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My Life, Volume I

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




It lay, therefore, much nearer my heart to do all I could for the
success of this than to inquire into the reasons for this
attitude on the part of the Berlin public. And here the ice was
really broken at last. The audience seemed to abandon all idea of
finding a proper niche for me, and allowed itself to be carried
away into giving vent to applause, which at last grew into the
most boisterous enthusiasm. At the close of the act, amid a storm
of shouts, I led forward my singers on to the stage for the
customary bows of thanks. As the third act was too short to be
tedious, and as the scenic effects were both new and impressive,
we could not help hoping that we had won a veritable triumph,
especially as renewed outbursts of applause marked the end of the
performance. Mendelssohn, who happened at that time to be in
Berlin, with Meyerbeer, on business relating to the general
musical conductorship, was present in a stage box during this
performance. He followed its progress with a pale face, and
afterwards came and murmured to me in a weary tone of voice,
'Well, I should think you are satisfied now!' I met him several
times during my brief stay in Berlin., and also spent an evening
with him listening to various pieces of chamber-music. But never
did another word concerning the Fliegender Hollander pass his
lips, beyond inquiries as to the second performance, and as to
whether Devrient or some one else would appear in it. I heard,
moreover, that he had responded with equal indifference to the
earnest warmth of my allusions to his own music for the Midsummer
Night's Dream, which was being frequently played at that time,
and which I had heard for the first time. The only thing he
discussed with any detail was the actor Gern, who was playing in
Zettel, and who he considered was overacting his part.

A few days later came a second performance with the same cast. My
experiences on this evening were even more startling than on the
former. Evidently the first night had won me a few friends, who
were again present, for they began to applaud after the overture.
But others responded with hisses, and for the rest of the evening
no one again ventured to applaud. My old friend Heine had arrived
in the meantime from Dresden, sent by our own board of directors
to study the scenic arrangements of the Midsummer Night's Dream
for our theatre. He was present at this second performance, and
had persuaded me to accept the invitation from one of his Berlin
relatives to have supper after the performance in a wine-bar
unter den Linden. Very weary, I followed him to a nasty and badly
lighted house, where I gulped down the wine with hasty ill-humour
to warm myself, and listened to the embarrassed conversation of
my good-natured friend and his companion, whilst I turned over
the day's papers. I now had ample leisure to read the criticisms
they contained on the first performance of my Fliegender
Hollander. A terrible spasm cut my heart as I realised the
contemptible tone and unparalleled shamelessness of their raging
ignorance regarding my own name and work. Our Berlin friend and
host, a thorough Philistine, said that he had known how things
would go in the theatre that night, after having read these
criticisms in the morning. The people of Berlin, he added, wait
to hear what Rellstab and his mates have to say, and then they
know how to behave. The good fellow was anxious to cheer me up,
and ordered one wine after another. Heine hunted up his
reminiscences of our merry Rienzi times in Dresden, until at last
the pair conducted me, staggering along in an addled condition,
to my hotel.

It was already midnight. As I was being lighted by the waiter
through its gloomy corridors to my room, a gentleman in black,
with a pale refined face, came forward and said he would like to
speak to me. He informed me that he had waited there since the
close of the play, and as he was determined to see me, had
stopped till now. I excused myself on the ground of being quite
unfit for business, and added that, although not exactly inclined
to merriment, I had, as he might perceive, somewhat foolishly
drunk a little too much wine. This I said in a stammering voice;
but my strange visitor seemed only the more unwilling to be
repulsed. He accompanied me to my room, declaring that it was all
the more imperative for him to speak with me. We seated ourselves
in the cold room, by the meagre light of a single candle, and
then he began to talk. In flowing and impressive language he
related that he had been present at the performance that night of
my Fliegender Hollander, and could well conceive the humour in
which the evening's experiences had left me. For this very reason
he felt that nothing should hinder him from speaking to me that
night, and telling me that in the Fliegender Hollander I had
produced an unrivalled masterpiece. Moreover, the acquaintance he
had made with this work had awakened in him a new and unforeseen
hope for the future of German art; and that it would be a great
pity if I yielded to any sense of discouragement as the result of
the unworthy reception accorded to it by the Berlin public. My
hair began to stand on end. One of Hoffmann's fantastic creations
had entered bodily into my life. I could find nothing to say,
except to inquire the name of my visitor, at which he seemed
surprised, as I had talked with him the day before at
Mendelssohn's house. He said that my conversation and manner had
created such an impression upon him there, and had filled him
with such sudden regret at not having sufficiently overcome his
dislike for opera in general, to be present at the first
performance, that he had at once resolved not to miss the second.
His name, he added, was Professor Werder. That was no use to me,
I said, he must write his name down. Getting paper and ink, he
did as I desired, and we parted. I flung myself unconsciously on
the bed for a deep and invigorating sleep. Next morning I was
fresh and well. I paid a farewell call on Schroeder-Devrient, who
promised me to do all she could for the Fliegender Hollander as
soon as possible, drew my fee of a hundred ducats, and set off
for home. On my way through Leipzig I utilised my ducats for the
repayment of sundry advances made me by my relatives during the
earlier and poverty-stricken period of my sojourn in Dresden, and
then continued my journey, to recuperate among my books and
meditate upon the deep impression made on me by Werder's midnight
visit.

Before the end of this winter I received a genuine invitation to
Hamburg for the performance of Rienzi. The enterprising director,
Herr Cornet, through whom it came, confessed that he had many
difficulties to contend against in the management of his theatre,
and was in need of a great success. This, after the reception
with which it had met in Dresden, he thought he could secure by
the production of Rienzi. I accordingly betook myself thither in
the month of March. The journey at that time was not an easy one,
as after Hanover one had to proceed by mail-coach, and the
crossing of the Elbe, which was full of floating ice, was a risky
business. Owing to a great fire that had recently broken out, the
town of Hamburg was in process of being rebuilt, and there were
still many wide spaces encumbered with ruins. Cold weather and an
ever-gloomy sky make my recollections of my somewhat prolonged
sojourn in this town anything but agreeable. I was tormented to
such an extent by having to rehearse with bad material, fit only
for the poorest theatrical trumpery, that, worn out and exposed
to constant colds, I spent most of my leisure time in the
solitude of my inn chamber. My earlier experiences of ill-
arranged and badly managed theatres came back to me afresh. I was
particularly depressed when I realised that I had made myself an
unconscious accomplice of Director Cornet's basest interests. His
one aim was to create a sensation, which he thought should be of
great service to me also; and not only did he put me off with a
smaller fee, but even suggested that it should be paid by gradual
instalments. The dignity of scenic decoration, of which he had
not the smallest idea, was completely sacrificed to the most
ridiculous and tawdry showiness. He imagined that pageantry was
all that was really needed to secure my success. So he hunted out
all the old fairy-ballet costumes from his stock, and fancied
that if they only looked gay enough, and if plenty of people were
bustling about on the stage, I ought to be satisfied. But the
most sorry item of all was the singer he provided for the title-
role. He was a man of the name of Wurda, an elderly, flabby and
voiceless tenor, who sang Rienzi with the expression of a lover--
like Elvino, for instance, in the Somnanibula. He was so dreadful
that I conceived the idea of making the Capitol tumble down in
the second act, so as to bury him sooner in its ruins, a plan
which would have cut out several of the processions, which were
so dear to the heart of the director. I found my one ray of light
in a lady singer, who delighted me with the fire with which she
played the part of Adriano. This was a Mme. Fehringer, who was
afterwards engaged by Liszt for the role of Ortrud in the
production of Lohengrin at Weimar, but by that time her powers
had greatly deteriorated. Nothing could be more depressing than
my connection with this opera under such dismal circumstances.
And yet there were no outward signs of failure. The manager hoped
in any case to keep Rienzi in his repertoire until Tichatschek
was able to come to Hamburg and give the people of that town a
true idea of the play. This actually took place in the following
summer.

My discouragement and ill-humour did not escape the notice of
Herr Cornet, and discovering that I wished to present my wife
with a parrot, he managed to procure a very fine bird, which he
gave me as a parting gift. I carried it with me in its narrow
cage on my melancholy journey home, and was touched to find that
it quickly repaid my care and became very much attached to me.
Minna greeted me with great joy when she saw this beautiful grey
parrot, for she regarded it as a self-evident proof that I should
do something in life. We already had a pretty little dog, born on
the day of the first Rienzi rehearsal in Dresden, which, owing to
its passionate devotion to myself, was much petted by all who
knew me and visited my house during those years. This sociable
bird, which had no vices and was an apt scholar, now formed an
addition to our household; and the pair did much to brighten our
dwelling in the absence of children. My wife soon taught the bird
snatches of songs from Rienzi, with which it would good-naturedly
greet me from a distance when it heard me coming up the stairs.

And thus at last my domestic hearth seemed to be established with
every possible prospect of a comfortable competency.

No further excursions for the performance of any of my operas
took place, for the simple reason that no such performances were
given. As I saw it was quite clear that the diffusion of my works
through the theatrical world would be a very slow business, I
concluded that this was probably due to the fact that no
adaptations of them for the piano existed. I therefore thought
that I should do well to press forward such an issue at all
costs, and in order to secure the expected profits, I hit upon
the idea of publishing at my own expense. I accordingly made
arrangements with F. Meser, the court music-dealer, who had
hitherto not got beyond the publication of a valse, and signed an
agreement with him for his firm to appear as the nominal
publishers on the understanding that they should receive a
commission of ten per cent, whilst I provided the necessary
capital.

As there were two operas to be issued, including Rienzi, a work
of exceptional bulk, it was not likely that these publications
would prove very profitable unless, in addition to the usual
piano selections, I also published adaptations, such as the music
without words, for duet or solo. For this a fairly large capital
was necessary. I also needed funds for the repayment of the loans
already mentioned, and for the settlement of old debts, as well
as to pay off the remaining expenses of my house-furnishing. I
was therefore obliged to try and procure much larger sums. I laid
my project and its motive before Schroder-Devrient, who had just
returned to Dresden, at Easter, 1844, to fulfil a fresh
engagement. She believed in the future of my works, recognised
the peculiarity of my position, as well as the correctness of my
calculations, and declared her willingness to provide the
necessary capital for the publication of my operas, refusing to
consider the act as one involving any sacrifice on her part. This
money she proposed to get by selling out her investments in
Polish state-bonds, and I was to pay the customary rate of
interest. The thing was so easily done, and seemed so much a
matter of course, that I at once made all needful arrangements
with my Leipzig printer, and set to work on the publication of my
operas.

When the amount of work delivered brought with it a demand for
considerable payments on account, I approached my friend for a
first advance. And here I became confronted with a new phase of
that famous lady's life, which placed me in a position which
proved as disastrous as it was unexpected. After having broken
away from the unlucky Herr von Munchhausen some time previously,
and returned, as it appeared, with penitential ardour to her
former connection with my friend, Hermann Muller, it now turned
out that she had found no real satisfaction in this fresh
relationship. On the contrary, the star of her being, whom she
had so long and ardently desired, had now at last arisen in the
person of another lieutenant of the Guards. With a vehemence
which made light of her treachery to her old friend, she elected
this slim young man, whose moral and intellectual weaknesses were
patent to every eye, as the chosen keystone of her life's love.
He took the good luck that befell him so seriously, that he would
brook no jesting, and at once laid hands on the fortune of his
future wife, as he considered that it was disadvantageously and
insecurely invested, and thought that he knew of much more
profitable ways of employing it. My friend therefore explained,
with much pain and evident embarrassment, that she had renounced
all control over her capital, and was unable to keep her promise
to me.

Owing to this I entered upon a series of entanglements and
troubles which henceforth dominated my life, and plunged me into
sorrows that left their dismal mark on all my subsequent
enterprises. It was clear that I could not now abandon the
proposed plan of publication. The only satisfactory solution of
my perplexities was to be found in the execution of my project
and the success which I hoped would attend it. I was compelled,
therefore, to turn all my energies to the raising of the money
wherewith to publish my two operas, to which in all probability
Tannhauser would shortly have to be added. I first applied to my
friends, and in some cases had to pay exorbitant rates of
interest, even for short terms. For the present these details are
sufficient to prepare the reader for the catastrophe towards
which I was now inevitably drifting.

The hopelessness of my position did not at first reveal itself.
There seemed no reason to despair of the eventual spread of my
operatic works among the theatres in Germany, though my
experience of them indicated that the process would be slow. In
spite of the depressing experiences in Berlin and Hamburg, there
were many encouraging signs to be seen. Above all, Rienzi
maintained its position in favour of the people of Dresden, a
place which undoubtedly occupied a position of great importance,
especially during the summer months, when so many strangers from
all parts of the world pass through it. My opera, which was not
to be heard anywhere else, was in great request, both among the
Germans and other visitors, and was always received with marked
approbation, which surprised me very much. Thus a performance of
Rienzi, especially in summer, became quite a Dionysian revelry,
whose effect upon me could not fail to be encouraging.

On one occasion Liszt was among the number of these visitors. As
Rienzi did not happen to be in the repertoire when he arrived, he
induced the management at his earnest request to arrange a
special performance. I met him between the acts in Tichatschek's
dressing-room, and was heartily encouraged and touched by his
almost enthusiastic appreciation, expressed in his most emphatic
manner. The kind of life to which Liszt was at that time
condemned, and which bound him to a perpetual environment of
distracting and exciting elements, debarred us from all more
intimate and fruitful intercourse. Yet from this time onward I
continued to receive constant testimonies of the profound and
lasting impression I had made upon him, as well as of his
sympathetic remembrance of me. From various parts of the world,
wherever his triumphal progress led him, people, chiefly of the
upper classes, came to Dresden for the purpose of hearing Rienzi.
They had been so interested by Liszt's reports of my work, and by
his playing of various selections from it, that they all came
expecting something of unparalleled importance.

Besides these indications of Liszt's enthusiastic and friendly
sympathy, other deeply touching testimonies appeared from
different quarters. The startling beginning made by Werder, on
the occasion of his midnight visit after the second performance
of the Fliegender Hollander in Berlin, was shortly afterwards
followed by a similarly unsolicited approach in the form of an
effusive letter from an equally unknown personage, Alwino
Frommann, who afterwards became my faithful friend. After my
departure from Berlin she heard Schroder-Devrient twice in the
Fliegender Hollander, and the letter in which she described the
effect produced upon her by my work conveyed to me for the first
time the vigorous and profound sentiments of a deep and confident
recognition such as seldom falls to the lot of even the greatest
master, and cannot fail to exercise a weighty influence on his
mind and spirit, which long for self-confidence.

I have no very vivid recollections of my own doings during this
first year of my position as conductor in a sphere of action
which gradually grew more and more familiar. For the anniversary
of my appointment, and to some extent as a personal recognition,
I was commissioned to procure Gluck's Armida. This we performed
in March, 1843, with the co-operation of Schroder-Devrient, just
before her temporary departure from Dresden. Great importance was
attached to this production, because, at the same moment,
Meyerbeer was inaugurating his general-directorship in Berlin by
a performance of the same work. Indeed, it was in Berlin that the
extraordinary respect entertained for such a commemoration of
Gluck had its origin. I was told that Meyerbeer went to Rellstab
with the score of Armida in order to obtain hints as to its
correct interpretation.

As not long afterwards I also heard a strange story of two silver
candlesticks, wherewith the famous composer was said, to have
enlightened the no less famous critic when showing him the score
of his Feldlager in Schlesien, I decided to attach no great
importance to the instructions he might have received, but rather
to help myself by a careful handling of this difficult score, and
by introducing some softness into it through modulating the
variations in tone as much as possible. I had the gratification
later of receiving an exceedingly warm appreciation of my
rendering from Herr Eduard Devrient, a great Gluck connoisseur.
After hearing this opera as presented by us, and comparing it
with the Berlin performance, he heartily praised the tenderly
modulated character of our rendering of certain parts, which, he
said, had been given in Berlin with the coarsest bluntness. He
mentioned, as a striking instance of this, a brief chorus in C
major of male and female nymphs in the third act. By the
introduction of a more moderate tempo and very soft piano I had
tried to free this from the original coarseness with which
Devrient had heard it rendered in Berlin--presumably with
traditional fidelity. My most innocent device, and one which I
frequently adopted, for disguising the irritating stiffness or
the orchestral movement in the original, was a careful
modification of the Basso-continuo, which was taken
uninterruptedly in common time. This I felt obliged to remedy,
partly by legato playing, and partly by pizzicato.

Our management were lavish in their expenditure on externals,
especially decoration, and as a spectacular opera the piece drew
fairly large houses, thus earning me the reputation of being a
very suitable conductor for Gluck, and one who was in close
sympathy with him. This result was the more conspicuous from the
fact that Iphigenia in Tauris which is a far superior work, and
in which Devrient's interpretation of the title-role was
admirable had been performed to empty houses,

I had to live upon this reputation for a long time, as it often
happened that I was compelled to give inferior performances of
repertoire pieces, including Mozart's operas. The mediocrity of
these was particularly disappointing to those who, after my
success in Armida, had expected a great deal from my rendering of
these pieces, and were much disappointed in consequence. Even
sympathetic hearers sought to explain their disappointment on the
ground that I did not appreciate Mozart and could not understand
him. But they failed to realise how impossible it was for me, as
a mere conductor, to exercise any real influence on such
desultory performances, which were merely given as stopgaps, and
often without rehearsal. Indeed, in this matter I often found
myself in a false position, which, as I was powerless to remedy
it, contributed not a little to render unbearable both my new
office and my dependence upon the meanest motives of a paltry
theatrical routine, already overweighted with the cares of
business. This, in fact, became worse than I had expected, in
spite of my previous knowledge of the precariousness of such a
life. My colleague Reissiger, to whom from time to time I poured
out my woes regarding the scant attention given by the general
management to our demands for the maintenance of correct
representations in the realm of opera, comforted me by saying
that I, like himself, would sooner or later relinquish all these
fads and submit to the inevitable fate of a conductor. Thereupon
he proudly smote his stomach, and hoped that I might soon be able
to boast of one as round as his own.

I received further provocation for my growing dislike of these
jog-trot methods from a closer acquaintance with the spirit in
which even eminent conductors undertook the reproduction of our
masterpieces. During this first year Mendelssohn was invited to
conduct his St. Paul for one of the Palm Sunday concerts in the
Dresden chapel, which was famous at that time. The knowledge I
thus acquired of this work, under such favourable circumstances,
pleased me so much, that I made a fresh attempt to approach the
composer with sincere and friendly motives; but a remarkable
conversation which I had with him on the evening of this
performance quickly and strangely repelled my impulse. After the
oratorio Reissiger was to produce Beethoven's Eighth Symphony. I
had noticed in the preceding rehearsal that Keissiger had fallen
into the error of all the ordinary conductors of this work by
taking the tempo di minuetto of the third movement at a
meaningless waltz time, whereby not only does the whole piece
lose its imposing character, but the trio is rendered absolutely
ridiculous by the impossibility of the violoncello part being
interpreted at such a speed. I had called Reissiger's attention
to this defect, and he acquiesced in my opinion, promising to
take the part in question at true minuetto tempo. I related this
to Mendelssohn, when he was resting after his own performance in
the box beside me, listening to the symphony. He, too,
acknowledged that I was right, and thought that it ought to be
played as I said. And now the third movement began. Reissiger,
who, it is true, did not possess the needful power suddenly to
impress so momentous a change of time upon his orchestra with
success, followed the usual custom and took the tempo di minuetto
in the same old waltz time. Just as I was about to express my
anger, Mendelssohn gave me a friendly nod, as though he thought
that this was what I wanted, and that I had understood the music
in this way. I was so amazed by this complete absence of feeling
on the part of the famous musician, that I was struck dumb, and
thenceforth my own particular opinion of Mendelssohn gradually
matured, an opinion which was afterwards confirmed by R.
Schumann. The latter, in expressing the sincere pleasure he had
felt on listening to the time at which I had taken the first
movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, told me that he had been
compelled to hear it year after year taken by Mendelssohn at a
perfectly distracting speed.

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