the secret of that, as of his misfortunes, until after his
death. For the time being he told me only that he was known as
Anders, was of noble descent, and had held property on the Rhine,
but that he had lost everything owing to the villainous betrayal
of his gullibility and good-nature. The only thing he had managed
to save was his very considerable library, the size of which I
was able to estimate for myself. It filled every wall of his
small dwelling. Even here in Paris he soon complained of bitter
enemies; for, in spite of having come furnished with an
introduction to influential people, he still held the inferior
position of an employee in the library. In spite of his long
service there and his great learning, he had to see really
ignorant men promoted over his head. I discovered afterwards that
the real reason lay in his unbusinesslike methods, and the
effeminacy consequent on the delicate way in which he had been
nurtured in early life, which made him incapable of developing the
energy necessary for his work. On a miserable pittance of fifteen
hundred francs a year, he led a weary existence, full of anxiety.
With nothing in view but a lonely old age, and the probability of
dying in a hospital, it seemed as if our society put new life
into him; for though we were poverty-stricken, we looked forward
boldly and hopefully to the future. My vivacity and invincible
energy filled him with hopes of my success, and from this time
forward he took a most tender and unselfish part in furthering my
interests. Although he was a contributor to the Gazette Musicale,
edited by Moritz Schlesinger, he had never succeeded in making
his influence felt there in the slightest degree. He had none of
the versatility of a journalist, and the editors entrusted him
with little besides the preparation of bibliographical notes.
Oddly enough, it was with this unworldly and least resourceful of
men that I had to discuss my plan for the conquest of Paris, that
is, of musical Paris, which is made up of all the most
questionable characters imaginable. The result was practically
always the same; we merely encouraged each other in the hope that
some unforeseen stroke of luck would help my cause.

To assist us in these discussions Anders called in his friend and
housemate Lehrs, a philologist, my acquaintance with whom was
soon to develop into one of the most beautiful friendships of my
life. Lehrs was the younger brother of a famous scholar at
Konigsberg. He had left there to come to Paris some years before,
with the object of gaining an independent position by his
philological work. This he preferred, in spite of the attendant
difficulties, to a post as teacher with a salary which only in
Germany could be considered sufficient for a scholar's wants. He
soon obtained work from Didot, the bookseller, as assistant
editor of a large edition of Greek classics, but the editor
traded on his poverty, and was much more concerned about the
success of his enterprise than about the condition of his poor
collaborator. Lehrs had therefore perpetually to struggle against
poverty, but he preserved an even temper, and showed himself in
every way a model of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice. At
first he looked upon me only as a man in need of advice, and
incidentally a fellow-sufferer in Paris; for he had no knowledge
of music, and had no particular interest in it. We soon became so
intimate that I had him dropping in nearly every evening with
Anders, Lehrs being extremely useful to his friend, whose
unsteadiness in walking obliged him to use an umbrella and a
walking-stick as crutches. He was also nervous in crossing
crowded thorough-fares, and particularly so at night; while he
always liked to make Lehrs cross my threshold in front of him to
distract the attention of Robber, of whom he stood in obvious
terror. Our usually good-natured dog became positively suspicious
of this visitor, and soon adopted towards him the same aggressive
attitude which he had shown to the sailor Koske on board the
Thetis. The two men lived at an hotel garni in Rue de Seine. They
complained greatly of their landlady, who appropriated so much of
their income that they were entirely in her power. Anders had for
years been trying to assert his independence by leaving her,
without being able to carry out his plan. We soon threw off
mutually every shred of disguise as to the present state of our
finances, so that, although the two house-holds were actually
separated, our common troubles gave us all the intimacy of one
united family.

The various ways by which I might obtain recognition in Paris
formed the chief topic of our discussions at that time. Our hopes
were at first centred on Meyerbeer's promised letters of
introduction. Duponchel, the director of the Opera, did actually
see me at his office, where, fixing a monocle in his right eye,
he read through Meyerbeer's letter without betraying the least
emotion, having no doubt opened similar communications from the
composer many times before. I went away, and never heard another
word from him. The elderly conductor, Habeneck, on the other
hand, took an interest in my work that was not merely polite, and
acceded to my request to have something of mine played at one of
the orchestral practises at the Conservatoire as soon as he
should have leisure. I had, unfortunately, no short instrumental
piece that seemed suitable except my queer Columbus Overture,
which I considered the most effective of all that had emanated
from my pen. It had been received with great applause on the
occasion of its performance in the theatre at Magdeburg, with the
assistance of the valiant trumpeters from the Prussian garrison.
I gave Habeneck the score and parts, and was able to report to
our committee at home that I had now one enterprise on foot.

I gave up the attempt to try and see Scribe on the mere ground of
our having had some correspondence, for my friends had made it
clear to me, in the light of their own experience, that it was
out of the question to expect this exceptionally busy author to
occupy himself seriously with a young and unknown musician.
Anders was able to introduce me to another acquaintance, however,
a certain M. Dumersan. This grey-haired gentleman had written
some hundred vaudeville pieces, and would have been glad to see
one of them performed as an opera on a larger scale before his
death. He had no idea of standing on his dignity as an author,
and was quite willing to undertake the translation of an existing
libretto into French verse. We therefore entrusted him with the
writing of my Liebesverbot, with a view to a performance at the
Theatre de la Renaissance, as it was then called. (It was the
third existing theatre for lyric drama, the performances being
given in the new Salle Ventadour, which had been rebuilt after
its destruction by fire.) On the understanding that it was to be
a literal translation, he at once turned the three numbers of my
opera, for which I hoped to secure a hearing, into neat French
verse. Besides this, he asked me to compose a chorus for a
vaudeville entitled La Descente de la Courtille, which was to be
played at the Varietes during the carnival.

This was a second opening. My friends now strongly advised me to
write something small in the way of songs, which I could offer to
popular singers for concert purposes. Both Lehrs and Anders
produced words for these. Anders brought a very innocent Dors,
mon enfant, written by a young poet of his acquaintance; this was
the first thing I composed to a French text. It was so successful
that, when I had tried it over softly several times on the piano,
my wife, who was in bed, called out to me that it was heavenly
for sending one to sleep. I also set L'Attente from Hugo's
Orientales, and Ronsard's song, Mignonne, to music. I have no
reason to be ashamed of these small pieces, which I published
subsequently as a musical supplement to Europa (Lewald's
publication) in 1841.

I next stumbled on the idea of writing a grand bass aria with a
chorus, for Lablache to introduce into his part of Orovist in
Bellini's Norma. Lehrs had to hunt up an Italian political
refugee to get the text out of him. This was done, and I produced
an effective composition a la Bellini (which still exists among
my manuscripts), and went off at once to offer it to Lablache.

The friendly Moor, who received me in the great singer's
anteroom, insisted upon admitting me straight into his master's
presence without announcing me. As I had anticipated some
difficulty in getting near such a celebrity, I had written my
request, as I thought this would be simpler than explaining
verbally.

The black servant's pleasant manner made me feel very
uncomfortable; I entrusted my score and letter to him to give to
Lablache, without taking any notice of his kindly astonishment at
my refusal of his repeated invitation to go into his master's
room and have an interview, and I left the house hurriedly,
intending to call for my answer in a few days. When I came back
Lablache received me most kindly, and assured me that my aria was
excellent, though it was impossible to introduce it into
Bellini's opera after the latter had already been performed so
very often. My relapse into the domain of Bellini's style, of
which I had been guilty through the writing of this aria, was
therefore useless to me, and I soon became convinced of the
fruitlessness of my efforts in that direction. I saw that I
should need personal introductions to various singers in order to
ensure the production of one of my other compositions.

When Meyerbeer at last arrived in Paris, therefore, I was
delighted. He was not in the least astonished at the lack of
success of his letters of introduction; on the contrary, he made
use of this opportunity to impress upon me how difficult it was
to get on in Paris, and how necessary it was for me to look out
for less pretentious work. With this object he introduced me to
Maurice Schlesinger, and leaving me at the mercy of that
monstrous person, went back to Germany.

At first Schlesinger did not know what to do with me; the
acquaintances I made through him (of whom the chief was the
violinist Panofka) led to nothing, and I therefore returned to my
advisory board at home, through whose influence I had recently
received an order to compose the music to the Two Grenadiers, by
Heine, translated by a Parisian professor. I wrote this song for
baritone, and was very pleased with the result; on Ander's advice
I now tried to find singers for my new compositions. Mme. Pauline
Viardot, on whom I first called, went through my songs with me.
She was very amiable, and praised them, but did not see why SHE
should sing them. I went through the same experience with a Mme.
Widmann, a grand contralto, who sang my Dors, mon enfant with
great feeling; all the same she had no further use for my
composition. A certain M. Dupont, third tenor at the grand opera,
tried my setting of the Ronsard poem, but declared that the
language in which it was written was no longer palatable to the
Paris public. M. Geraldy, a favourite concert singer and teacher,
who allowed me to call and see him frequently, told me that the
Two Grenadiers was impossible, for the simple reason that the
accompaniment at the end of the song, which I had modelled upon
the Marseillaise, could only be sung in the streets of Paris to
the accompaniment of cannons and gunshots. Habeneck was the only
person who fulfilled his promise to conduct my Columbus Overture
at one of the rehearsals for the benefit of Anders and myself.
As, however, there was no question of producing this work even at
one of the celebrated Conservatoire concerts, I saw clearly that
the old gentleman was only moved by kindness and a desire to
encourage me. It could not lead to anything further, and I myself
was convinced that this extremely superficial work of my young
days could only give the orchestra a wrong impression of my
talents. However, these rehearsals, to my surprise, made such an
unexpected impression on me in other ways that they exercised a
decisive influence in the crisis of my artistic development. This
was due to the fact that I listened repeatedly to Beethoven's
Ninth Symphony, which, by dint of untiring practice, received
such a marvellous interpretation at the hands of this celebrated
orchestra, that the picture I had had of it in my mind in the
enthusiastic days of my youth now stood before me almost tangibly
in brilliant colours, undimmed, as though it had never been
effaced by the Leipzig orchestra who had slaughtered it under
Pohlenz's baton. Where formerly I had only seen mystic
constellations and weird shapes without meaning, I now found,
flowing from innumerable sources, a stream of the most touching
and heavenly melodies which delighted my heart.

The whole of that period of the deterioration of my musical
tastes which dated, practically speaking, from those selfsame
confusing ideas about Beethoven, and which had grown so much
worse through my acquaintance with that dreadful theatre--all
these wrong views now sank down as if into an abyss of shame and
remorse.

This inner change had been gradually prepared by many painful
experiences during the last few years. I owed the recovery of my
old vigour and spirits to the deep impression the rendering of
the Ninth Symphony had made on me when performed in a way I had
never dreamed of. This important event in my life can only be
compared to the upheaval caused within me when, as a youth of
sixteen, I saw Schroder-Devrient act in Fidelio.

The direct result of this was my intense longing to compose
something that would give me a similar feeling of satisfaction,
and this desire grew in proportion to my anxiety about my
unfortunate position in Paris, which made me almost despair of
success.

In this mood I sketched an overture to Faust which, according to
my original scheme, was only to form the first part of a whole
Faust Symphony, as I had already got the 'Gretchen' idea in my
head for the second movement. This is the same composition that I
rewrote in several parts fifteen years later; I had forgotten all
about it, and I owed its reconstruction to the advice of Liszt,
who gave me many valuable hints. This composition has been
performed many times under the title of eine Faust-ouverture, and
has met with great appreciation. At the time of which I am
speaking, I hoped that the Conservatoire orchestra would have
been willing to give the work a hearing, but I was told they
thought they had done enough for me, and hoped to be rid of me
for some time.

Having failed everywhere, I now turned to Meyerbeer for more
introductions, especially to singers. I was very much surprised
when, in consequence of my request, Meyerbeer introduced me to a
certain M. Gouin, a post-office official, and Meyerbeer's sole
agent in Paris, whom he instructed to do his utmost for me.
Meyerbeer specially wished me to know M. Antenor Joly, director
of the Theatre de la Renaissance, the musical theatre already
mentioned. M. Gouin, with almost suspicious levity, promised me
to produce my opera Liebesverbot, which now only required
translation. There was a question of having a few numbers of my
opera sung to the committee of the theatre at a special audience.
When I suggested that some of the singers of this very theatre
should undertake to sing three of the numbers which had been
already translated by Dumersan, I was refused on the plea that
all these artists were far too busy. But Gouin saw a way out of
the difficulty; on the authority of Maitre Meyerbeer, he won over
to our cause several singers who were under an obligation to
Meyerbeer: Mme. Dorus-Gras, a real primadonna of the Grand Opera,
Mme. Widmann and M. Dupont (the two last-named had previously
refused to help me) now promised to sing for me at this audience.

This much, then, did I achieve in six months. It was now nearly
Easter of the year 1840. Encouraged by Gouin's negotiations,
which seemed to spell hope, I made up my mind to move from the
obscure Quartier des Innocents to a part of Paris nearer to the
musical centre; and in this I was encouraged by Lehrs' foolhardy
advice.

What this change meant to me, my readers will learn when they
hear under what circumstances we had dragged on our existence
during our stay in Paris.

Although we were living in the cheapest possible way, dining at a
very small restaurant for a franc a head, it was impossible to
prevent the rest of our money from melting away. Our friend
Moller had given us to understand that we could ask him if we
were in need, as he would put aside for us the first money that
came in from any successful business transaction. There was no
alternative but to apply to him for money; in the meantime we
pawned all the trinkets we possessed that were of any value. As I
was too shy to make inquiries about a pawnshop, I looked up the
French equivalent in the dictionary in order to be able to
recognise such a place when I saw it. In my little pocket
dictionary I could not find any other word than 'Lombard.' On
looking at a map of Paris I found, situated in the middle of an
inextricable maze of streets, a very small lane called Rue des
Lombards. Thither I wended my way, but my expedition was
fruitless. Often, on reading by the light of the transparent
lanterns the inscription 'Mont de Piete,' I became very curious
to know its meaning, and on consulting my advisory board at home
about this 'Mount of Piety,' [Footnote: This is the correct
translation of the words Berg der Frommigkeit used in the
original.--Editor.] I was told, to my great delight, that it was
precisely there that I should find salvation. To this 'Mont de
Piete' we now carried all we possessed in the way of silver,
namely, our wedding presents. After that followed my wife's
trinkets and the rest of her former theatrical wardrobe, amongst
which was a beautiful silver-embroidered blue dress with a court
train, once the property of the Duchess of Dessau. Still we heard
nothing from our friend Moller, and we were obliged to wait on
from day to day for the sorely needed help from Konigsberg, and
at last, one dark day, we pledged our wedding rings. When all
hope of assistance seemed vain, I heard that the pawn-tickets
themselves were of some value, as they could be sold to buyers,
who thereby acquired the right to redeem the pawned articles. I
had to resort even to this, and thus the blue court-dress, for
instance, was lost for ever. Moller never wrote again. When later
on he called on me at the time of my conductorship in Dresden, he
admitted that he had been embittered against me owing to
humiliating and derogatory remarks we were said to have made
about him after we parted, and had resolved not to have anything
further to do with us. We were certain of our innocence in the
matter, and very grieved at having, through pure slander, lost
the chance of such assistance in our great need.

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