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My Life, Volume I

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




I relate this incident to atone for a sin which has weighed very
heavily on my conscience ever since. I can compare this sad
experience only with one out of my earliest boyhood days, namely
the drowning of some puppies in a shallow pool behind my uncle's
house in Eisleben. Even to this day I cannot think of the slow
death of these poor little creatures without horror. I have never
quite forgotten some of my thoughtless and reckless actions; for
the sorrows of others, and in particular those of animals, have
always affected me deeply to the extent of filling me with a
disgust of life.

My first love affair stands out in strong contrast against these
recollections. It was only natural that one of the young chorus
ladies with whom I had to practise daily should know how to
attract my attentions. Therese Ringelmann, the daughter of a
grave-digger, thanks to her beautiful soprano voice, led me to
believe that I could make a great singer of her. After I told her
of this ambitious scheme, she paid much attention to her
appearance, and dressed elegantly for the rehearsals, and a row
of white pearls which she wound through her hair specially
fascinated me. During the summer holidays I gave Therese regular
lessons in singing, according to a method which has always
remained a mystery to me ever since. I also called on her very
often at her house, where, fortunately, I never met her
unpleasant father, but always her mother and her sisters. We also
met in the public gardens, but false vanity always kept me from
telling my friends of our relations. I do not know whether the
fault lay with her lowly birth, her lack of education, or my own
doubt about the sincerity of my affections; but in any case when,
in addition to the fact that I had my reasons for being jealous,
they also tried to urge me to a formal engagement, this love
affair came quietly to an end.

An infinitely more genuine affair was my love for Friederike
Galvani, the daughter of a mechanic, who was undoubtedly of
Italian origin. She was very musical, and had a lovely voice; my
brother had patronised her and helped her to a debut at his
theatre, which test she stood brilliantly. She was rather small,
but had large dark eyes and a sweet disposition. The first oboist
of the orchestra, a good fellow as well as a clever musician, was
thoroughly devoted to her. He was looked upon as her fiance, but,
owing to some incident in his past, he was not allowed to visit
at her parents' house, and the marriage was not to take place for
a long time yet. When the autumn of my year in Wurzburg drew
near, I received an invitation from friends to be present at a
country wedding at a little distance from Wurzburg; the oboist
and his fiancee had also been invited. It was a jolly, though
primitive affair; we drank and danced, and I even tried my hand
at violin playing, but I must have forgotten it badly, for even
with the second violin I could not manage to satisfy the other
musicians. But my success with Friederike was all the greater; we
danced like mad through the many couples of peasants until at one
moment we got so excited that, losing all self-control, we
embraced each other while her real lover was playing the dance
music. For the first time in my life I began to feel a flattering
sensation of self-respect when Friederike's fiance, on seeing how
we two flirted, accepted the situation with good grace, if not
without some sadness. I had never had the chance of thinking that
I could make a favourable impression on any young girl. I never
imagined myself good-looking, neither had I ever thought it
possible that I could attract the attention of pretty girls.

On the other hand, I had gradually acquired a certain self-
reliance in mixing with men of my own age. Owing to the
exceptional vivacity and innate susceptibility of my nature--
qualities which were brought home to me in my relations with
members of my circle--I gradually became conscious of a certain
power of transporting or bewildering my more indolent companions.

From my poor oboist's silent self-control on becoming aware of
the ardent advances of his betrothed towards me, I acquired, as I
have said, the first suggestion of the fact that I might count
for something, not only among men, but also among women. The
Frankish wine helped to bring about a state of ever greater
confusion, and under the cover of its influence I at length
declared myself, quite openly, to be Friederike's lover. Ever so
far into the night, in fact, when day was already breaking, we
set off home together to Wurzburg in an open wagon. This was the
crowning triumph of my delightful adventure; for while all the
others, including, in the end, the jealous oboist, slept off
their debauch in the face of the dawning day, I, with my cheek
against Friederike's, and listening to the warbling of the larks,
watched the coming of the rising sun.

On the following day we had scarcely any idea of what had
happened. A certain sense of shame, which was not unbecoming,
held us aloof from one another: and yet I easily won access to
Friederike's family, and from that time forward was daily a
welcome guest, when for some hours I would linger in unconcealed
intimate intercourse with the same domestic circle from which the
unhappy betrothed remained excluded. No word was ever mentioned
of this last connection; never once did it even dawn upon
Friederike to effect any change in the state of affairs, and it
seemed to strike no one that I ought, so to speak, to take the
fiance's place. The confiding manner in which I was received by
all, and especially by the girl herself, was exactly similar to
one of Nature's great processes, as, for instance, when spring
steps in and winter passes silently away. Not one of them ever
considered the material consequences of the change, and this is
precisely the most charming and flattering feature of this first
youthful love affair, which was never to degenerate into an
attitude which might give rise to suspicion or concern. These
relations ended only with my departure from Wurzburg, which was
marked by the most touching and most tearful leavetaking.

For some time, although I kept up no correspondence, the memory
of this episode remained firmly imprinted on my mind. Two years
later, while making a rapid journey through the old district, I
once more visited Friederike: the poor child approached me
utterly shamefaced. Her oboist was still her lover, and though
his position rendered marriage impossible, the unfortunate young
woman had become a mother. I have heard nothing more of her
since.

Amid all this traffic of love I worked hard at my opera, and,
thanks to the loving sympathy of my sister Rosalie, I was able to
find the necessary good spirits for the task. When at the
commencement of the summer my earnings as a conductor came to an
end, this same sister again made it her business loyally to
provide me with ample pocket-money, so that I might devote myself
solely to the completion of my work, without troubling about
anything or being a burden to any one. At a much later date I
came across a letter of mine written to Rosalie in those days,
which were full of a tender, almost adoring love for that noble
creature.

When the winter was at hand my brother returned, and the theatre
reopened. Truth to tell, I did not again become connected with
it, but acquired a position, which was even more prominent, in
the concerts of the Musical Society in which I produced my great
overture in C major, my symphony, and eventually portions of my
new opera as well. An amateur with a splendid voice, Mademoiselle
Friedel, sang the great aria from Ada. In addition to this, a
trio was given which, in one of its passages, had such a moving
effect upon my brother, who took part in it, that, to his
astonishment, as he himself admitted, he completely lost his cue
on account of it.

By Christmas my work had come to an end, my score was written out
complete with the most laudable neatness, and now I was to return
to Leipzig for the New Year, in order to get my opera accepted by
the theatre there. On the way home I visited Nuremberg, where I
stayed a week with my sister Clara and with her husband, who were
engaged at the theatre there. I well remember how happy and
comfortable I felt during this pleasant visit to the very same
relatives who a few years previously, when I had stayed with them
at Magdeburg, had been upset by my resolve to adopt music as a
calling. Now I had become a real musician, had written a grand
opera, and had already brought out many things without coming to
grief. The sense of all this was a great joy to me, while it was
no less flattering to my relatives, who could not fail to see
that the supposed misfortune had in the end proved to my
advantage. I was in a jolly mood and quite unrestrained--a state
of mind which was very largely the result not only of my brother-
in-law's cheerful and sociable household, but also of the
pleasant tavern life of the place. In a much more confident and
elated spirit I returned to Leipzig, where I was able to lay the
three huge volumes of my score before my highly delighted mother
and sister.

Just then my family was the richer for the return of my brother
Julius from his long wanderings. He had worked a good while in
Paris as a goldsmith, and had now set up for himself in that
capacity in Leipzig. He too, like the rest, was eager to hear
something out of my opera, which, to be sure, was not so easy, as
I entirely lacked the gift of playing anything of the sort in an
easy and intelligible way. Only when I was able to work myself
into a state of absolute ecstasy was it possible for me to render
something with any effect. Rosalie knew that I meant it to draw a
sort of declaration of love from her; but I have never felt
certain whether the embrace and the sisterly kiss which were
awarded me after I had sung my great aria from Ada, were bestowed
on me from real emotion or rather out of affectionate regard. On
the other hand, the zeal with which she urged my opera on the
director of the theatre, Ringelhardt, the conductor and the
manager was unmistakable, and she did it so effectually that she
obtained their consent for its performance, and that very
speedily. I was particularly interested to learn that the
management immediately showed themselves eager to try to settle
the matter of the costumes for my drama: but I was astonished to
hear that the choice was in favour of oriental attire, whereas I
had intended, by the names I had selected, to suggest a northern
character for the setting. But it was precisely these names which
they found unsuitable, as fairy personages are not seen in the
North, but only in the East; while apart from this, the original
by Gozzi, which formed the basis of the work, undoubtedly bore an
oriental character. It was with the utmost indignation that I
opposed the insufferable turban and caftan style of dress, and
vehemently advocated the knightly garb worn in the early years of
the Middle Ages. I then had to come to a thorough understanding
with the conductor, Stegmayer, on the subject of my score. He was
a remarkable, short, fat man, with fair curly hair, and an
exceptionally jovial disposition; he was, however, very hard to
bring to a point. When over our wine we always arrived at an
understanding very quickly, but as soon as we sat at the piano, I
had to listen to the most extraordinary objections concerning the
trend of which I was for some time extremely puzzled. As the
matter was much delayed by this vacillation, I put myself into
closer communication with the stage manager of the opera, Hauser,
who at that time was much appreciated as a singer and patron of
art by the people of Leipzig.

With this man, too, I had the strangest experiences: he who had
captivated the audiences of Leipzig, more especially with his
impersonation of the barber and the Englishman in Fra Diavolo,
suddenly revealed himself in his own house as the most fanatical
adherent of the most old-fashioned music. I listened with
astonishment to the scarcely veiled contempt with which he
treated even Mozart, and the only thing he seemed to regret was
that we had no operas by Sebastian Bach. After he had explained
to me that dramatic music had not actually been written yet, and
that properly speaking Gluck alone had shown any ability for it,
he proceeded to what seemed an exhaustive examination of my own
opera, concerning which all I had wished to hear from him was
whether it was fit to be performed. Instead of this, however, his
object seemed to be to point out the failure of my purpose in
every number. I sweated blood under the unparalleled torture of
going through my work with this man; and I told my mother and
sister of my grave depression. All these delays had already
succeeded in making it impossible to perform my opera at the date
originally fixed, and now it was postponed until August of the
current year (1834).

An incident which I shall never forget inspired me with fresh
courage. Old Bierey, an experienced and excellent musician, and
in his day a successful composer, who, thanks more particularly
to his long practice as a conductor at the Breslau theatre, had
acquired a perfectly practical knowledge of such things, was then
living at Leipzig, and was a good friend of my people. My mother
and sister begged him to give his opinion about the fitness of my
opera for the stage, and I duly submitted the score to him. I
cannot say how deeply affected and impressed I was to see this
old gentleman appear one day among my relatives, and to hear him
declare with genuine enthusiasm that he simply could not
understand how so young a man could have composed such a score.
His remarks concerning the greatness which he had recognised in
my talent were really irresistible, and positively amazed me.
When asked whether he considered the work presentable and
calculated to produce an effect, he declared his only regret was
that he was no longer at the head of a theatre, because, had he
been, he would have thought himself extremely lucky to secure
such a man as myself permanently for his enterprise. At this
announcement my family was overcome with joy, and their feelings
were all the more justified seeing that, as they all knew, Bierey
was by no means an amiable romancer, but a practical musician
well seasoned by a life full of experience.

The delay was now borne with better spirits, and for a long time
I was able to wait hopefully for what the future might bring.
Among other things, I now began to enjoy the company of a new
friend in the person of Laube, who at that time, although I had
not set his Kosziusko to music, was at the zenith of his fame.
The first portion of his novel, Young Europe, the form of which
was epistolary, had appeared, and had a most stimulating effect
on me, more particularly in conjunction with all the youthful
hopefulness which at that time pulsated in my veins. Though his
teaching was essentially only a repetition of that in Heinse's
Ardinghello, the forces that then surged in young breasts were
given full and eloquent expression. The guiding spirit of this
tendency was followed in literary criticism, which was aimed
mainly at the supposed or actual incapacity of the semi-classical
occupants of our various literary thrones. Without the slightest
mercy the pedants, [Footnote: Zopfe in the German text.--
TRANSLATOR.] among whom Tieck for one was numbered, were treated
as sheer encumbrances and hindrances to the rise of a new
literature. That which led to a remarkable revulsion of my
feelings with regard to those German composers who hitherto had
been admired and respected, was partly the influence of these
critical skirmishes, and the luring sprightliness of their tone;
but mainly the impression made by a fresh visit of Schroder-
Devrient to Leipzig, when her rendering of Borneo in Bellini's
Romeo and Juliet carried every one by storm. The effect of it was
not to be compared with anything that had been witnessed
theretofore. To see the daring, romantic figure of the youthful
lover against a background of such obviously shallow and empty
music prompted one, at all events, to meditate doubtfully upon
the cause of the great lack of effect in solid German music as it
had been applied hitherto to the drama. Without for the moment
plunging too deeply into this meditation, I allowed myself to be
borne along with the current of my youthful feelings, then roused
to ardour, and turned involuntarily to the task of working off
all that brooding seriousness which in my earlier years had driven
me to such pathetic mysticism.

What Pohlenz had not done by his conducting of the Ninth
Symphony, what the Vienna Conservatoire, Dionys Weber, and many
other clumsy performances (which had led me to regard classical
music as absolutely colourless) had not fully accomplished, was
achieved by the inconceivable charm of the most unclassical
Italian music, thanks to the wonderful, thrilling, and entrancing
impersonation of Romeo by Schroder-Devrient. What effect such
powerful, and as regards their causes, incomprehensible, effects
had upon my opinion was shown in the frivolous way in which I was
able to contrive a short criticism of Weber's Euryanthe for the
Elegante Zeitung. This opera had been performed by the Leipzig
company shortly before the appearance of Schroder-Devrient: cold
and colourless performers, among whom the singer in the title-
role, appearing in the wilderness with the full sleeves which
were then the pink of fashion, is still a disagreeable memory.
Very laboriously, and without verve, but simply with the object
of satisfying the demands of classical rules, this company did
its utmost to dispel even the enthusiastic impressions of Weber's
music which I had formed in my youth. I did not know what answer
to make to a brother critic of Laube's, when he pointed out to me
the laboured character of this operatic performance, as soon as
he was able to contrast it with the entrancing effect of that
Romeo evening. Here I found myself confronted with a problem, the
solving of which I was just at that time disposed to take as
easily as possible, and displayed my courage by discarding all
prejudice, and that daringly, in the short criticism just
mentioned in which I simply scoffed at Euryanthe. Just as I had
had my season of wild oat sowing as a student, so now I boldly
rushed into the same courses in the development of my artistic
taste.

It was May, and beautiful spring weather, and a pleasure trip
that I now undertook with a friend into the promised land of my
youthful romance, Bohemia, was destined to bring the unrestrained
'Young-European' mood in me to full maturity. This friend was
Theodor Apel. I had known him a long while, and had always felt
particularly flattered by the fact that I had won his hearty
affection; for, as the son of the gifted master of metre and
imitator of Greek forms of poetry, August Apel, I felt that
admiring deference for him which I had never yet been able to
bestow upon the descendant of a famous man. Being well-to-do and
of a good family, his friendship gave me such opportunities of
coming into touch with the easy circumstances of the upper
classes as were not of frequent occurrence in my station of life.
While my mother, for instance, regarded my association with this
highly respectable family with great satisfaction, I for my part
was extremely gratified at the thought of the cordiality with
which I was received in such circles.

Apel's earnest wish was to become a poet, and I took it for
granted that he had all that was needed for such a calling; above
all, what seemed to me so important, the complete freedom that
his considerable fortune assured him by liberating him from all
need of earning his living or of adopting a profession for a
livelihood. Strange to say, his mother, who on the death of his
distinguished father had married a Leipzig lawyer, was very
anxious about the vocation he should choose, and wished her son
to make a fine career in the law, as she was not at all disposed
to favour his poetical gifts. And it was to her attempts to
convert me to her view, in order that by my influence I might
avert the calamity of a second poet in the family, in the person
of the son, that I owed the specially friendly relations that
obtained between herself and me. All her suggestions succeeded in
doing, however, was to stimulate me, even more than my own
favourable opinion of his talent could, to confirm my friend in
his desire to be a poet, and thus to support him in his
rebellious attitude towards his family.

He was not displeased at this. As he was also studying music and
composed quite nicely, I succeeded in being on terms of the
greatest intimacy with him. The fact that he had spent the very
year in which I had sunk into the lowest depths of undergraduate
madness, studying at Heidelberg and not at Leipzig, had kept him
unsullied by any share in my strange excesses, and when we now
met again at Leipzig, in the spring of 1834, the only thing that
we still had in common was the aesthetic aspiration of our lives,
which we now strove by way of experiment to divert into the
direction of the enjoyment of life. Gladly would we have flung
ourselves into lively adventures if only the conditions of our
environment and of the whole middle-class world in which we lived
had in any way admitted of such things. Despite all the
promptings of our instincts, however, we got no further than
planning this excursion to Bohemia. At all events, it was
something that we made the journey not by the post, but in our
own carriage, and our genuine pleasure continued to lie in the
fact that at Teplitz, for instance, we daily took long drives in
a fine carriage. When in the evening we had supped off trout at
the Wilhelmsburg, drunk good Czernosek wine with Bilin water, and
duly excited ourselves over Hoffmann, Beethoven, Shakespeare,
Heinse's Ardinghello, and other matters, and then, with our limbs
comfortably outstretched in our elegant carriage, drove back in
the summer twilight to the 'King of Prussia,' where we occupied
the large balcony-room on the first floor, we felt that we had
spent the day like young gods, and for sheer exuberance could
think of nothing better to do than to indulge in the most
frightful quarrels which, especially when the windows were open,
would collect numbers of alarmed listeners in the square before
the inn.

One fine morning I stole away from my friend in order to take my
breakfast alone at the 'Schlackenburg,' and also to seize an
opportunity of jotting down the plan of a new operatic
composition in my note-book. With this end in view, I had
mastered the subject of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, which,
in accordance with my present mood, I soon transformed pretty
freely into a libretto entitled Liebesverbot. Young Europe and
Ardinghello, and the strange frame of mind into which I had
fallen with regard to classical operatic music, furnished me with
the keynote of my conception, which was directed more
particularly against puritanical hypocrisy, and which thus tended
boldly to exalt 'unrestrained sensuality.' I took care to
understand the grave Shakespearean theme only in this sense. I
could see only the gloomy strait-laced viceroy, his heart aflame
with the most passionate love for the beautiful novice, who,
while she beseeches him to pardon her brother condemned to death
for illicit love, at the same time kindles the most dangerous
fire in the stubborn Puritan's breast by infecting him with the
lovely warmth of her human emotion.

The fact that these powerful features are so richly developed in
Shakespeare's creation only in order that, in the end, they may
be weighed all the more gravely in the scales of justice, was no
concern of mine: all I cared about was to expose the sinfulness
of hypocrisy and the unnaturalness of such cruel moral censure.
Thus I completely dropped Measure for Measure, and made the
hypocrite be brought to justice only by the avenging power of
love. I transferred the theme from the fabulous city of Vienna to
the capital of sunny Sicily, in which a German viceroy, indignant
at the inconceivably loose morals of the people, attempts to
introduce a puritanical reform, and comes miserably to grief over
it. Die Stumme von Portici probably contributed to some extent to
this theme, as did also certain memories of Die Sizilianische
Vesper. When I remember that at last even the gentle Sicilian
Bellini constituted a factor in this composition, I cannot, to be
sure, help smiling at the strange medley in which the most
extraordinary misunderstandings here took shape.

This remained for the present a mere draft. Studies from life
destined for my work were first to be carried out on this
delightful excursion to Bohemia. I led my friend in triumph to
Prague, in the hope of securing the same impressions for him
which had stirred me so profoundly when I was there. We met my
fair friends in the city itself; for, owing to the death of old
Count Pachta, material changes had taken place in the family, and
the surviving daughters no longer went to Pravonin. My behaviour
was full of arrogance, and by means of it I doubtless wished to
vent a certain capricious lust of revenge for the feelings of
bitterness with which I had taken leave of this circle some years
previously. My friend was well received. The changed family
circumstances forced the charming girls ever more and more
imperatively to come to some decision as to their future, and a
wealthy bourgeois, though not exactly in trade himself, but in
possession of ample means, seemed to the anxious mother, at all
events, a good adviser. Without either showing or feeling any
malice in the matter, I expressed my pleasure at the sight of the
strange confusion caused by Theodor's introduction into the
family by the merriest and wildest jests: for my only intercourse
with the ladies consisted purely of jokes and friendly chaff.
They could not understand how it was that I had altered so
strangely. There was no longer any of that love of wrangling,
that rage for instructing, and that zeal in converting in me
which formerly they had found so irritating. But at the same time
not a sensible word could I be made to utter, and they who were
now wanting to talk over many things seriously could get nothing
out of me save the wildest tomfoolery. As on this occasion, in my
character of an uncaged bird, I boldly allowed myself many a
liberty against which they felt themselves powerless, my
exuberant spirits were excited all the more when my friend, who
was led away by my example, tried to imitate me--a thing they
took in very bad part from him.

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