At the time of which I am speaking he had sunk to his lowest, owing to

continued theatre management. His speech and manners revealed the

sugary refinement of a bygone day, while all that he did and everything

about him testified to the most shameful neglect. He took me back to

his house, where he presented me to his second wife, who, crippled in

one foot, lay on an extraordinary couch while an elderly bass,

concerning whose excessive devotion Bethmann had already complained to

me quite openly, smoked his pipe beside her. From there the director

took me to his stage manager, who lived in the same house.

With the latter, who was just engaged in a consultation about the

repertory with the theatre attendant, a toothless old skeleton, he left

me to settle the necessary arrangements. As soon as Bethmann had gone,

Schmale, the stage manager, shrugged his shoulders and smiled, assuring

me that that was just the way of the director, to put everything on his

back and trouble himself about nothing. There he had been sitting for

over an hour, discussing with Kroge what should be put on next Sunday:

it was all very well his starting Don Juan, but how could he get a

rehearsal carried out, when the Merseburg town bandsmen, who formed the

orchestra, would not come over on Saturday to rehearse?

All the time Schmale kept reaching out through the open window to a

cherry tree from which he picked and persistently ate the fruit,

ejecting the stones with a disagreeable noise. Now it was this last

circumstance in particular which decided me; for, strange to say, I

have an innate aversion from fruit. I informed the stage manager that

he need not trouble at all about Don Juan for Sunday, since for my

part, if they had reckoned on my making my first appearance at this

performance, I must anyhow disappoint the director, as I had no choice

but to return at once to Leipzig, where I had to put my affairs in

order. This polite manner of tendering my absolute refusal to accept

the appointment—a conclusion I had quickly arrived at in my own

mind—forced me to practise some dissimulation, and made it necessary

for me to appear as if I really had some other purpose in coming to

Lauchstadt. This pretence in itself was quite unnecessary, seeing that

I was quite determined never to return there again.

People offered to help me in finding a lodging, and a young actor whom

I had chanced to know at Wurzburg undertook to be my guide in the

matter. While he was taking me to the best lodging he knew, he told me

that presently he would do me the kindness of making me the housemate

of the prettiest and nicest girl to be found in the place at the time.

She was the junior lead of the company, Mademoiselle Minna Planer, of

whom doubtless I had already heard.

As luck would have it, the promised damsel met us at the door of the

house in question. Her appearance and bearing formed the most striking

contrast possible to all the unpleasant impressions of the theatre

which it had been my lot to receive on this fateful morning. Looking

very charming and fresh, the young actress’s general manner and

movements were full of a certain majesty and grave assurance which lent

an agreeable and captivating air of dignity to her otherwise pleasant

expression. Her scrupulously clean and tidy dress completed the

startling effect of the unexpected encounter. After I had been

introduced to her in the hall as the new conductor, and after she had

done regarding with astonishment the stranger who seemed so young for

such a title, she recommended me kindly to the landlady of the house,

and begged that I might be well looked after; whereupon she walked

proudly and serenely across the street to her rehearsal.

I engaged a room on the spot, agreed to Don Juan for Sunday, regretted

greatly that I had not brought my luggage with me from Leipzig, and

hastened to return thither as quickly as possible in order to get back

to Lauchstadt all the sooner. The die was cast. The serious side of

life at once confronted me in the form of significant experiences. At

Leipzig I had to take a furtive leave of Laube. At the instance of

Prussia he had been warned off Saxon soil, and he half guessed at the

meaning which was to be attached to this move. The time of undisguised

reaction against the Liberal movement of the early ‘thirties had set

in: the fact that Laube was concerned in no sort of political work, but

had devoted himself merely to literary activity, always aiming simply

at aesthetic objects, made the action of the police quite

incomprehensible to us for the time being. The disgusting ambiguity

with which the Leipzig authorities answered all his questions as to the

cause of his expulsion soon gave him the strongest suspicions as to

what their intentions towards him actually were.

Leipzig, as the scene of his literary labours, being inestimably

precious, it mattered greatly to him to keep within reach of it. My

friend Apel owned a fine estate on Prussian soil, within but a few

hours’ distance of Leipzig, and we conceived the wish of seeing Laube

hospitably harboured there. My friend, who without infringing the legal

stipulations was in a position to give the persecuted man a place of

refuge, immediately assented, and with great readiness, to our desire,

but confessed to us next day, after having communicated with his

family, that he thought he might incur some unpleasantnesses if he

entertained Laube. At this the latter smiled, and in a manner I shall

never forget, though I have noticed in the course of my life that the

expression which I then saw in his face was one which has often flitted

over my own features. He took his leave, and in a short time we heard

that he had been arrested, owing to having undertaken fresh proceedings

against former members of the Burschenschaft (Students’ League), and

had been lodged in the municipal prison at Berlin. I had thus had two

experiences which weighed me down like lead, so I packed my scanty

portmanteau, took leave of my mother and sister, and, with a stout

heart, started on my career as a conductor.

In order to be able to look upon the little room under Minna’s lodging

as my new home, I was forced also to make the best of Bethmann’s

theatrical enterprise. As a matter of fact, a performance of Don Juan

was given at once, for the director, who prided himself on being a

connoisseur of things artistic, suggested that opera to me as one with

which it would be wise for an aspiring young artist, of a good family,

to make his debut. Despite the fact that, apart from some of my own

instrumental compositions, I had never yet conducted, and least of all

in opera, the rehearsal and the performance went off fairly well. Only

once or twice did discrepancies appear in the recitative of Donna Anna;

yet this did not involve me in any kind of hostility, and when I took

my place unabashed and calm for the production of Lumpaci Vagabundus,

which I had practised very thoroughly, the people generally seemed to

have gained full confidence in the theatre’s new acquisition.

The fact that I submitted without bitterness and even with some

cheerfulness to this unworthy use of my musical talent, was due less to

my taste being at this period, as I called it, in its salad days, than

to my intercourse with Minna Planer, who was employed in that magic

trifle as the Amorous Fairy. Indeed, in the midst of this dust-cloud of

frivolity and vulgarity, she always seemed very much like a fairy, the

reasons of whose descent into this giddy whirl, which of a truth seemed

neither to carry her away nor even to affect her, remained an absolute

mystery. For while I could discover nothing in the opera singers save

the familiar stage caricatures and grimaces, this fair actress differed

wholly from those about her in her unaffected soberness and dainty

modesty, as also in the absence of all theatrical pretence and

stiltedness. There was only one young man whom I could place beside

Minna on the ground of qualities like those I recognised in her. This

fellow was Friedrich Schmitt, who had only just adopted the stage as a

career in the hope of making a ‘hit’ in opera, to which, as the

possessor of an excellent tenor voice, he felt himself called. He too

differed from the rest of the company, especially in the earnestness

which he brought to bear upon his studies and his work in general: the

soulful manly pitch of his chest voice, his clear, noble enunciation

and intelligent rendering of his words, have always remained as

standards in my memory. Owing to the fact that he was wholly devoid of

theatrical talent, and acted clumsily and awkwardly, a check was soon

put to his progress, but he always remained dear to me as a clever and

original man of trustworthy and upright character—my only associate.

But my dealings with my kind housemate soon became a cherished habit,

while she returned the ingenuously impetuous advances of the conductor

of one-and-twenty with a certain tolerant astonishment which, remote as

it was from all coquetry and ulterior motives, soon made familiar and

friendly intercourse possible with her. When, one evening, I returned

late to my ground-floor room, by climbing through the window, for I had

no latch-key, the noise of my entry brought Minna to her window just

over mine. Standing on my window ledge I begged her to allow me to bid

her good-night once more. She had not the slightest objection to this,

but declared it must be done from the window, as she always had her

door locked by the people of the house, and nobody could get in that

way. She kindly facilitated the handshake by leaning far out of her

window, so that I could take her hand as I stood on my ledge. When

later on I had an attack of erysipelas, from which I often suffered,

and with my face all swollen and frightfully distorted concealed myself

from the world in my gloomy room, Minna visited me repeatedly, nursed

me, and assured me that my distorted features did not matter in the

least. On recovering, I paid her a visit and complained of a rash that

had remained round my mouth, and which seemed so unpleasant that I

apologised for showing it to her. This also she made light of. Then I

inferred she would not give me a kiss, whereupon she at once gave me

practical proof that she did not shrink from that either.

This was all done with a friendly serenity and composure that had

something almost motherly about it, and it was free from all suggestion

of frivolity or of heartlessness. In a few weeks the company had to

leave Lauchstadt to proceed to Rudolstadt and fulfil a special

engagement there. I was particularly anxious to make this journey,

which in those days was an arduous undertaking, in Minna’s company, and

if only I had succeeded in getting my well-earned salary duly paid by

Bethmann, nothing would have hindered the fulfilment of my wish. But in

this matter I encountered exceptional difficulties, which in the course

of eventful years grew in chronic fashion into the strangest of

ailments. Even at Lauchstadt I had discovered that there was only one

man who drew his salary in full, namely the bass Kneisel, whom I had

seen smoking his pipe beside the couch of the director’s lame wife. I

was assured that if I cared greatly about getting some of my wages from

time to time, I could obtain this favour only by paying court to Mme.

Bethmann. This time I preferred once more to appeal to my family for

help, and therefore travelled to Rudolstadt through Leipzig, where, to

the sad astonishment of my mother, I had to replenish my coffer with

the necessary supplies. On the way to Leipzig I had travelled with Apel

through his estate, he having fetched me from Lauchstadt for the

purpose. His arrival was fixed in my memory by a noisy banquet which my

wealthy friend gave at the hotel in my honour. It was on this occasion

that I and one of the other guests succeeded in completely destroying a

huge, massively built Dutch-tile stove, such as we had in our room at

the inn. Next morning none of us could understand how it had happened.

It was on this journey to Rudolstadt that I first passed through

Weimar, where on a rainy day I strolled with curiosity, but without

emotion, towards Goethe’s house. I had pictured something rather

different, and thought I should experience livelier impressions from

the active theatre life of Rudolstadt, to which I felt strongly

attracted. In spite of the fact that I was not to be conductor myself,

this post having been entrusted to the leader of the royal orchestra,

who had been specially engaged for our performances, yet I was so fully

occupied with rehearsals for the many operas and musical comedies

required to regale the frivolous public of the principality that I

found no leisure for excursions into the charming regions of this

little land. In addition to these severe and ill-paid labours, two

passions held me chained during the six weeks of my stay in Rudolstadt.

These were, first, a longing to write the libretto of Liebesverbot; and

secondly, my growing attachment to Minna. It is true, I sketched out a

musical composition about this time, a symphony in E major, whose first

movement (3/4 time) I completed as a separate piece. As regards style

and design, this work was suggested by Beethoven’s Seventh and Eighth

Symphonies, and, so far as I can remember, I should have had no need to

be ashamed of it, had I been able to complete it, or keep the part I

had actually finished. But I had already begun at this time to form the

opinion that, to produce anything fresh and truly noteworthy in the

realm of symphony, and according to Beethoven’s methods, was an

impossibility. Whereas opera, to which I felt inwardly drawn, though I

had no real example I wished to copy, presented itself to my mind in

varied and alluring shapes as a most fascinating form of art. Thus,

amid manifold and passionate agitations, and in the few leisure hours

which were left to me, I completed the greater part of my operatic

poem, taking infinitely more pains, both as regards words and

versification, than with the text of my earlier Feen. Moreover, I found

myself possessed of incomparably greater assurance in the arrangement

and partial invention of situations than when writing that earlier

work.

On the other hand, I now began for the first time to experience the

cares and worries of a lover’s jealousy. A change, to me inexplicable,

manifested itself in Minna’s hitherto unaffected and gentle manner

towards me. It appears that my artless solicitations for her favour, by

which at that time I meant nothing serious, and in which a man of the

world would merely have seen the exuberance of a youthful and easily

satisfied infatuation, had given rise to certain remarks and comments

upon the popular actress. I was astonished to learn, first from her

reserved manner, and later from her own lips, that she felt compelled

to inquire into the seriousness of my intentions, and to consider their

consequences. She was at that time, as I had already discovered, on

very intimate terms with a young nobleman, whose acquaintance I first

made in Lauchstadt, where he used to visit her. I had already realised

on that occasion that he was unfeignedly and cordially attached to her;

in fact, in the circle of her friends she was regarded as engaged to

Herr von O., although it was obvious that marriage was out of the

question, as the young lover was quite without means, and owing to the

high standing of his family it was essential that he should sacrifice

himself to a marriage of convenience, both on account of his social

position and of the career which he would have to adopt. During this

stay at Rudolstadt Minna appears to have gathered certain information

on this point which troubled and depressed her, thus rendering her more

inclined to treat my impetuous attempts at courtship with cool reserve.

After mature deliberation I recognised that, in any case, Young Europe,

Ardinghello, and Liebesverbot could not be produced at Rudolstadt; but

it was a very different matter for the Fee Amorosa, with its merry

theatrical mood, and an Ehrlicher Burger Kind to seek a decent

livelihood. Therefore, greatly discouraged, I proceeded to accentuate

the more extravagant situations of my Liebesverbot by rioting with a

few comrades in the sausage-scented atmosphere of the Rudolstadt

Vogelwiese. At this time my troubles again brought me more or less into

contact with the vice of gambling, although on this occasion it only

cast temporary fetters about me in the very harmless form of the dice

and roulette-tables out on the open market-place.

We were looking forward to the time when we should leave Rudolstadt for

the half-yearly winter season at the capital, Magdeburg, mainly because

I should there resume my place at the head of the orchestra, and might

in any case count on a better reward for my musical efforts. But before

returning to Magdeburg I had to endure a trying interval at Bernburg,

where Bethmann, the director, in addition to his other undertakings,

had also promised sundry theatrical performances. During our brief stay

in the town I had to arrange for the presentation, with a mere fraction

of the company, of several operas, which were again to be conducted by

the royal conductor of the place. But in addition to these professional

labours, I had to endure such a meagre, ill-provided and grievously

farcical existence as was enough to disgust me, if not for ever, at any

rate for the time being, with the wretched profession of a theatrical

conductor. Yet I survived even this, and Magdeburg was destined to lead

me eventually to the real glory of my adopted profession.

The sensation of sitting in command at the very conductor’s desk from

which, not many years before, the great master Kuhnlein had so moved

the perplexed young enthusiast by the weighty wisdom of his musical

directorship, was not without its charm for me, and, indeed, I very

quickly succeeded in obtaining perfect confidence in conducting an

orchestra. I was soon a persona grata with the excellent musicians of

the orchestra. Their splendid combination in spirited overtures, which,

especially towards the finale, I generally took at an unheard-of speed,

often earned for us all the intoxicating applause of the public. The

achievements of my fiery and often exuberant zeal won me recognition

from the singers, and were greeted by the audience with rapturous

appreciation. As in Magdeburg, at least in those days, the art of

theatrical criticism was but slightly developed, this universal

satisfaction was a great encouragement, and at the end of the first

three months of my Magdeburg conductorship I felt sustained by the

flattering and comforting assurance that I was one of the bigwigs of

opera. Under these circumstances, Schmale, the stage manager, who has

been my good friend ever since, proposed a special gala performance for

New Year’s Day, which he felt sure would be a triumph. I was to compose

the necessary music. This was very speedily done; a rousing overture,

several melodramas and choruses were all greeted with enthusiasm, and

brought us such ample applause that we repeated the performance with

great success, although such repetitions after the actual gala day were

quite contrary to usage.

With the new year (1835) there came a decisive turning-point in my

life. After the rupture between Minna and myself at Rudolstadt, we had

been to some extent lost to one another; but our friendship was resumed

on our meeting again in Magdeburg; this time, however, it remained cool

and purposely indifferent. When she first appeared in the town, a year

before, her beauty had attracted considerable notice, and I now learned

that she was the object of great attention from several young noblemen,

and had shown herself not unmoved by the compliment implied by their

visits. Although her reputation, thanks to her absolute discretion and

self-respect, remained beyond reproach, my objection to her receiving

such attentions grew very strong, owing possibly, in some degree, to

the memory of the sorrows I had endured in Pachta’s house in Prague.

Although Minna assured me that the conduct of these gentlemen was much

more discreet and decent than that of theatre-goers of the bourgeois

class, and especially than that of certain young musical conductors,

she never succeeded in soothing the bitterness and insistence with

which I protested against her acceptance of such attentions. So we

spent three unhappy months in ever-increasing estrangement, and at the

same time, in half-frantic despair, I pretended to be fond of the most

undesirable associates, and acted in every way with such blatant levity

that Minna, as she told me afterwards, was filled with the deepest

anxiety and solicitude concerning me. Moreover, as the ladies of the

opera company were not slow to pay court to their youthful conductor,

and especially as one young woman, whose reputation was not spotless,

openly set her cap at me, this anxiety of Minna’s seems at last to have

culminated in a definite decision. I hit upon the idea of treating the

elite of our opera company to oysters and punch in my own room on New

Year’s Eve. The married couples were invited, and then came the

question whether Fraulein Planer would consent to take part in such a

festivity. She accepted quite ingenuously, and presented herself, as

neatly and becomingly dressed as ever, in my bachelor apartments, where

things soon grew pretty lively. I had already warned my landlord that

we were not likely to be very quiet, and reassured him as to any

possible damage to his furniture. What the champagne failed to

accomplish, the punch eventually succeeded in doing; all the restraints

of petty conventionality, which the company usually endeavoured to

observe, were cast aside, giving place to an unreserved demeanour all

round, to which no one objected. And then it was that Minna’s queenly

dignity distinguished her from all her companions. She never lost her

self-respect; and whilst no one ventured to take the slightest liberty

with her, every one very clearly recognised the simple candour with

which she responded to my kindly and solicitous attentions. They could

not fail to see that the link existing between us was not to be

compared to any ordinary liaison, and we had the satisfaction of seeing

the flighty young lady who had so openly angled for me fall into a fit

over the discovery.

From that time onward I remained permanently on the best of terms with

Minna. I do not believe that she ever felt any sort of passion or

genuine love for me, or, indeed, that she was capable of such a thing,

and I can therefore only describe her feeling for me as one of

heartfelt goodwill, and the sincerest desire for my success and

prosperity, inspired as she was with the kindest sympathy, and genuine

delight at, and admiration for, my talents. All this at last became

part of her nature. She obviously had a very favourable opinion of my

abilities, though she was surprised at the rapidity of my success. My

eccentric nature, which she knew so well how to humour pleasantly by

her gentleness, stimulated her to the continual exercise of the power,

so flattering to her own vanity, and without ever betraying any desire

or ardour herself, she never met my impetuous advances with coldness.

At the Magdeburg theatre I had already made the acquaintance of a very

interesting woman called Mme. Haas. She was an actress, no longer in

her first youth, and played so-called ‘chaperone’s parts.’ This lady

won my sympathy by telling me she had been friendly ever since her

youth with Laube, in whose destiny she continued to take a heartfelt

and cordial interest. She was clever, but far from happy, and an

unprepossessing exterior, which with the lapse of years grew more

uninviting, did not tend to make her any happier. She lived in meagre

circumstances, with one child, and appeared to remember her better days

with a bitter grief. My first visit to her was paid merely to inquire

after Laube’s fate, but I soon became a frequent and familiar caller.

As she and Minna speedily became fast friends, we three often spent

pleasant evenings talking together. But when, later on, a certain

jealousy manifested itself on the part of the elder woman towards the

younger, our confidential relations were more or less disturbed, for it

particularly grieved me to hear Minna’s talents and mental gifts

criticised by the other. One evening I had promised Minna to have tea

with her and Mme. Haas, but I had thoughtlessly promised to go to a

whist party first. This engagement I purposely prolonged, much as it

wearied me, in the deliberate hope that her companion—who had already

grown irksome to me—might have left before my arrival. The only way in

which I could do this was by drinking hard, so that I had the very

unusual experience of rising from a sober whist party in a completely

fuddled condition, into which I had imperceptibly fallen, and in which

I refused to believe. This incredulity deluded me into keeping my

engagement for tea, although it was so late. To my intense disgust the

elder woman was still there when I arrived, and her presence at once

had the effect of rousing my tipsiness to a violent outbreak; for she

seemed astonished at my rowdy and unseemly behaviour, and made several

remarks upon it intended for jokes, whereupon I scoffed at her in the

coarsest manner, so that she immediately left the house in high

dudgeon. I had still sense enough to be conscious of Minna’s astonished

laughter at my outrageous conduct. As soon as she realised, however,

that my condition was such as to render my removal impossible without

great commotion, she rapidly formed a resolution which must indeed have

cost her an effort, though it was carried out with the utmost calmness

and good-humour. She did all she could for me, and procured me the

necessary relief, and when I sank into a heavy slumber, unhesitatingly

resigned her own bed to my use. There I slept until awakened by the

wonderful grey of dawn. On recognising where I was, I at once realised

and grew ever more convinced of the fact that this morning’s sunrise

marked the starting-point of an infinitely momentous period of my life.

The demon of care had at last entered into my existence.

Without any light-hearted jests, without gaiety or joking of any

description, we breakfasted quietly and decorously together, and at an

hour when, in view of the compromising circumstances of the previous

evening, we could set out without attracting undue notice, I set off

with Minna for a long walk beyond the city gates. Then we parted, and

from that day forward freely and openly gratified our desires as an

acknowledged pair of lovers.

The peculiar direction which my musical activities had gradually taken

continued to receive ever fresh impetus, not only from the successes,

but also from the disasters which about this time befell my efforts. I

produced the overture to my Feen with very satisfactory results at a

concert given by the Logengesellschaft, and thereby earned considerable

applause. On the other hand, news came from Leipzig confirming the

shabby action of the directors of the theatre in that place with regard

to the promised presentation of this opera. But, happily for me, I had

begun the music for my Liebesverbot, an occupation which so absorbed my

thoughts that I lost all interest in the earlier work, and abstained

with proud indifference from all further effort to secure its

performance in Leipzig. The success of its overture alone amply repaid

me for the composition of my first opera.

Meanwhile, in spite of numerous other distractions, I found time,

during the brief six months of this theatrical season in Magdeburg, to

complete a large portion of my new opera, besides doing other work. I

ventured to introduce two duets from it at a concert given in the

theatre, and their reception encouraged me to proceed hopefully with

the rest of the opera.

During the second half of this season my friend Apel came to sun

himself enthusiastically in the splendour of my musical directorship.

He had written a drama, Columbus, which I recommended to our management

for production. This was a peculiarly easy favour to win, as Apel

volunteered to have a new scene, representing the Alhambra, painted at

his own expense. Besides this, he proposed to effect many welcome

improvements in the condition of the actors taking part in his play;

for, owing to the continued preference displayed by the directress for

Kneisel, the bass, they had all suffered very much from uncertainty

about their wages. The piece itself appeared to me to contain much that

was good. It described the difficulties and struggles of the great

navigator before he set sail on his first voyage of discovery. The

drama ended with the momentous departure of his ships from the harbour

of Palos, an episode whose results are known to all the world. At my

desire Apel submitted his play to my uncle Adolph, and even in his

critical opinion it was remarkable for its lively and characteristic

popular scenes. On the other hand, a love romance, which he had woven

into the plot, struck me as unnecessary and dull. In addition to a

brief chorus for some Moors who were expelled from Granada, to be sung

on their departure from the familiar home country, and a short

orchestral piece by way of conclusion, I also dashed off an overture

for my friend’s play. I sketched out the complete draft of this one

evening at Minna’s house, while Apel was left free to talk to her as

much and as loudly as he liked. The effect this composition was

calculated to produce rested on a fundamental idea which was quite

simple, yet startling in its development. Unfortunately I worked it out

rather hurriedly. In not very carefully chosen phrasing the orchestra

was to represent the ocean, and, as far as might be, the ship upon it.

A forcible, pathetically yearning and aspiring theme was the only

comprehensible idea amid the swirl of enveloping sound. When the whole

had been repeated, there was a sudden jump to a different theme in

extreme pianissimo, accompanied by the swelling vibrations of the first

violins, which was intended to represent a Fata Morgana. I had secured

three pairs of trumpets in different keys, in order to produce this

exquisite, gradually dawning and seductive theme with the utmost

niceties of shade and variety of modulation. This was intended to

represent the land of desire towards which the hero’s eyes are turned,

and whose shores seem continually to rise before him only to sink

elusively beneath the waves, until at last they soar in very deed above

the western horizon, the crown of all his toil and search, and stand

clearly and unmistakably revealed to all the sailors, a vast continent

of the future. My six trumpets were now to combine in one key, in order

that the theme assigned to them might re-echo in glorious jubilation.

Familiar as I was with the excellence of the Prussian regimental

trumpeters, I could rely upon a startling effect, especially in this

concluding passage. My overture astonished every one, and was

tumultuously applauded. The play itself, however, was acted without

dignity. A conceited comedian, named Ludwig Meyer, completely ruined

the title part, for which he excused himself on the ground that, having

to act as stage manager also, he had been unable to commit his lines to

memory. Nevertheless, he managed to enrich his wardrobe with several

splendid costumes at Apel’s expense, wearing them, as Columbus, one

after the other. At all events, Apel had lived to see a play of his own

actually performed, and although this was never repeated, yet it

afforded me an opportunity of increasing my personal popularity with

the people of Magdeburg, as the overture was several times repeated at

concerts by special request.

But the chief event of this theatrical season occurred towards its

close. I induced Mme. Schroder-Devrient, who was staying in Leipzig, to

come to us for a few special performances, when, on two occasions, I

had the great satisfaction and stimulating experience of myself

conducting the operas in which she sang, and thus entering into

immediate artistic collaboration with her. She appeared as Desdemona

and Romeo. In the latter role particularly she surpassed herself, and

kindled a fresh flame in my breast. This visit brought us also into

closer personal contact. So kindly disposed and sympathetic did she

show herself towards me, that she even volunteered to lend me her

services at a concert which I proposed to give for my own benefit,

although this would necessitate her returning after a brief absence.

Under circumstances so auspicious I could only expect the best possible

results from my concert, and in my situation at that time its proceeds

were a matter of vital importance to me. My scanty salary from the

Magdeburg opera company had become altogether illusory, being paid only

in small and irregular instalments, so that I could see but one way of

meeting my daily expenses. These included frequent entertainment of a

large circle of friends, consisting of singers and players, and the

situation had become unpleasantly accentuated by no small number of

debts. True, I did not know their exact amount; but reckoned that I

could at least form an advantageous, if indefinite, estimate of the sum

to be realized by my concert, whereby the two unknown quantities might

balance each other. I therefore consoled my creditors with the tale of

these fabulous receipts, which were to pay them all in full the day

after the concert. I even went so far as to invite them to come and be

paid at the hotel to which I had moved at the close of the season.

And, indeed, there was nothing unreasonable in my counting on the

highest imaginable receipts, when supported by so great and popular a

singer, who, moreover, was returning to Magdeburg on purpose for the

event. I consequently acted with reckless prodigality as regards cost,

launching out into all manner of musical extravagance, such as engaging

an excellent and much larger orchestra, and arranging many rehearsals.

Unfortunately for me, however, nobody would believe that such a famous

actress, whose time was so precious, would really return again to

please a little Magdeburg conductor. My pompous announcement of her

appearance was almost universally regarded as a deceitful manœuvre, and

people took offence at the high prices charged for seats. The result

was that the hall was only very scantily filled, a fact which

particularly grieved me on account of my generous patroness. Her

promise I had never doubted. Punctually on the day appointed she

reappeared to support me, and now had the painful and unaccustomed

experience of performing before a small audience. Fortunately, she

treated the matter with great good-humour (which, I learned later, was

prompted by other motives, not personally concerning me). Among several

pieces she sang Beethoven’s Adelaïde most exquisitely, wherein, to my

own astonishment, I accompanied her on the piano. But, alas! another

and more unexpected mishap befell my concert, through our unfortunate

selection of pieces. Owing to the excessive reverberation of the saloon

in the Hotel ‘The City of London,’ the noise was unbearable. My

Columbus Overture, with its six trumpets, had early in the evening

filled the audience with terror; and now, at the end, came Beethoven’s

Schlacht bei Vittoria, for which, in enthusiastic expectation of

limitless receipts, I had provided every imaginable orchestral luxury.

The firing of cannon and musketry was organised with the utmost

elaboration, on both the French and English sides, by means of

specially constructed and costly apparatus; while trumpets and bugles

had been doubled and trebled. Then began a battle, such as has seldom

been more cruelly fought in a concert-room. The orchestra flung itself,

so to speak, upon the scanty audience with such an overwhelming

superiority of numbers that the latter speedily gave up all thought of

resistance and literally took to flight. Mme. Schroder-Devrient had

kindly taken a front seat, that she might hear the concert to an end.

Much as she may have been inured to terrors of this kind, this was more

than she could stand, even out of friendship for me. When, therefore,

the English made a fresh desperate assault upon the French position,

she took to flight, almost wringing her hands. Her action became the

signal for a panic-stricken stampede. Every one rushed out; and

Wellington’s victory was finally celebrated in a confidential outburst

between myself and the orchestra alone. Thus ended this wonderful

musical festival. Schroder-Devrient at once departed, deeply regretting

the ill-success of her well-meant effort, and kindly left me to my

fate. After seeking comfort in the arms of my sorrowing sweetheart, and

attempting to nerve myself for the morrow’s battle, which did not seem

likely to end in a victorious symphony, I returned next morning to the

hotel. I found I could only reach my rooms by running the gauntlet

between long rows of men and women in double file, who had all been

specially invited thither for the settlement of their respective

affairs. Reserving the right to select individuals from among my

visitors for separate interview, I first of all led in the second

trumpeter of the orchestra, whose duty it had been to look after the

cash and the music. From his account I learned that, owing to the high

fees which, in my generous enthusiasm, I had promised to the orchestra,

a few more shillings and sixpences would still have to come out of my

own pocket to meet these charges alone. When this was settled, the

position of affairs was plain. The next person I invited to come in was

Mme. Gottschalk, a trustworthy Jewess, with whom I wanted to come to

some arrangement respecting the present crisis. She perceived at once

that more than ordinary help was required in this case, but did not

doubt that I should be able to obtain it from my opulent connections in

Leipzig. She undertook, therefore, to appease the other creditors with

tranquillising assurances, and railed, or pretended to rail, against

their indecent conduct with great vigour. Thus at last we succeeded,

though not without some difficulty, in making the corridor outside my

door once more passable.

The theatrical season was now over, our company on the point of

dissolution, and I myself free from my appointment. But meanwhile the

unhappy director of our theatre had passed from a state of chronic to

one of acute bankruptcy. He paid with paper money, that is to say, with

whole sheets of box-tickets for performances which he guaranteed should

take place. By dint of great craft Minna managed to extract some profit

even from these singular treasury-bonds. She was living at this time

most frugally and economically. Moreover, as the dramatic company still

continued its efforts on behalf of its members—only the opera troupe

having been dissolved—she remained at the theatre. Thus, when I started

out on my compulsory return to Leipzig, she saw me off with hearty

good-wishes for our speedy reunion, promising to spend the next

holidays in visiting her parents in Dresden, on which occasion she

hoped also to look me up in Leipzig.

Thus it came about that early in May I once more went home to my own

folk, in order that after this abortive first attempt at civic

independence, I might finally lift the load of debt with which my

efforts in Magdeburg had burdened me. An intelligent brown poodle

faithfully accompanied me, and was entrusted to my family for food and

entertainment as the only visible property I had acquired.

Nevertheless, my mother and Rosalie succeeded in founding good hopes

for my future career upon the bare fact of my being able to conduct an

orchestra. To me, on the other hand, the thought of returning once more

to my former life with my family was very discomfiting. My relation to

Minna in particular spurred me on to resume my interrupted career as

speedily as possible. The great change which had come over me in this

respect was more apparent than ever when Minna spent a few days with me

in Leipzig on her way home. Her familiar and genial presence proclaimed

that my days of parental dependence were past and gone. We discussed

the renewal of my Magdeburg engagement, and I promised her an early

visit in Dresden. I obtained permission from my mother and sister to

invite her one evening to tea, and in this way I introduced her to my

family. Rosalie saw at once how matters stood with me, but made no

further use of the discovery than to tease me about being in love. To

her the affair did not appear dangerous; but to me things wore a very

different aspect, for this love-lorn attachment was entirely in keeping

with my independent spirit, and my ambition to win myself a place in

the world of art.

My distaste for Leipzig itself was furthermore strengthened by a change

which occurred there at this time in the realm of music. At the very

time that I, in Magdeburg, was attempting to make my reputation as a

musical conductor by thoughtless submission to the frivolous taste of

the day, Mendelssohn-Bartholdy was conducting the Gewandhaus concerts,

and inaugurating a momentous epoch for himself and the musical taste of

Leipzig. His influence had put an end to the simple ingenuousness with

which the Leipzig public had hitherto judged the productions of its

sociable subscription concerts. Through the influence of my good old

friend Pohlenz, who was not yet altogether laid on the shelf, I managed

to produce my Columbus Overture at a benefit concert given by the

favourite young singer, Livia Gerhart. But, to my amazement, I found

that the taste of the musical public in Leipzig had been given a

different bent, which not even my rapturously applauded overture, with

its brilliant combination of six trumpets, could influence. This

experience deepened my dislike of everything approaching a classical

tone, in which sentiment I found myself in complete accord with honest

Pohlenz, who sighed good-naturedly over the downfall of the good old

times.

Arrangements for a musical festival at Dessau, under Friedrich

Schneider’s conductorship, offered me a welcome chance of quitting

Leipzig. For this journey, which could be performed on foot in seven

hours, I had to procure a passport for eight days. This document was

destined to play an important part in my life for many years to come;

for on several occasions and in various European countries it was the

only paper I possessed to prove my identity. In fact, owing to my

evasion of military duty in Saxony, I never again succeeded in

obtaining a regular pass until I was appointed musical conductor in

Dresden. I derived very little artistic pleasure or benefit of any kind

from this occasion; on the contrary, it gave a fresh impetus to my

hatred of the classical. I heard Beethoven’s Symphony in C minor

conducted by a man whose physiognomy, resembling that of a drunken

satyr, filled me with unconquerable disgust. In spite of an

interminable row of contrabassi, with which a conductor usually

coquettes at musical festivals, his performance was so expressionless

and inane that I turned away in disgust as from an alarming and

repulsive problem, and desisted from all attempts to explain the

impassable gulf which, as I again perceived, yawned between my own

vivid and imaginative conception of this work and the only living

presentations of it which I had ever heard. But for the present my

tormented spirits were cheered and calmed by hearing the classical

Schneider’s oratorio Absalom rendered as an absolute burlesque.

It was in Dessau that Minna had made her first debut on the stage, and

while there I heard her spoken of by frivolous young men in the tone

usual in such circles when discussing young and beautiful actresses. My

eagerness in contradicting this chatter and confounding the

scandalmongers revealed to me more clearly than ever the strength of

the passion which drew me to her.

I therefore returned to Leipzig without calling on my relatives, and

there procured means for an immediate journey to Dresden. On the way

(the journey was still performed by express coach) I met Minna,

accompanied by one of her sisters, already on the way back to

Magdeburg. Promptly procuring a posting ticket for the return journey

to Leipzig, I actually set off thither with my dear girl; but by the

time we reached the next station I had succeeded in persuading her to

turn back with me to Dresden. By this time the mail-coach was far ahead

of us, and we had to travel by special post-chaise. This lively

bustling to and fro seemed to astonish the two girls, and put them into

high spirits. The extravagance of my conduct had evidently roused them

to the expectation of adventures, and it now behoved me to fulfil this

expectation. Procuring from a Dresden acquaintance the necessary cash,

I conducted my two lady friends through the Saxon Alps, where we spent

several right merry days of innocent and youthful gaiety. Only once was

this disturbed by a passing fit of jealousy on my part, for which,

indeed, there was no occasion, but which fed itself in my heart on a

nervous apprehension of the future, and upon the experience I had

already gained of womenkind. Yet, despite this blot, our excursion

still lingers in my memory as the sweetest and almost sole remembrance

of unalloyed happiness in the whole of my life as a young man. One

evening in particular stands out in bright relief, during which we sat

together almost all night at the watering-place of Schandau in glorious

summer weather. Indeed, my subsequent long and anxious connection with

Minna, interwoven as it was with the most painful and bitter

vicissitudes, has often appeared to me as a persistently prolonged

expiation of the brief and harmless enjoyment of those few days.

After accompanying Minna to Leipzig, whence she continued her journey

to Magdeburg, I presented myself to my family, but told them nothing of

my Dresden excursion. I now braced my energies, as though under the

stern compulsion of a strange and deep sense of duty, to the task of

making such arrangements as would speedily restore me to my dear one’s

side. To this end a fresh engagement had to be negotiated with Director

Bethmann for the coming winter season. Unable to await the conclusion

of our contract in Leipzig, I availed myself of Laube’s presence at the

baths in Kosen, near Naumburg, to pay him a visit. Laube had only

recently been discharged from the Berlin municipal gaol, after a

tormenting inquisition of nearly a year’s duration. On giving his

parole not to leave the country until the verdict had been given, he

had been permitted to retire to Kosen, from which place he, one

evening, paid us a secret visit in Leipzig. I can still call his

woebegone appearance to mind. He seemed hopelessly resigned, though he

spoke cheerfully with regard to all his earlier dreams of better

things; and owing to my own worries at that time about the critical

state of my affairs, this impression still remains one of my saddest

and most painful recollections. While at Kosen I showed him a good many

of the verses for my Liebesverbot, and although he spoke coldly of my

presumption in wishing to write my own libretto, I was slightly

encouraged by his appreciation of my work.

Meanwhile I impatiently awaited letters from Magdeburg. Not that I had

any doubt as to the renewal of my engagement; on the contrary, I had

every reason to regard myself as a good acquisition for Bethmann; but I

felt as though nothing which tended to bring me nearer to Minna could

move fast enough. As soon as I received the necessary tidings, I

hurried away to make all needful arrangements on the spot for ensuring

a magnificent success in the coming Magdeburg operatic season.

Through the tireless munificence of the King of Prussia fresh and final

assistance had been granted to our perennially bankrupt theatrical

director. His Majesty had assigned a not inconsiderable sum to a

committee consisting of substantial Magdeburg citizens, as a subsidy to

be expended on the theatre under Bethmann’s management. What this

meant, and the respect with which I thereupon regarded the artistic

conditions of Magdeburg, may be best imagined if one remembers the

neglected and forlorn surroundings amid which such provincial theatres

usually drag out their lives. I offered at once to undertake a long

journey in search of good operatic singers. I said I would find the

means for this at my own risk, and the only guarantee I demanded from

the management for eventual reimbursement was that they should assign

me the proceeds of a future benefit performance. This offer was gladly

accepted, and in pompous tones the director furnished me with the

necessary powers, and moreover gave me his parting blessing. During

this brief interval I lived once more in intimate communion with

Minna—who now had her mother with her—and then took fresh leave of her

for my venturesome enterprise.

But when I got to Leipzig I found it by no means easy to procure the

funds, so confidently counted on when in Magdeburg, for the expenses of

my projected journey. The glamour of the royal protection of Prussia

for our theatrical undertaking, which I portrayed in the liveliest

colours to my good brother-in-law Brockhaus, quite failed to dazzle

him, and it was at the cost of great pains and humiliation that I

finally got my ship of discovery under weigh.

I was naturally drawn first of all to my old wonderland of Bohemia.

There I merely touched at Prague and, without visiting my lovely lady

friends, I hurried forward so that I might first sample the opera

company then playing for the season at Karlsbad. Impatient to discover

as many talents as I could as soon as possible, so as not to exhaust my

funds to no purpose, I attended a performance of La Dame Blanche,

sincerely hoping to find the whole performance first class. But not

until much later did I fully realise how wretched was the quality of

all these singers. I selected one of them, a bass named Graf, who was

singing Gaveston. When in due course he made his debut at Magdeburg, he

provoked so much well-founded dissatisfaction, that I could not find a

word to say in reply to the mockery which this acquisition brought upon

me.

But the small success with which the real object of my tour was

attended was counterbalanced by the pleasantness of the journey itself.

The trip through Eger, over the Fichtel mountains, and the entry into

Bayreuth, gloriously illuminated by the setting sun, have remained

happy memories to this day.

My next goal was Nuremberg, where my sister Clara and her husband were

acting, and from whom I might reckon on sound information as to the

object of my search. It was particularly nice to be hospitably received

in my sister’s house, where I hoped to revive my somewhat exhausted

means of travel. In this hope I reckoned chiefly upon the sale of a

snuff-box presented to me by a friend, which I had secret reasons to

suppose was made of platinum. To this I could add a gold signet-ring,

given me by my friend Apel for composing the overture to his Columbus.

The value of the snuff-box unfortunately proved to be entirely

imaginary; but by pawning these two jewels, the only ones I had left, I

hoped to provide myself with the bare necessaries for continuing my

journey to Frankfort. It was to this place and the Rhine district that

the information I had gathered led me to direct my steps. Before

leaving I persuaded my sister and brother-in-law to accept engagements

in Magdeburg; but I still lacked a first tenor and a soprano, whom

hitherto I had altogether failed to discover.

My stay in Nuremberg was most agreeably prolonged through a renewed

meeting with Schroder-Devrient, who just at that time was fulfilling a

short engagement in that town. Meeting her again was like seeing the

clouds disperse, which, since our last meeting, had darkened my

artistic horizon.

The Nuremberg operatic company had a very limited repertoire. Besides

Fidelio they could produce nothing save Die Schweizerfamilie, a fact

about which this great singer complained, as this was one of her first

parts sung in early youth, for which she was hardly any longer suited,

and which, in addition, she had played ad nauseam. I also looked

forward to the performance of Die Schweizerfamilie with misgivings, and

even with anxiety, for I feared lest this tame opera and the

old-fashioned sentimental part of Emmeline would weaken the great

impression the public, as well as myself, had formed up to that moment

of the work of this sublime artist. Imagine, therefore, how deeply

moved and astonished I was, on the evening of the performance, to find

that it was in this very part that I first realised the truly

transcendental genius of this extraordinary woman. That anything so

great as her interpretation of the character of the Swiss maiden could

not be handed down to posterity as a monument for all time can only be

looked upon as one of the most sublime sacrifices demanded by dramatic

art, and as one of its highest manifestations. When, therefore, such

phenomena appear, we cannot hold them in too great reverence, nor look

upon them as too sacred.

Apart from all these new experiences which were to become of so much

value to my whole life and to my artistic development, the impressions

I received at Nuremberg, though they were apparently trivial in their

origin, left such indelible traces on my mind, that they revived within

me later on, though in quite a different and novel form.

My brother-in-law, Wolfram, was a great favourite with the Nuremberg

theatrical world; he was witty and sociable, and as such made himself

much liked in theatrical circles. On this occasion I received

singularly delightful proofs of the spirit of extravagant gaiety

manifested on these evenings at the inn, in which I also took part. A

master carpenter, named Lauermann, a little thick-set man, no longer

young, of comical appearance and gifted only with the roughest dialect,

was pointed out to me in one of the inns visited by our friends as one

of those oddities who involuntarily contributed most to the amusement

of the local wags. Lauermann, it seems, imagined himself an excellent

singer, and as a result of this presumption, evinced interest only in

those in whom he thought he recognised a like talent. In spite of the

fact that, owing to this singular peculiarity, he became the butt of

constant jest and scornful mockery, he never failed to appear every

evening among his laughter-loving persecutors. So often had he been

laughed at and hurt by their scorn, that it became very difficult to

persuade him to give a display of his artistic skill, and this at last

could only be effected by artfully devised traps, so laid as to appeal

to his vanity. My arrival as an unknown stranger was utilised for a

manœuvre of this kind. How poor was the opinion they held of the

unfortunate mastersinger’s judgment was revealed when, to my great

amazement, my brother-in-law introduced me to him as the great Italian

singer, Lablache. To his credit I must confess that Lauermann surveyed

me for a long time with incredulous distrust, and commented with

cautious suspicion on my juvenile appearance, but especially on the

evidently tenor character of my voice. But the whole art of these

tavern associates and their principal enjoyment consisted in leading

this poor enthusiast to believe the incredible, a task on which they

spared neither time nor pains.

My brother-in-law succeeded in making the carpenter believe that I,

while receiving fabulous sums for my performances, wished by a singular

act of dissimulation, and by visiting public inns, to withdraw from the

general public; and that, moreover, when it came to a meeting between

‘Lauermann’ and ‘Lablache,’ the only real interest could be to hear

Lauermann and not Lablache, seeing that the former had nothing to learn

from the latter, but only Lablache from him. So singular was the

conflict between incredulity, on the one hand, and keenly excited

vanity on the other, that finally the poor carpenter became really

attractive to me. I began to play the role assigned me with all the

skill I could command, and after a couple of hours, which were relieved

by the strangest antics, we at last gained our end. The wondrous

mortal, whose flashing eyes had long been fixed on me in the greatest

excitement, worked his muscles in the peculiarly fantastic fashion

which we are accustomed to associate with a music-making automaton, the

mechanism of which has been duly wound up: his lips quivered, his teeth

gnashed, his eyes rolled convulsively, until finally there broke forth,

in a hoarse oily voice, an uncommonly trivial street-ballad. Its

delivery, accompanied by a regular movement of his outstretched thumbs

behind the ears, and during which his fat face glowed the brightest

red, was unhappily greeted with a wild burst of laughter from all

present, which excited the unlucky master to the most furious wrath.

With studied cruelty this wrath was greeted by those, who until then

had shamelessly flattered him, with the most extravagant mockery, until

the poor wretch at last absolutely foamed with rage.

As he was leaving the inn amid a hail of curses from his infamous

friends, an impulse of genuine pity prompted me to follow him, that I

might beg his forgiveness and seek in some way to pacify him, a task

all the more difficult since he was especially bitter against me as the

latest of his enemies, and the one who had so deeply deceived his eager

hope of hearing the genuine Lablache. Nevertheless, I succeeded in

stopping him on the threshold; and now the riotous company silently

entered into an extraordinary conspiracy to induce Lauermann to sing

again that very evening. How they managed this I can as little remember

as I can call to mind the effect of the spirituous liquors I imbibed.

In any case, I suspect that drink must eventually have been the means

of subduing Lauermann, just as it also rendered my own recollections of

the wonderful events of that prolonged evening at the inn extremely

vague. After Lauermann had for the second time suffered the same

mockery, the whole company felt itself bound to accompany the unhappy

man to his home. They carried him thither in a wheelbarrow, which they

found outside the house, and in this he arrived, in triumph, at his own

door, in one of those marvellous narrow alleys peculiar to the old

city. Frau Lauermann, who was aroused from slumber to receive her

husband, enabled us, by her torrent of curses, to form some idea of the

nature of their marital and domestic relations. Mockery of her

husband’s vocal talents was with her also a familiar theme; but to this

she now added the most dreadful reproaches for the worthless scamps

who, by encouraging him in this delusion, kept him from profitably

following his trade, and even led him to such scenes as the present

one. Thereupon the pride of the suffering mastersinger reasserted

itself; for while his wife painfully assisted him to mount the stairs,

he harshly denied her right to sit in judgment upon his vocal gifts,

and sternly ordered her to be silent. But even now this wonderful

night-adventure was by no means over. The entire swarm moved once more

in the direction of the inn. Before the house, however, we found a

number of fellows congregated, among them several workmen, against

whom, owing to police regulations as to closing hours, the doors were

shut. But the regular guests of the house, who were of our party, and

who were on terms of old friendship with the host, thought that it was

nevertheless permissible and possible to demand entrance. The host was

troubled at having to bar his door against friends, whose voices he

recognised; yet it was necessary to prevent the new arrivals from

forcing a way in with them. Out of this situation a mighty confusion

arose, which, what with shouting and clamour and an inexplicable growth

in the number of the disputants, soon assumed a truly demoniacal

character. It seemed to me as though in a few moments the whole town

would break into a tumult, and I thought I should once more have to

witness a revolution, the real origin of which no man could comprehend.

Then suddenly I heard some one fall, and, as though by magic, the whole

mass scattered in every direction. One of the regular guests, who was

familiar with an ancient Nuremberg boxing trick, desiring to put an end

to the interminable riot and to cut his way home through the crowd,

gave one of the noisiest shouters a blow with his fist between the

eyes, laying him senseless on the ground, though without seriously

injuring him. And this it was that so speedily broke up the whole

throng. Within little more than a minute of the most violent uproar of

hundreds of human voices, my brother-in-law and I were able to stroll

arm-in-arm through the moonlit streets, quietly jesting and laughing,

on our way home; and then it was that, to my amazement and relief, he

informed me that he was accustomed to this sort of life every evening.

At last, however, it became necessary seriously to attend to the

purpose of my journey. Only in passing did I touch at Wurzburg for a

day. I remember nothing of the meeting with my relations and

acquaintance beyond the melancholy visit to Friederike Galvani already

mentioned. On reaching Frankfort I was obliged to seek at once the

shelter of a decent hotel, in order to await there the result of my

solicitations for subsidies from the directorate of the Magdeburg

theatre. My hopes of securing the real stars of our operatic

undertaking were formed with a view to a season at Wiesbaden, where, I

was told, a good operatic company was on the point of dissolution. I

found it extremely difficult to arrange the short journey thither; yet

I managed to be present at a rehearsal of Robert der Teufel, in which

the tenor Freimuller distinguished himself. I interviewed him at once,

and found him willing to entertain my proposals for Magdeburg. We

concluded the necessary agreement, and I then returned with all speed

to my headquarters, the Weidenbusch Hotel in Frankfort. There I had to

spend another anxious week, during which I waited in vain for the

necessary travelling expenses to arrive from Magdeburg. To kill time I

had recourse, among other things, to a large red pocket-book which I

carried about with me in my portmanteau, and in which I entered, with

exact details of dates, etc., notes for my future biography—the

selfsame book which now lies before me to freshen my memory, and which

I have ever since added to at various periods of my life, without

leaving any gaps. Through the neglect of the Magdeburg managers my

situation, which was already serious, became literally desperate, when

I made an acquisition in Frankfort which gave me almost more pleasure

than I was able to bear. I had been present at a production of the

Zauberflote under the direction of Guhr, then wonderfully renowned as

‘a conductor of genius,’ and was agreeably surprised at the truly

excellent quality of the company. It was, of course, useless to think

of luring one of the leading stars into my net; on the other hand, I

saw clearly enough that the youthful Fraulein Limbach, who sang the

‘first boy’s’ part, possessed a desirable talent. She accepted my offer

of an engagement, and, indeed, seemed so anxious to be rid of her

Frankfort engagement that she resolved to escape from it

surreptitiously. She revealed her plans to me, and begged me to assist

her in carrying them out; for, inasmuch as the directors might get wind

of the affair, there was no time to lose. At all events, the young lady

assumed that I had abundant credit, supplied for my official business

journey by the Magdeburg theatre committee, whose praises I had so

diligently sung. But already I had been compelled to pledge my scanty

travelling gear in order to provide for my own departure. To this point

I had persuaded the host, but now found him by no means inclined to

advance me the additional funds needed for carrying off a young singer.

To cloak the bad behaviour of my directors I was compelled to invent

some tale of misfortune, and to leave the astonished and indignant

young lady behind. Heartily ashamed of this adventure, I travelled

through rain and storm via Leipzig, where I picked up my brown poodle,

and reaching Magdeburg, there resumed my work as musical director on

the 1st of September.

The result of my business labours gave me but little joy. The director,

it is true, proved triumphantly that he had sent five whole golden

louis to my address in Frankfort, and that my tenor and the youthful

lady-singer had also been provided with proper contracts, but not with

the fares and advances demanded. Neither of them came; only the basso

Graf arrived with pedantic punctuality from Karlsbad, and immediately

provoked the chaff of our theatrical wags. He sang at a rehearsal of

the Schweizerfamilie with such a schoolmasterly drone that I completely

lost my composure. The arrival of my excellent brother-in-law Wolfram

with my sister Clara was of more advantage for musical comedy than for

grand opera, and caused me considerable trouble into the bargain; for,

being honest folk and used to decent living, they speedily perceived

that, in spite of royal protection, the condition of the theatre was

but very insecure, as was natural under so unscrupulous a management as

that of Bethmann, and recognised with alarm that they had seriously

compromised their family position. My courage had already begun to sink

when a happy chance brought us a young woman, Mme. Pollert (nee

Zeibig), who was passing through Magdeburg with her husband, an actor,

in order to fulfil a special engagement in that town; she was gifted

with a beautiful voice, was a talented singer, and well suited for the

chief roles. Necessity had at last driven the directors to action, and

at the eleventh hour they sent for the tenor Freimuller. But I was

particularly gratified when the love which had arisen between him and

young Limbach in Frankfort enabled the enterprising tenor to carry away

this singer, to whom I had behaved so miserably. Both arrived radiant

with joy. Along with them we engaged Mme. Pollert, who, in spite of her

pretentiousness, met with favour from the public. A well-trained and

musically competent baritone, Herr Krug, afterwards the conductor of a

choir in Karlsruhe, had also been discovered, so that all at once I

stood at the head of a really good operatic company, among which the

basso Graf could be fitted in only with great difficulty, by being kept

as much as possible in the background. We succeeded quickly with a

series of operatic performances which were by no means ordinary, and

our repertory included everything of this nature that had ever been

written for the theatre. I was particularly pleased with the

presentation of Spohr’s Jessonda, which was truly not without

sublimity, and raised us high in the esteem of all cultured lovers of

music. I was untiring in my endeavours to discover some means of

elevating our performances above the usual level of excellence

compatible with the meagre resources of provincial theatres. I

persistently fell foul of the director Bethmann by strengthening my

orchestra, which he had to pay; but, on the other hand, I won his

complete goodwill by strengthening the chorus and the theatre music,

which cost him nothing, and which lent such splendour to our

presentations that subscriptions and audiences increased enormously.

For instance, I secured the regimental band, and also the military

singers, who in the Prussian army are admirably organised, and who

assisted in our performances in return for free passes to the gallery

granted to their relatives. Thus I managed to furnish with the utmost

completeness the specially strong orchestral accompaniment demanded by

the score of Bellini’s Norma, and was able to dispose of a body of male

voices for the impressive unison portion of the male chorus in the

introduction of that work such as even the greatest theatres could

rarely command. In later years I was able to assure Auber, whom I often

met over an ice in Tortoni’s cafe in Paris, that in his Lestocq I had

been able to render the part of the mutinous soldiery, when seduced

into conspiracy, with an absolutely full number of voices, a fact for

which he thanked me with astonishment and delight.

Amid such circumstances of encouragement the composition of my

Liebesverbot made rapid strides towards completion. I intended the

presentation of this piece for the benefit performance which had been

promised me as a means of defraying my expenses, and I worked hard in

the hope of improving my reputation, and at the same time of

accomplishing something by no means less desirable, and that was the

betterment of my financial position. Even the few hours which I could

snatch from business to spend at Minna’s side were devoted with

unexampled zeal to the completion of my score. My diligence moved even

Minna’s mother, who looked with some uneasiness upon our love affair.

She had remained over the summer on a visit to her daughter, and

managed the house for her. Owing to her interference a new and urgent

anxiety had entered into our relations, which pressed for serious

settlement. It was natural that we should begin to think of what it was

all going to lead to. I must confess that the idea of marriage,

especially in view of my youth, filled me with dismay, and without

indeed reflecting on the matter, or seriously weighing its pros and

cons, a naive and instinctive feeling prevented me even from

considering the possibility of a step which would have such serious

consequences upon my whole life. Moreover, our modest circumstances

were in so alarming and uncertain a state that even Minna declared that

she was more anxious to see these improved than to get me to marry her.

But she was also driven to think of herself, and that promptly, for

trouble arose with regard to her own position in the Magdeburg theatre.

There she had met with a rival in her own speciality, and as this

woman’s husband became chief stage manager, and consequently had

supreme power, she grew to be a source of great danger. Seeing,

therefore, that at this very moment Minna received advantageous offers

from the managers of the Konigstadt theatre in Berlin, then doing a

splendid business, she seized the opportunity to break off her

connection with the Magdeburg theatre, and thus plunged me, whom she

did not appear to consider in the matter, into the depths of despair. I

could not hinder Minna from going to Berlin to fulfil a special

engagement there, although this was not in accordance with her

agreement, and so she departed, leaving me behind, overcome with grief

and doubt as to the meaning of her conduct. At last, mad with passion,

I wrote to her urging her to return, and the better to move her and not

to separate her fate from my own, I proposed to her in a strictly

formal manner, and hinted at the hope of early marriage. About the same

time my brother-in-law, Wolfram, having quarrelled with the director

Bethmann and cancelled his contract with him, also went to the

Konigstadt theatre to fulfil a special engagement. My good sister

Clara, who had remained behind for a while amid the somewhat unpleasant

conditions of Magdeburg, soon perceived the anxious and troubled temper

in which her otherwise cheerful brother was rapidly consuming himself.

One day she thought it advisable to show me a letter from her husband,

with news from Berlin, and especially concerning Minna, in which he

earnestly deplored my passion for this girl, who was acting quite

unworthily of me. As she lodged at his hotel, he was able to observe

that not only the company she kept, but also her own conduct, were

perfectly scandalous. The extraordinary impression which this dreadful

communication made upon me decided me to abandon the reserve I had

hitherto shown towards my relatives with regard to my love affairs. I

wrote to my brother-in-law in Berlin, telling him how matters stood

with me, and that my plans greatly depended on Minna, and further, how

extremely important it was for me to learn from him the indubitable

truth concerning her of whom he had sent so evil an account. From my

brother-in-law, usually so dry and given to joking, I received a reply

which filled my heart to overflowing again. He confessed that he had

accused Minna too hastily, and regretted that he had allowed idle

chatter to influence him in founding a charge, which, on investigation,

had proved to be altogether groundless and unjust; he declared,

moreover, that on nearer acquaintance and conversation with her he had

been so fully convinced of the genuineness and uprightness of her

character, that he hoped with all his heart that I might see my way to

marry her. And now a storm raged in my heart. I implored Minna to

return at once, and was glad to learn that, for her part, she was not

inclined to renew her engagement at the Berlin theatre, as she had now

acquired a more intimate knowledge of the life there, and found it too

frivolous. All that remained, then, was for me to facilitate the

resumption of her Magdeburg engagement. To this end, therefore, at a

meeting of the theatre committee, I attacked the director and his

detested stage manager with such energy, and defended Minna against the

wrong done her by them both with such passion and fervour, that the

other members, astonished at the frank confession of my affection,

yielded to my wishes without any further ado. And now I set off by

extra post in the depth of night and in dreadful winter weather to meet

my returning sweetheart. I greeted her with tears of deepest joy, and

led her back in triumph to her cosy Magdeburg home, already become so

dear to me.

Meanwhile, as our two lives, thus severed for a while, were being drawn

more and more closely together, I finished the score of my Liebesverbot

about New Year 1836. For the development of my future plans I depended

not a little upon the success of this work; and Minna herself seemed

not disinclined to yield to my hopes in this respect. We had reason to

be concerned as to how matters would pan out for us at the beginning of

the spring, for this season is always a bad one in which to start such

precarious theatrical enterprises. In spite of royal support and the

participation of the theatre committee in the general management of the

theatre, our worthy director’s state of perennial bankruptcy suffered

no alteration, and it seemed as if his theatrical undertaking could not

possibly last much longer in any form. Nevertheless, with the help of

the really first-rate company of singers at my disposal, the production

of my opera was to mark a complete change in my unsatisfactory

circumstances. With the view of recovering the travelling expenses I

had incurred during the previous summer, I was entitled to a benefit

performance. I naturally fixed this for the presentation of my own

work, and did my utmost so that this favour granted me by the directors

should prove as inexpensive to them as possible. As they would

nevertheless be compelled to incur some expense in the production of

the new opera, I agreed that the proceeds of the first presentation

should be left to them, while I should claim only those of the second.

I did not consider it altogether unsatisfactory that the time for the

rehearsals was postponed until the very end of the season, for it was

reasonable to suppose that our company, which was often greeted with

unusual applause, would receive special attention and favour from the

public during its concluding performances. Unfortunately, however,

contrary to our expectations, we never reached the proper close of this

season, which had been fixed for the end of April; for already in

March, owing to irregularity in the payment of salaries, the most

popular members of the company, having found better employment

elsewhere, tendered their resignations to the management, and the

director, who was unable to raise the necessary cash, was compelled to

bow to the inevitable. Now, indeed, my spirits sank, for it seemed more

than doubtful whether my Liebesverbot would ever be produced at all. I

owed it entirely to the warm affection felt for me personally by all

members of the opera company, that the singers consented not only to

remain until the end of March, but also to undertake the toil of

studying and rehearsing my opera, a task which, considering the very

limited time, promised to be extremely arduous. In the event of our

having to give two representations, the time at our disposal was so

very short that, for all the rehearsals, we had but ten days before us.

And since we were concerned not with a light comedy or farce, but with

a grand opera, and one which, in spite of the trifling character of its

music, contained numerous and powerful concerted passages, the

undertaking might have been regarded almost as foolhardy. Nevertheless,

I built my hopes upon the extraordinary exertions which the singers so

willingly made in order to please me; for they studied continuously,

morning, noon, and night. But seeing that, in spite of all this, it was

quite impossible to attain to perfection, especially in the matter of

words, in the case of every one of these harassed performers, I

reckoned further on my own acquired skill as conductor to achieve the

final miracle of success. The peculiar ability I possessed of helping

the singers and of making them, in spite of much uncertainty, seem to

flow smoothly onwards, was clearly demonstrated in our orchestral

rehearsals, in which, by dint of constant prompting, loud singing with

the performers and vigorous directions as to necessary action, I got

the whole thing to run so easily that it seemed quite possible that the

performance might be a reasonable success after all. Unfortunately, we

did not consider that in front of the public all these drastic methods

of moving the dramatic and musical machinery would be restricted to the

movements of my baton and to my facial expression. As a matter of fact

the singers, and especially the men, were so extraordinarily uncertain

that from beginning to end their embarrassment crippled the

effectiveness of every one of their parts. Freimuller, the tenor, whose

memory was most defective, sought to patch up the lively and emotional

character of his badly learned rule of the madcap Luzio by means of

routine work learned in Fra Diavolo and Zampa, and especially by the

aid of an enormously thick, brightly coloured and fluttering plume of

feathers. Consequently, as the directors failed to have the book of

words printed in time, it was impossible to blame the public for being

in doubt as to the main outlines of the story, seeing that they had

only the sung words to guide them. With the exception of a few portions

played by the lady singers, which were favourably received, the whole

performance, which I had made to depend largely upon bold, energetic

action and speech, remained but a musical shadow-play, to which the

orchestra contributed its own inexplicable effusions, sometimes with

exaggerated noise. As characteristic of the treatment of my

tone-colour, I may mention that the band-master of a Prussian military

band, who, by the bye, had been well pleased with the performance, felt

it incumbent upon him to give me some well-meant hints for my future

guidance, as to the manipulation of the Turkish drum. Before I relate

the further history of this wonderful work of my youth, I will pause a

moment briefly to describe its character, and especially its poetical

elements.

Shakespeare’s play, which I kept throughout in mind as the foundation

of my story, was worked out in the following manner:—

An unnamed king of Sicily leaves his country, as I suggest, for a

journey to Naples, and hands over to the Regent appointed—whom I simply

call Friedrich, with the view of making him appear as German as

possible—full authority to exercise all the royal power in order to

effect a complete reform in the social habits of his capital, which had

provoked the indignation of the Council. At the opening of the play we

see the servants of the public authority busily employed either in

shutting up or in pulling down the houses of popular amusement in a

suburb of Palermo, and in carrying off the inmates, including hosts and

servants, as prisoners. The populace oppose this first step, and much

scuffling ensues. In the thickest of the throng the chief of the

sbirri, Brighella (basso-buffo), after a preliminary roll of drums for

silence, reads out the Regent’s proclamation, according to which the

acts just performed are declared to be directed towards establishing a

higher moral tone in the manners and customs of the people. A general

outburst of scorn and a mocking chorus meets this announcement. Luzio,

a young nobleman and juvenile scape-grace (tenor), seems inclined to

thrust himself forward as leader of the mob, and at once finds an

occasion for playing a more active part in the cause of the oppressed

people on discovering his friend Claudio (also a tenor) being led away

to prison. From him he learns that, in pursuance of some musty old law

unearthed by Friedrich, he is to suffer the penalty of death for a

certain love escapade in which he is involved. His sweetheart, union

with whom had been prevented by the enmity of their parents, has borne

him a child. Friedrich’s puritanical zeal joins cause with the parents’

hatred; he fears the worst, and sees no way of escape save through

mercy, provided his sister Isabella may be able, by her entreaties, to

melt the Regent’s hard heart. Claudio implores his friend at once to

seek out Isabella in the convent of the Sisters of St. Elizabeth, which

she has recently entered as novice. There, between the quiet walls of

the convent, we first meet this sister, in confidential intercourse

with her friend Marianne, also a novice. Marianne reveals to her

friend, from whom she has long been parted, the unhappy fate which has

brought her to the place. Under vows of eternal fidelity she had been

persuaded to a secret liaison with a man of high rank. But finally,

when in extreme need she found herself not only forsaken, but

threatened by her betrayer, she discovered him to be the mightiest man

in the state, none other than the King’s Regent himself. Isabella’s

indignation finds vent in impassioned words, and is only pacified by

her determination to forsake a world in which so vile a crime can go

unpunished.—When now Luzio brings her tidings of her own brother’s

fate, her disgust at her brother’s misconduct is turned at once to

scorn for the villainy of the hypocritical Regent, who presumes so

cruelly to punish the comparatively venial offence of her brother,

which, at least, was not stained by treachery. Her violent outburst

imprudently reveals her to Luzio in a seductive aspect; smitten with

sudden love, he urges her to quit the convent for ever and to accept

his hand. She contrives to check his boldness, but resolves at once to

avail herself of his escort to the Regent’s court of justice.—Here the

trial scene is prepared, and I introduce it by a burlesque hearing of

several persons charged by the sbirro captain with offences against

morality. The earnestness of the situation becomes more marked when the

gloomy form of Friedrich strides through the inrushing and unruly

crowd, commanding silence, and he himself undertakes the hearing of

Claudio’s case in the sternest manner possible. The implacable judge is

already on the point of pronouncing sentence when Isabella enters, and

requests, before them all, a private interview with the Regent. In this

interview she behaves with noble moderation towards the dreaded, yet

despised man before her, and appeals at first only to his mildness and

mercy. His interruptions merely serve to stimulate her ardour: she

speaks of her brother’s offence in melting accents, and implores

forgiveness for so human and by no means unpardonable a crime. Seeing

the effect of her moving appeal, she continues with increasing ardour

to plead with the judge’s hard and unresponsive heart, which can

certainly not have remained untouched by sentiments such as those which

had actuated her brother, and she calls upon his memory of these to

support her desperate plea for pity. At last the ice of his heart is

broken. Friedrich, deeply stirred by Isabella’s beauty, can no longer

contain himself, and promises to grant her petition at the price of her

own love. Scarcely has she become aware of the unexpected effect of her

words when, filled with indignation at such incredible villainy, she

cries to the people through doors and windows to come in, that she may

unmask the hypocrite before the world. The crowd is already rushing

tumultuously into the hall of judgment, when, by a few significant

hints, Friedrich, with frantic energy, succeeds in making Isabella

realise the impossibility of her plan. He would simply deny her charge,

boldly pretend that his offer was merely made to test her, and would

doubtless be readily believed so soon as it became only a question of

rebutting a charge of lightly making love to her. Isabella, ashamed and

confounded, recognises the madness of her first step, and gnashes her

teeth in silent despair. While then Friedrich once more announces his

stern resolve to the people, and pronounces sentence on the prisoner,

it suddenly occurs to Isabella, spurred by the painful recollection of

Marianne’s fate, that what she has failed to procure by open means she

might possibly obtain by craft. This thought suffices to dispel her

sorrow, and to fill her with utmost gaiety. Turning to her sorrowing

brother, her agitated friends, and the perplexed crowd, she assures

them all that she is ready to provide them with the most amusing of

adventures. She declares that the carnival festivities, which the

Regent has just strictly forbidden, are to be celebrated this year with

unusual licence; for this dreaded ruler only pretends to be so cruel,

in order the more pleasantly to astonish them by himself taking a merry

part in all that he has just forbidden. They all believe that she has

gone mad, and Friedrich in particular reproves her incomprehensible

folly with passionate severity. But a few words on her part suffice to

transport the Regent himself with ecstasy; for in a whisper she

promises to grant his desire, and that on the following night she will

send him such a message as shall ensure his happiness.—And so ends the

first act in a whirl of excitement.

We learn the nature of the heroine’s hastily formed plan at the

beginning of the second act, in which she visits her brother in his

cell, with the object of discovering whether he is worthy of rescue.

She reveals Friedrich’s shameful proposal to him, and asks if he would

wish to save his life at the price of his sister’s dishonour. Then

follow Claudio’s fury and fervent declaration of his readiness to die;

whereupon, bidding farewell to his sister, at least for this life, he

makes her the bearer of the most tender messages to the dear girl whom

he leaves behind. After this, sinking into a softer mood, the unhappy

man declines from a state of melancholy to one of weakness. Isabella,

who had already determined to inform him of his rescue, hesitates in

dismay when she sees him fall in this way from the heights of noble

enthusiasm to a muttered confession of a love of life still as strong

as ever, and even to a stammering query as to whether the suggested

price of his salvation is altogether impossible. Disgusted, she springs

to her feet, thrusts the unworthy man from her, and declares that to

the shame of his death he has further added her most hearty contempt.

After having handed him over again to his gaoler, her mood once more

changes swiftly to one of wanton gaiety. True, she resolves to punish

the waverer by leaving him for a time in uncertainty as to his fate;

but stands firm by her resolve to rid the world of the abominable

seducer who dared to dictate laws to his fellow-men. She tells Marianne

that she must take her place at the nocturnal rendezvous, at which

Friedrich so treacherously expected to meet her (Isabella), and sends

Friedrich an invitation to this meeting. In order to entangle the

latter even more deeply in ruin, she stipulates that he must come

disguised and masked, and fixes the rendezvous in one of those pleasure

resorts which he has just suppressed. To the madcap Luzio, whom she

also desires to punish for his saucy suggestion to a novice, she

relates the story of Friedrich’s proposal, and her pretended intention

of complying, from sheer necessity, with his desires. This she does in

a fashion so incomprehensively light-hearted that the otherwise

frivolous man, first dumb with amazement, ultimately yields to a fit of

desperate rage. He swears that, even if the noble maiden herself can

endure such shame, he will himself strive by every means in his power

to avert it, and would prefer to set all Palermo on fire and in tumult

rather than allow such a thing to happen. And, indeed, he arranges

things in such a manner that on the appointed evening all his friends

and acquaintances assemble at the end of the Corso, as though for the

opening of the prohibited carnival procession. At nightfall, as things

are beginning to grow wild and merry, Luzio appears, and sings an

extravagant carnival song, with the refrain:

Who joins us not in frolic jest

Shall have a dagger in his breast;

by which means he seeks to stir the crowd to bloody revolt. When a band

of sbirri approaches, under Brighella’s leadership, to scatter the gay

throng, the mutinous project seems on the point of being accomplished.

But for the present Luzio prefers to yield, and to scatter about the

neighbourhood, as he must first of all win the real leader of their

enterprise: for here was the spot which Isabella had mischievously

revealed to him as the place of her pretended meeting with the Regent.

For the latter Luzio therefore lies in wait. Recognising him in an

elaborate disguise, he blocks his way, and as Friedrich violently

breaks loose, is on the point of following him with shouts and drawn

sword, when, on a sign from Isabella, who is hidden among some bushes,

he is himself stopped and led away. Isabella then advances, rejoicing

in the thought of having restored the betrayed Marianne to her

faithless spouse. Believing that she holds in her hand the promised

pardon for her brother, she is just on the point of abandoning all

thought of further vengeance when, breaking the seal, to her intense

horror she recognises by the light of a torch that the paper contains

but a still more severe order of execution, which, owing to her desire

not to disclose to her brother the fact of his pardon, a mere chance

had now delivered into her hand, through the agency of the bribed

gaoler. After a hard fight with the tempestuous passion of love, and

recognising his helplessness against this enemy of his peace, Friedrich

has in fact already resolved to face his ruin, even though as a

criminal, yet still as a man of honour. An hour on Isabella’s breast,

and then—his own death by the same law whose implacable severity shall

also claim Claudio’s life. Isabella, perceiving in this conduct only a

further proof of the hypocrite’s villainy, breaks out once more into a

tempest of agonised despair. Upon her cry for immediate revolt against

the scoundrelly tyrant, the people collect together and form a motley

and passionate crowd. Luzio, who also returns, counsels the people with

stinging bitterness to pay no heed to the woman’s fury; he points out

that she is only tricking them, as she has already tricked him—for he

still believes in her shameless infidelity. Fresh confusion; increased

despair of Isabella; suddenly from the background comes the burlesque

cry of Brighella for help, who, himself suffering from the pangs of

jealousy, has by mistake arrested the masked Regent, and thus led to

the latter’s discovery. Friedrich is recognised, and Marianne,

trembling on his breast, is also unmasked. Amazement, indignation!

Cries of joy burst forth all round; the needful explanations are

quickly given, and Friedrich sullenly demands to be set before the

judgment-seat of the returning King. Claudio, released from prison by

the jubilant populace, informs him that the sentence of death for

crimes of love is not intended for all times; messengers arrive to

announce the unexpected arrival in harbour of the King; it is resolved

to march in full masked procession to meet the beloved Prince, and

joyously to pay him homage, all being convinced that he will heartily

rejoice to see how ill the gloomy puritanism of Germany is suited to

his hot-blooded Sicily. Of him it is said:

Your merry festals please him more

Than gloomy laws or legal lore.

Friedrich, with his freshly affianced wife, Marianne, must lead the

procession, followed by Luzio and the novice, who is for ever lost to

the convent.

These spirited and, in many respects, boldly devised scenes I had

clothed in suitable language and carefully written verse, which had

already been noticed by Laube. The police at first took exception to

the title of the work, which, had I not changed it, would have led to

the complete failure of my plans for its presentation. It was the week

before Easter, and the theatre was consequently forbidden to produce

jolly, or at least frivolous, plays during this period. Luckily the

magistrate, with whom I had to treat concerning the matter, did not

show any inclination to examine the libretto himself; and when I

assured him that it was modelled upon a very serious play of

Shakespeare’s, the authorities contented themselves merely with

changing the somewhat startling title. Die Novize van Palermo, which

was the new title, had nothing suspicious about it, and was therefore

approved as correct without further scruple. I fared quite otherwise in

Leipzig, where I attempted to introduce this work in the place of my

Feen, when the latter was withdrawn. The director, Ringelhardt, whom I

sought to win over to my cause by assigning the part of Marianne to his

daughter, then making her debut in opera, chose to reject my work on

the apparently very reasonable grounds that the tendency of the theme

displeased him. He assured me that, even if the Leipzig magistrates had

consented to its production—a fact concerning which his high esteem for

that body led him to have serious doubts—he himself, as a conscientious

father, could certainly not permit his daughter to take part in it.

Strange to say, I suffered nothing from the suspicious nature of the

libretto of my opera on the occasion of its production in Magdeburg;

for, as I have said, thanks to the unintelligible manner in which it

was produced, the story remained a complete mystery to the public. This

circumstance, and the fact that no opposition had been raised on the

ground of its TENDENCY, made a second performance possible, and as

nobody seemed to care one way or the other, no objections were raised.

Feeling sure that my opera had made no impression, and had left the

public completely undecided about its merits, I reckoned that, in view

of this being the farewell performance of our opera company, we should

have good, not to say large, takings. Consequently I did not hesitate

to charge ‘full’ prices for admittance. I cannot rightly judge whether,

up to the commencement of the overture, any people had taken their

places in the auditorium; but about a quarter of an hour before the

time fixed for beginning, I saw only Mme. Gottschalk and her husband,

and, curiously enough, a Polish Jew in full dress, seated in the

stalls. Despite this, I was still hoping for an increase in the

audience, when suddenly the most incredible commotion occurred behind

the scenes. Herr Pollert, the husband of my prima donna (who was acting

Isabella), was assaulting Schreiber, the second tenor, a very young and

handsome man taking the part of Claudio, and against whom the injured

husband had for some time been nursing a secret rancour born of

jealousy. It appeared that the singer’s husband, who had surveyed the

theatre from behind the drop-scene with me, had satisfied himself as to

the style of the audience, and decided that the longed-for hour was at

hand when, without injuring the operatic enterprise, he could wreak

vengeance on his wife’s lover. Claudio was so severely used by him that

the unfortunate fellow had to seek refuge in the dressing-room, his

face covered with blood. Isabella was told of this, and rushed

despairingly to her raging spouse, only to be so soundly cuffed by him

that she went into convulsions. The confusion that ensued amongst the

company soon knew no bounds: they took sides in the quarrel, and little

was wanting for it to turn into a general fight, as everybody seemed to

regard this unhappy evening as particularly favourable for the paying

off of any old scores and supposed insults. This much was clear, that

the couple suffering from the effects of Herr Pollert’s conjugal

resentment were unfit to appear that evening. The manager was sent

before the drop-scene to inform the small and strangely assorted

audience gathered in the theatre that, owing to unforeseen

circumstances, the representation would not take place.

This was the end of my career as director and composer in Magdeburg,

which in the beginning had seemed so full of promise and had been

started at the cost of considerable sacrifice. The serenity of art now

gave way completely before the stern realities of life. My position

gave food for meditation, and the outlook was not a cheerful one. All

the hopes that I and Minna had founded upon the success of my work had

been utterly destroyed. My creditors, who had been appeased by the

anticipation of the expected harvest, lost faith in my talents, and now

counted solely on obtaining bodily possession of me, which they

endeavoured to do by speedily instituting legal proceedings. Now that

every time I came home I found a summons nailed to my door, my little

dwelling in the Breiter Weg became unbearable; I avoided going there,

especially since my brown poodle, who had hitherto enlivened this

retreat, had vanished, leaving no trace. This I looked upon as a bad

sign, indicating my complete downfall.

At this time Minna, with her truly comforting assurance and firmness of

bearing, was a tower of strength to me and the one thing I had left to

fall back upon. Always full of resource, she had first of all provided

for her own future, and was on the point of signing a not unfavourable

contract with the directors of the theatre at Königsberg in Prussia. It

was now a question of finding me an appointment in the same place as

musical conductor; this post was already filled. The Königsberg

director, however, gathering from our correspondence that Minna’s

acceptance of the engagement depended upon the possibility of my being

taken on at the same theatre, held out the prospect of an approaching

vacancy, and expressed his willingness to allow it to be filled by me.

On the strength of this assurance it was decided that Minna should go

on to Königsberg and pave the way for my arrival there.

Ere these plans could be carried out, we had still to spend a time of

dreadful and acute anxiety, which I shall never forget, within the

walls of Magdeburg. It is true I made one more personal attempt in

Leipzig to improve my position, on which occasion I entered into the

transactions mentioned above with the director of the theatre regarding

my new opera. But I soon realised that it was out of the question for

me to remain in my native town, and in the disquieting proximity of my

family, from which I was restlessly anxious to get away. My

excitability and depression were noticed by my relations. My mother

entreated me, whatever else I might decide to do, on no account to be

drawn into marriage while still so young. To this I made no reply. When

I took my leave, Rosalie accompanied me to the head of the stairs. I

spoke of returning as soon as I had attended to certain important

business matters, and wanted to wish her a hurried good-bye: she

grasped my hand, and gazing into my face, exclaimed, “God alone knows

when I shall see you again!” This cut me to the heart, and I felt

conscience-stricken. The fact that she was expressing the presentiment

she felt of her early death I only realised when, barely two years

later, without having seen her again, I received the news that she had

died very suddenly.

I spent a few more weeks with Minna in the strictest retirement in

Magdeburg: she endeavoured to the best of her ability to relieve the

embarrassment of my position. In view of our approaching separation,

and the length of time we might be parted, I hardly left her side, our

only relaxation being the walks we took together round the outskirts of

the town. Anxious forebodings weighed upon us; the May sun which lit

the sad streets of Magdeburg, as if in mockery of our forlorn

condition, was one day more clouded over than I have ever seen it

since, and filled me with a positive dread. On our way home from one of

these walks, as we were approaching the bridge crossing the Elbe, we

caught sight of a man flinging himself from it into the water beneath.

We ran to the bank, called for help, and persuaded a miller, whose mill

was situated on the river, to hold out a rake to the drowning man, who

was being swept in his direction by the current. With indescribable

anxiety we waited for the decisive moment—saw the sinking man stretch

out his hands towards the rake, but he failed to grasp it, and at the

same moment disappeared under the mill, never to be seen again. On the

morning that I accompanied Minna to the stage-coach to bid her a most

sorrowful farewell, the whole population was pouring from one of the

gateways of the town towards a big field, to witness the execution of a

man condemned to be put to death on the wheel ‘from below.’[7] The

culprit was a soldier who had murdered his sweetheart in a fit of

jealousy. When, later in the day, I sat down to my last dinner at the

inn, I heard the dreadful details of the Prussian mode of execution

being discussed on all sides. A young magistrate, who was a great lover

of music, told us about a conversation he had had with the executioner,

who had been procured from Halle, and with whom he had discussed the

most humane method of hastening the death of the victim; in telling us

about him, he recalled the elegant dress and manners of this ill-omened

person with a shudder.

[7] _Durch das Rod van unten_. The punishment of the wheel was usually

inflicted upon murderers, incendiaries, highwaymen and church robbers.

There were two methods of inflicting this: (1) ‘from above downwards’

(_von oben nach unten_), in which the condemned man was despatched

instantly owing to his neck getting broken from the start; and (2)

‘from below upwards’ (_von unten nach oben_), which is the method

referred to above, and in which all the limbs of the victim were

broken previous to his body being actually twisted through the spokes

of the wheel.—Editor

These were the last impressions I carried away from the scene of my

first artistic efforts and of my attempts at earning an independent

livelihood. Often since then on my departure from places where I had

expected to find prosperity, and to which I knew I should never return,

those impressions have recurred to my mind with singular persistence. I

have always had much the same feelings upon leaving any place where I

had stayed in the hope of improving my position.

Thus I arrived in Berlin for the first time on the 18th May, 1836, and

made acquaintance with the peculiar features of that pretentious royal

capital. While my position was an uncertain one, I sought a modest

shelter at the Crown Prince in the Königstrasse, where Minna had stayed

a few months before. I found a friend on whom I could rely when I came

across Laube again, who, while awaiting his verdict, was busying

himself with private and literary work in Berlin. He was much

interested in the fate of my work Liebesverbot, and advised me to turn

my present situation to account for the purpose of obtaining the

production of this opera at the Konigstadt theatre. This theatre was

under the direction of one of the most curious creatures in Berlin: he

was called ‘Cerf,’ and the title of Commissionsrath had been conferred

upon him by the King of Prussia. To account for the favours bestowed

upon him by royalty, many reasons of a not very edifying nature were

circulated. Through this royal patronage he had succeeded in extending

considerably the privileges already enjoyed by the suburban theatre.

The decline of grand opera at the Theatre Royal had brought light

opera, which was performed with great success at the Konigstadt

theatre, into public favour. The director, puffed up by success, openly

laboured under the delusion that he was the right man in the right

place, and expressed his entire agreement with those who declared that

one could only expect a theatre to be successfully managed by common

and uneducated men, and continued to cling to his blissful and

boundless state of ignorance in the most amusing manner. Relying

absolutely upon his own insight, he had assumed an entirely dictatorial

attitude towards the officially appointed artists of his theatre, and

allowed himself to deal with them according to his likes and dislikes.

I seemed destined to be favoured by this mode of procedure: at my very

first visit Cerf expressed his satisfaction with me, but wished to make

use of me as a ‘tenor.’ He offered no objection whatever to my request

for the production of my opera, but, on the contrary, promised to have

it staged immediately. He seemed particularly anxious to appoint me

conductor of the orchestra. As he was on the point of changing his

operatic company, he foresaw that his present conductor, Glaser, the

composer of Adlershorst, would hinder his plans by taking the part of

the older singers: he was therefore anxious to have me associated with

his theatre, that he might have some one to support him who was

favourably disposed towards the new singers.

All this sounded so plausible, that I could scarcely be blamed for

believing that the wheel of fortune had taken a favourable turn for me,

and for feeling a sense of lightheartedness at the thought of such rosy

prospects. I had scarcely allowed myself the few modifications in my

manner of living which these improved circumstances seemed to justify,

ere it was made clear to me that my hopes were built upon sand. I was

filled with positive dread when I soon fully realised how nearly Cerf

had come to defrauding me, merely it would seem for his own amusement.

After the manner of despots, he had given his favours personally and

autocratically; the withdrawal and annulment of his promises, however,

he made known to me through his servants and secretaries, thus placing

his strange conduct towards me in the light of the inevitable result of

his dependence upon officialdom.

As Cerf wished to rid himself of me without even offering me

compensation, I was obliged to try to come to some understanding

regarding all that had been definitely arranged between us, and this

with the very people against whom he had previously warned me and had

wanted me to side with him. The conductor, stage manager, secretary,

etc., had to make it clear to me that my wishes could not be satisfied,

and that the director owed me no compensation whatever for the time he

had made me waste while awaiting the fulfilment of his promises. This

unpleasant experience has been a source of pain to me ever since.

Owing to all this my position was very much worse than it had been

before. Minna wrote to me frequently from Königsberg, but she had

nothing encouraging to tell me with regard to my hopes in that

direction. The director of the theatre there seemed unable to come to

any clear understanding with his conductor, a circumstance which I was

afterwards able to understand, but which at the time appeared to me

inexplicable, and made my chance of obtaining the coveted appointment

seem exceedingly remote. It seemed certain, however, that the post

would be vacant in the autumn, and as I was drifting about aimlessly in

Berlin and refused for a moment to entertain the thought of returning

to Leipzig, I snatched at this faint hope, and in imagination soared

above the Berlin quicksands to the safety of the harbour on the Baltic.

I only succeeded in doing so, however, after I had struggled through

difficult and serious inward conflicts to which my relations with Minna

gave rise. An incomprehensible feature in the character of this

otherwise apparently simple-minded woman had thrown my young heart into

a turmoil. A good-natured, well-to-do tradesman of Jewish extraction,

named Schwabe, who till that time had been established in Magdeburg,

made friendly advances to me in Berlin, and I soon discovered that his

sympathy was chiefly due to the passionate interest which he had

conceived for Minna. It afterwards became clear to me that an intimacy

had existed between this man and Minna, which in itself could hardly be

considered as a breach of faith towards me, since it had ended in a

decided repulse of my rival’s courtship in my favour. But the fact of

this episode having been kept so secret that I had not had the faintest

idea of it before, and also the suspicion I could not avoid harbouring

that Minna’s comfortable circumstances were in part due to this man’s

friendship, filled me with gloomy misgivings. But as I have said,

although I could find no real cause to complain of infidelity, I was

distracted and alarmed, and was at last driven to the half-desperate

resolve of regaining my balance in this respect by obtaining complete

possession of Minna. It seemed to me as though my stability as a

citizen as well as my professional success would be assured by a

recognised union with Minna. The two years spent in the theatrical

world had, in fact, kept me in a constant state of distraction, of

which in my heart of hearts I was most painfully conscious. I realised

vaguely that I was on the wrong path; I longed for peace and quiet, and

hoped to find these most effectually by getting married, and so putting

an end to the state of things that had become the source of so much

anxiety to me.

It was not surprising that Laube noticed by my untidy, passionate, and

wasted appearance that something unusual was amiss with me. It was only

in his company, which I always found comforting, that I gained the only

impressions of Berlin which compensated me in any way for my

misfortunes. The most important artistic experience I had, came to me

through the performance of Ferdinand Cortez, conducted by Spontini

himself, the spirit of which astonished me more than anything I had

ever heard before. Though the actual production, especially as regards

the chief characters, who as a whole could not be regarded as belonging

to the flower of Berlin opera, left me unmoved, and though the effect

never reached a point that could be even distantly compared to that

produced upon me by Schroder-Devrient, yet the exceptional precision,

fire, and richly organised rendering of the whole was new to me. I

gained a fresh insight into the peculiar dignity of big theatrical

representations, which in their several parts could, by

well-accentuated rhythm, be made to attain the highest pinnacle of art.

This extraordinarily distinct impression took a drastic hold of me, and

above all served to guide me in my conception of Rienzi, so that,

speaking from an artistic point of view, Berlin may be said to have

left its traces on my development.

For the present, however, my chief concern was to extricate myself from

my extremely helpless position. I was determined to turn my steps to

Königsberg, and communicated my decision, and the hopes founded upon

it, to Laube. This excellent friend, without further inquiry, made a

point of exerting his energies to free me from my present state of

despair, and to help me to reach my next destination, an object which,

through the assistance of several of his friends, he succeeded in

accomplishing. When he said good-bye to me, Laube with sympathetic

foresight warned me, should I succeed in my desired career of musical

conductor, not to allow myself to be entangled in the shallowness of

stage life, and advised me, after fatiguing rehearsals, instead of

going to my sweetheart, to take a serious book in hand, in order that

my greater gifts might not go uncultivated. I did not tell him that by

taking an early and decisive step in this direction I intended to

protect myself effectually against the dangers of theatrical intrigues.

On the 7th of July, therefore, I started on what was at that time an

extremely troublesome and fatiguing journey to the distant town of

Königsberg.

It seemed to me as though I were leaving the world, as I travelled on

day after day through the desert marches. Then followed a sad and

humiliating impression of Königsberg, where, in one of the

poorest-looking suburbs, Tragheim, near the theatre, and in a lane such

as one would expect to find in a village, I found the ugly house in

which Minna lodged. The friendly and quiet kindness of manner, however,

which was peculiar to her, soon made me feel at home. She was popular

at the theatre, and was respected by the managers and actors, a fact

which seemed to augur well for her betrothed, the part I was now openly

to assume.

Though as yet there seemed no distinct prospect of my getting the

appointment I had come for, yet we agreed that I could hold out a

little longer, and that the matter would certainly be arranged in the

end. This was also the opinion of the eccentric Abraham Möller, a

worthy citizen of Königsberg, who was devoted to the theatre, and who

took a very friendly interest in Minna, and finally also in me. This

man, who was already well advanced in life, belonged to the type of

theatre lovers now probably completely extinct in Germany, but of whom

so much is recorded in the history of actors of earlier times. One

could not spend an hour in the company of this man, who at one time had

gone in for the most reckless speculations, without having to listen to

his account of the glory of the stage in former times, described in

most lively terms. As a man of means he had at one time made the

acquaintance of nearly all the great actors and actresses of his day,

and had even known how to win their friendship. Through too great a

liberality he unfortunately found himself in reduced circumstances, and

was now obliged to procure the means to satisfy his craving for the

theatre and his desire to protect those belonging to it by entering

into all kinds of strange business transactions, in which, without

running any real risk, he felt there was something to be gained. He was

accordingly only able to afford the theatre a very meagre support, but

one which was quite in keeping with its decrepit condition.

This strange man, of whom the theatre director, Anton Hubsch, stood to

a certain extent in awe, undertook to procure me my appointment. The

only circumstance against me was the fact that Louis Schubert, the

famous musician whom I had known from very early times as the first

violoncellist of the Magdeburg orchestra, had come to Königsberg from

Riga, where the theatre had been closed for a time, and where he had

left his wife, in order to fill the post of musical conductor here

until the new theatre in Riga was opened, and he could return. The

reopening of the Riga theatre, which had already been fixed for the

Easter of this year, had been postponed, and he was now anxious not to

leave Königsberg. Since Schubert was a thorough master in his art, and

since his choosing to remain or go depended entirely on circumstances

over which he had no control, the theatre director found himself in the

embarrassing position of having to secure some one who would be willing

to wait to enter upon his appointment till Schubert’s business called

him away. Consequently a young musical conductor who was anxious to

remain in Königsberg at any price could but be heartily welcomed as a

reserve and substitute in case of emergency. Indeed, the director

declared himself willing to give me a small retaining fee till the time

should arrive for my definite entrance upon my duties.

Schubert, on the contrary, was furious at my arrival; there was no

longer any necessity for his speedy return to Riga, since the reopening

of the theatre there had been postponed indefinitely. Moreover, he had

a special interest in remaining in Königsberg, as he had conceived a

passion for the prima donna there, which considerably lessened his

desire to return to his wife. So at the last moment he clung to his

Königsberg post with great eagerness, regarded me as his deadly enemy,

and, spurred on by his instinct of self-preservation, used every means

in his power to make my stay in Königsberg, and the already painful

position I occupied while awaiting his departure, a veritable hell to

me.

While in Magdeburg I had been on the friendliest footing with both

musicians and singers, and had been shown the greatest consideration by

the public, I here found I had to defend myself on all sides against

the most mortifying ill-will. This hostility towards me, which soon

made itself apparent, contributed in no small degree to make me feel as

though in coming to Königsberg I had gone into exile. In spite of my

eagerness, I realised that under the circumstances my marriage with

Minna would prove a hazardous undertaking. At the beginning of August

the company went to Memel for a time, to open the summer season there,

and I followed Minna a few days later. We went most of the way by sea,

and crossed the Kurische Haff in a sailing vessel in bad weather with

the wind against us—one of the most melancholy crossings I have ever

experienced. As we passed the thin strip of sand that divides this bay

from the Baltic Sea, the castle of Runsitten, where Hoffmann laid the

scene of one of his most gruesome tales (Das Majorat), was pointed out

to me. The fact that in this desolate neighbourhood, of all places in

the world, I should after so long a lapse of time be once more brought

in contact with the fantastic impressions of my youth, had a singular

and depressing effect on my mind. The unhappy sojourn in Memel, the

lamentable role I played there, everything in short, contributed to

make me find my only consolation in Minna, who, after all, was the

cause of my having placed myself in this unpleasant position. Our

friend Abraham followed us from Königsberg and did all kinds of queer

things to promote my interests, and was obviously anxious to put the

director and conductor at variance with each other. One day Schubert,

in consequence of a dispute with Hubsch on the previous night, actually

declared himself too unwell to attend a rehearsal of Euryanthe, in

order to force the manager to summon me suddenly to take his place. In

doing this my rival maliciously hoped that as I was totally unprepared

to conduct this difficult opera, which was seldom played, I would

expose my incapacity in a manner most welcome to his hostile

intentions. Although I had never really had a score of Euryanthe before

me, his wish was so little gratified, that he elected to get well for

the representation in order to conduct it himself, which he would not

have done if it had been found necessary to cancel the performance on

account of my incompetence. In this wretched position, vexed in mind,

exposed to the severe climate, which even on summer evenings struck me

as horribly cold, and occupied merely in warding off the most painful

troubles of life, my time, as far as any professional advancement was

concerned, was completely lost. At last, on our return to Königsberg,

and particularly under the guardianship of Möller, the question as to

what was to be done was more earnestly considered. Finally, Minna and I

were offered a fairly good engagement in Danzig, through the influence

of my brother-in-law Wolfram and his wife, who had gone there.

Möller seized this opportunity to induce the director Hubsch, who was

anxious not to lose Minna, to sign a contract including us both, and by

which it was understood that under any circumstances I should be

officially appointed as conductor at his theatre from the following

Easter. Moreover, for our wedding, a benefit performance was promised,

for which we chose Die Stumme von Portici, to be conducted by me in

person. For, as Möller remarked, it was absolutely necessary for us to

get married, and to have a due celebration of the event; there was no

getting out of it. Minna made no objection, and all my past endeavours

and resolutions seemed to prove that my one desire was to take anchor

in the haven of matrimony. In spite of this, however, a strange

conflict was going on within me at this time. I had become sufficiently

intimate with Minna’s life and character to realise the wide difference

between our two natures as fully as the important step I was about to

take necessitated; but my powers of judgment were not yet sufficiently

matured.