My future wife was the child of poor parents, natives of Oederan in the

Erzgebirge in Saxony. Her father was no ordinary man; he possessed

enormous vitality, but in his old age showed traces of some feebleness

of mind. In his young days he had been a trumpeter in Saxony, and in

this capacity had taken part in a campaign against the French, and had

also been present at the battle of Wagram. He afterwards became a

mechanic, and took up the trade of manufacturing cards for carding

wool, and as he invented an improvement in the process of their

production, he is said to have made a very good business of it for some

time. A rich manufacturer of Chemnitz once gave him a large order to be

delivered at the end of the year: the children, whose pliable fingers

had already proved serviceable in this respect, had to work hard day

and night, and in return the father promised them an exceptionally

happy Christmas, as he expected to get a large sum of money. When the

longed-for time arrived, however, he received the announcement of his

client’s bankruptcy. The goods that had already been delivered were

lost, and the material that remained on his hands there was no prospect

of selling. The family never succeeded in recovering from the state of

confusion into which this misfortune had thrown them; they went to

Dresden, where the father hoped to find remunerative employment as a

skilled mechanic, especially in the manufacture of pianos, of which he

supplied separate parts. He also brought away with him a large quantity

of the fine wire which had been destined for the manufacture of the

cards, and which he hoped to be able to sell at a profit. The

ten-year-old Minna was commissioned to sell separate lots of it to the

milliners for making flowers. She would set out with a heavy basketful

of wire, and had such a gift for persuading people to buy that she soon

disposed of the whole supply to the best advantage. From this time the

desire was awakened in her to be of active use to her impoverished

family, and to earn her own living as soon as possible, in order not to

be a burden on her parents. As she grew up and developed into a

strikingly beautiful woman, she attracted the attention of men at a

very early age. A certain Herr von Einsiedel fell passionately in love

with her, and took advantage of the inexperienced young girl when she

was off her guard. Her family was thrown into the utmost consternation,

and only her mother and elder sister could be told of the terrible

position in which Minna found herself. Her father, from whose anger the

worst consequences were to be feared, was never informed that his

barely seventeen-year-old daughter had become a mother, and under

conditions that had threatened her life, had given birth to a girl.

Minna, who could obtain no redress from her seducer, now felt doubly

called upon to earn her own livelihood and leave her father’s house.

Through the influence of friends, she had been brought into contact

with an amateur theatrical society: while acting in a performance given

there, she attracted the notice of members of the Royal Court Theatre,

and in particular drew the attention of the director of the Dessau

Court Theatre, who was present, and who immediately offered her an

engagement. She gladly caught at this way of escape from her trying

position, as it opened up the possibility of a brilliant stage career,

and of some day being able to provide amply for her family. She had not

the slightest passion for the stage, and utterly devoid as she was of

any levity or coquetry, she merely saw in a theatrical career the means

of earning a quick, and possibly even a rich, livelihood. Without any

artistic training, the theatre merely meant for her the company of

actors and actresses. Whether she pleased or not seemed of importance

in her eyes only in so far as it affected her realisation of a

comfortable independence. To use all the means at her disposal to

assure this end seemed to her as necessary as it is for a tradesman to

expose his goods to the best advantage.

The friendship of the director, manager, and favourite members of the

theatre she regarded as indispensable, whilst those frequenters of the

theatre who, through their criticism or taste, influenced the public,

and thus also had weight with the management, she recognised as beings

upon whom the attainment of her most fervent desires depended. Never to

make enemies of them appeared so natural and so necessary that, in

order to maintain her popularity, she was prepared to sacrifice even

her self-respect. She had in this way created for herself a certain

peculiar code of behaviour, that on the one hand prompted her to avoid

scandals, but on the other hand found excuses even for making herself

conspicuous as long as she herself knew that she was doing nothing

wrong. Hence arose a mixture of inconsistencies, the questionable sense

of which she was incapable of grasping. It was clearly impossible for

her not to lose all real sense of delicacy; she showed, however, a

sense of the fitness of things, which made her have regard to what was

considered proper, though she could not understand that mere

appearances were a mockery when they only served to cloak the absence

of a real sense of delicacy. As she was without idealism, she had no

artistic feeling; neither did she possess any talent for acting, and

her power of pleasing was due entirely to her charming appearance.

Whether in time routine would have made her become a good actress it is

impossible for me to say. The strange power she exercised over me from

the very first was in no wise due to the fact that I regarded her in

any way as the embodiment of my ideal; on the contrary, she attracted

me by the soberness and seriousness of her character, which

supplemented what I felt to be wanting in my own, and afforded me the

support that in my wanderings after the ideal I knew to be necessary

for me.

I had soon accustomed myself never to betray my craving after the ideal

before Minna: unable to account for this even to myself, I always made

a point of avoiding the subject by passing it over with a laugh and a

joke; but, on this account, it was all the more natural for me to feel

qualms when fears arose in my mind as to her really possessing the

qualities to which I had attributed her superiority over me. Her

strange tolerance with regard to certain familiarities and even

importunities on the part of patrons of the theatre, directed even

against her person, hurt me considerably; and on my reproaching her for

this, I was driven to despair by her assuming an injured expression as

though I had insulted her. It was quite by chance that I came across

Schwabe’s letters, and thus gained an astonishing insight into her

intimacy with that man, of which she had left me in ignorance, and

allowed me to gain my first knowledge during my stay in Berlin. All my

latent jealousy, all my inmost doubts concerning Minna’s character,

found vent in my sudden determination to leave the girl at once. There

was a violent scene between us, which was typical of all our subsequent

altercations. I had obviously gone too far in treating a woman who was

not passionately in love with me, as if I had a real right over her;

for, after all, she had merely yielded to my importunity, and in no way

belonged to me. To add to my perplexity, Minna only needed to remind me

that from a worldly point of view she had refused very good offers in

order to give way to the impetuosity of a penniless young man, whose

talent had not yet been put to any real test, and to whom she had

nevertheless shown sympathy and kindness.

What she could least forgive in me was the raging vehemence with which

I spoke, and by which she felt so insulted, that upon realising to what

excesses I had gone, there was nothing I could do but try and pacify

her by owning myself in the wrong, and begging her forgiveness. Such

was the end of this and all subsequent scenes, outwardly; at least,

always to her advantage. But peace was undermined for ever, and by the

frequent recurrence of such quarrels, Minna’s character underwent a

considerable change. Just as in later times she became perplexed by

what she considered my incomprehensible conception of art and its

proportions, which upset her ideas about everything connected with it,

so now she grew more and more confused by my greater delicacy in regard

to morality, which was very different from hers, especially as in many

other respects I displayed a freedom of opinion which the could neither

comprehend nor approve.

A feeling of passionate resentment was accordingly roused in her

otherwise tranquil disposition. It was not surprising that this

resentment increased as the years went on, and manifested itself in a

manner characteristic of a girl sprung from the lower middle class, in

whom mere superficial polish had taken the place of any true culture.

The real torment of our subsequent life together lay in the fact that,

owing to her violence, I had lost the last support I had hitherto found

in her exceptionally sweet disposition. At that time I was filled only

with a dim foreboding of the fateful step I was taking in marrying her.

Her agreeable and soothing qualities still had such a beneficial effect

upon me, that with the frivolity natural to me, as well as the

obstinacy with which I met all opposition, I silenced the inner voice

that darkly foreboded disaster.

Since my journey to Königsberg I had broken off all communication with

my family, that is to say, with my mother and Rosalie, and I told no

one of the step I had decided to take. Under my old friend Möller’s

audacious guidance I overcame all the legal difficulties that stood in

the way of our union. According to Prussian law, a man who has reached

his majority no longer requires his parents’ consent to his marriage:

but since, according to this same provision, I was not yet of age, I

had recourse to the law of Saxony, to which country I belonged by

birth, and by whose regulations I had already attained my majority at

the age of twenty-one. Our banns had to be published at the place where

we had been living during the past year, and this formality was carried

out in Magdeburg without any further objections being raised. As

Minna’s parents had given their consent, the only thing that still

remained to be done to make everything quite in order was for us to go

together to the clergyman of the parish of Tragheim. This proved a

strange enough visit. It took place the morning preceding the

performance to be given for our benefit, in which Minna had chosen, the

pantomimic role of Fenella; her costume was not ready yet, and there

was still a great deal to be done. The rainy cold November weather made

us feel out of humour, when, to add to our vexation, we were kept

standing in the hall of the vicarage for an unreasonable time. Then an

altercation arose between us which speedily led to such bitter

vituperation that we were just on the point of separating and going

each our own way, when the clergyman opened the door. Not a little

embarrassed at having surprised us in the act of quarrelling, he

invited us in. We were obliged to put a good face on the matter,

however; and the absurdity of the situation so tickled our sense of

humour that we laughed; the parson was appeased, and the wedding fixed

for eleven o’clock the next morning.

Another fruitful source of irritation, which often led to the outbreak

of violent quarrelling between us, was the arrangement of our future

home, in the interior comfort and beauty of which I hoped to find a

guarantee of happiness. The economical ideas of my bride filled me with

impatience. I was determined that the inauguration of a series of

prosperous years which I saw before me must be celebrated by a

correspondingly comfortable home. Furniture, household utensils, and

all necessaries were obtained on credit, to be paid for by instalment.

There was, of course, no question of a dowry, a wedding outfit, or any

of the things that are generally considered indispensable to a

well-founded establishment. Our witnesses and guests were drawn from

the company of actors accidentally brought together by their engagement

at the Königsberg theatre. My friend Möller made us a present of a

silver sugar-basin, which was supplemented by a silver cake-basket from

another stage friend, a peculiar and, as far as I can remember, rather

interesting young man named Ernst Castell. The benefit performance of

the Die Stumme von Portici, which I conducted with great enthusiasm,

went off well, and brought us in as large a sum as we had counted upon.

After spending the rest of the day before our wedding very quietly, as

we were tired out after our return from the theatre, I took up my abode

for the first time in our new home. Not wishing to use the bridal bed,

decorated for the occasion, I lay down on a hard sofa, without even

sufficient covering on me, and froze valiantly while awaiting the

happiness of the following day. I was pleasantly excited the next

morning by the arrival of Minna’s belongings, packed in boxes and

baskets. The weather, too, had quite cleared up, and the sun was

shining brightly; only our sitting-room refused to get properly warm,

which for some time drew down Minna’s reproaches upon my head for my

supposed carelessness in not having seen to the heating arrangements.

At last I dressed myself in my new suit, a dark blue frock-coat with

gold buttons. The carriage drove up, and I set out to fetch my bride.

The bright sky had put us all in good spirits, and in the best of

humour I met Minna, who was dressed in a splendid gown chosen by me.

She greeted me with sincere cordiality and pleasure shining from her

eyes; and taking the fine weather as a good omen, we started off for

what now seemed to us a most cheerful wedding. We enjoyed the

satisfaction of seeing the church as over-crowded as if a brilliant

theatrical representation were being given; it was quite a difficult

matter to make our way to the altar, where a group no less worldly than

the rest, consisting of our witnesses, dressed in all their theatrical

finery, were assembled to receive us. There was not one real friend

amongst all those present, for even our strange old friend Möller was

absent, because no suitable partner had been found for him. I was not

for a single moment insensible to the chilling frivolity of the

congregation, who seemed to impart their tone to the whole ceremony. I

listened like one in a dream to the nuptial address of the parson, who,

I was afterwards told, had had a share in producing the spirit of

bigotry which at this time was so prevalent in Königsberg, and which

exercised such a disquieting influence on its population.

A few days later I was told that a rumour had got about the town that I

had taken action against the parson for some gross insults contained in

his sermon; I did not quite see what was meant, but supposed that the

exaggerated report arose from a passage in his address which I in my

excitement had misunderstood. The preacher, in speaking of the dark

days, of which we were to expect our share, bade us look to an unknown

friend, and I glanced up inquiringly for further particulars of this

mysterious and influential patron who chose so strange a way of

announcing himself. Reproachfully, and with peculiar emphasis, the

pastor then pronounced the name of this unknown friend: Jesus. Now I

was not in any way insulted by this, as people imagined, but was simply

disappointed; at the same time, I thought that such exhortations were

probably usual in nuptial addresses.

But, on the whole, I was so absent-minded during this ceremony, which

was double Dutch to me, that when the parson held out the closed

prayer-book for us to place our wedding rings upon, Minna had to nudge

me forcibly to make me follow her example.

At that moment I saw, as clearly as in a vision, my whole being divided

into two cross-currents that dragged me in different directions; the

upper one faced the sun and carried me onward like a dreamer, whilst

the lower one held my nature captive, a prey to some inexplicable fear.

The extraordinary levity with which I chased away the conviction which

kept forcing itself upon me, that I was committing a twofold sin, was

amply accounted for by the really genuine affection with which I looked

upon the young girl whose truly exceptional character (so rare in the

environment in which she had been placed) led her thus to bind herself

to a young man without any means of support. It was eleven o’clock on

the morning of the 24th of November, 1836, and I was twenty-three and a

half.

On the way home from church, and afterwards, my good spirits rose

superior to all my doubts.

Minna at once took upon herself the duty of receiving and entertaining

her guests. The table was spread, and a rich feast, at which Abraham

Möller, the energetic promoter of our marriage, also took part,

although he had been rather put out by his exclusion from the church

ceremony, made up for the coldness of the room, which for a long time

refused to get warm, to the great distress of the young hostess.

Everything went off in the usual uneventful way. Nevertheless, I

retained my good spirits till the next morning, when I had to present

myself at the magistrate’s court to meet the demands of my creditors,

which had been forwarded to me from Magdeburg to Konigsburg.

My friend Möller, whom I had retained for my defence, had foolishly

advised me to meet my creditors’ demands by pleading infancy according

to the law of Prussia, at all events until actual assistance for the

settlement of the claims could be obtained.

The magistrate, to whom I stated this plea as I had been advised, was

astonished, being probably well aware of my marriage on the previous

day, which could only have taken place on the production of documentary

proof of my majority. I naturally only gained a brief respite by this

manœuvre, and the troubles which beset me for a long time afterwards

had their origin on the first day of my marriage.

During the period when I held no appointment at the theatre I suffered

various humiliations. Nevertheless, I thought it wise to make the most

of my leisure in the interests of my art, and I finished a few pieces,

among which was a grand overture on Rule Britannia.

When I was still in Berlin I had written the overture entitled Polonia,

which has already been mentioned in connection with the Polish

festival. Rule Britannia was a further and deliberate step in the

direction of mass effects; at the close a strong military band was to

be added to the already over-full orchestra, and I intended to have the

whole thing performed at the Musical Festival in Königsberg in the

summer.

To these two overtures I added a supplement—an overture entitled

Napoleon. The point to which I devoted my chief attention was the

selection of the means for producing certain effects, and I carefully

considered whether I should express the annihilating stroke of fate

that befell the French Emperor in Russia by a beat on the tom-tom or

not. I believe it was to a great extent my scruples about the

introduction of this beat that prevented me from carrying out my plan

just then.

On the other hand, the conclusions which I had reached regarding the

ill-success of Liebesverbot resulted in an operatic sketch in which the

demands made on the chorus and the staff of singers should be more in

proportion to the known capacity of the local company, as this small

theatre was the only one at my disposal.

A quaint tale from the Arabian Nights suggested the very subject for a

light work of this description, the title of which, if I remember

rightly, was Mannerlist grosser als Frauenlist (‘Man outwits Woman’).

I transplanted the story from Bagdad to a modern setting. A young

goldsmith offends the pride of a young woman by placing the above motto

on the sign over his shop; deeply veiled, she steps into his shop and

asks him, as he displays such excellent taste in his work, to express

his opinion on her own physical charms; he begins with her feet and her

hands, and finally, noticing his confusion, she removes the veil from

her face. The jeweller is carried away by her beauty, whereupon she

complains to him that her father, who has always kept her in the

strictest seclusion, describes her to all her suitors as an ugly

monster, his object being, she imagines, simply to keep her dowry. The

young man swears that he will not be frightened off by these foolish

objections, should the father raise them against his suit. No sooner

said than done. The daughter of this peculiar old gentleman is promised

to the unsuspecting jeweller, and is brought to her bridegroom as soon

as he has signed the contract. He then sees that the father has indeed

spoken the truth, the real daughter being a perfect scarecrow. The

beautiful lady returns to the bridegroom to gloat over his desperation,

and promises to release him from his terrible marriage if he will

remove the motto from his signboard. At this point I departed from the

original, and continued as follows: The enraged jeweller is on the

point of tearing down his unfortunate signboard when a curious

apparition leads him to pause in the act. He sees a bear-leader in the

street making his clumsy beast dance, in whom the luckless lover

recognises at a glance his own father, from whom he has been parted by

a hard fate.

He suppresses any sign of emotion, for in a flash a scheme occurs to

him by which he can utilise this discovery to free himself from the

hated marriage with the daughter of the proud old aristocrat.

He instructs the bear-leader to come that evening to the garden where

the solemn betrothal is to take place in the presence of the invited

guests.

He then explains to his young enemy that he wishes to leave the

signboard up for the time being, as he still hopes to prove the truth

of the motto.

After the marriage contract, in which the young man arrogates to

himself all kinds of fictitious titles of nobility, has been read to

the assembled company (composed, say, of the elite of the noble

immigrants at the time of the French Revolution), there is heard

suddenly the pipe of the bear-leader, who enters the garden with his

prancing beast. Angered by this trivial diversion, the astonished

company become indignant when the bridegroom, giving free vent to his

feelings, throws himself with tears of joy into the arms of the

bear-leader and loudly proclaims him as his long-lost father. The

consternation of the company becomes even greater, however, when the

bear itself embraces the man they supposed to be of noble birth, for

the beast is no less a person than his own brother in the flesh who, on

the death of the real bear, had donned its skin, thus enabling the

poverty-stricken pair to continue to earn their livelihood in the only

way left to them. This public disclosure of the bridegroom’s lowly

origin at once dissolves the marriage, and the young woman, declaring

herself outwitted by man, offers her hand in compensation to the

released jeweller.

To this unassuming subject I gave the title of the Gluckliche

Barenfamilie, and provided it with a dialogue which afterwards met with

Holtei’s highest approval.

I was about to begin the music for it in a new light French style, but

the seriousness of my position, which grew more and more acute,

prevented further progress in my work.

In this respect my strained relations with the conductor of the theatre

were still a constant source of trouble. With neither the opportunity

nor the means to defend myself, I had to submit to being maligned and

rendered an object of suspicion on all sides by my rival, who remained

master of the field. The object of this was to disgust me with the idea

of taking up my appointment as musical conductor, for which the

contract had been signed for Easter. Though I did not lose my

self-confidence, I suffered keenly from the indignity and the

depressing effect of this prolonged strain.

When at last, at the beginning of April, the moment arrived for the

musical conductor Schubert to resign, and for me to take over the whole

charge, he had the melancholy satisfaction of knowing that not only was

the standing of the opera seriously weakened by the departure of the

prima donna, but that there was good reason to doubt whether the

theatre could be carried on at all. This month of Lent, which was such

a bad time in Germany for all similar theatrical enterprises, decimated

the Königsberg audience with the rest. The director took the greatest

trouble imaginable to fill up the gaps in the staff of the opera by

means of engaging strangers temporarily, and by new acquisitions, and

in this my personality and unflagging activity were of real service; I

devoted all my energy to buoying up by word and deed the tattered ship

of the theatre, in which I now had a hand for the first time.

For a long time I had to try and keep cool under the most violent

treatment by a clique of students, among whom my predecessor had raised

up enemies for me; and by the unerring certainty of my conducting I had

to overcome the initial opposition of the orchestra, which had been set

against me.

After laboriously laying the foundation of personal respect, I was now

forced to realise that the business methods of the director, Hubsch,

had already involved too great a sacrifice to permit the theatre to

make its way against the unfavourableness of the season, and in May he

admitted to me that he had come to the point of being obliged to close

the theatre.

By summoning up all my eloquence, and by making suggestions which

promised a happy issue, I was able to induce him to persevere;

nevertheless, this was only possible by making demands on the loyalty

of his company, who were asked to forego part of their salaries for a

time. This aroused general bitterness on the part of the uninitiated,

and I found myself in the curious position of being forced to place the

director in a favourable light to those who were hard hit by these

measures, while I myself and my position were affected in such a manner

that my situation became daily more unendurable under the accumulation

of intolerable difficulties taking their root in my past.

But though I did not even then lose courage, Minna, who as my wife was

robbed of all that she had a right to expect, found this turn of fate

quite unbearable. The hidden canker of our married life which, even

before our marriage, had caused me the most terrible anxiety and led to

violent scenes, reached its full growth under these sad conditions. The

less I was able to maintain the standard of comfort due to our position

by working and making the most of my talents, the more did Minna, to my

insufferable shame, consider it necessary to take this burden upon

herself by making the most of her personal popularity. The discovery of

similar condescensions—as I used to call them—on Minna’s part, had

repeatedly led to revolting scenes, and only her peculiar conception of

her professional position and the needs it involved had made a

charitable interpretation possible.

I was absolutely unable to bring my young wife to see my point of view,

or to make her realise my own wounded feelings on these occasions,

while the unrestrained violence of my speech and behaviour made an

understanding once and for all impossible. These scenes frequently sent

my wife into convulsions of so alarming a nature that, as will easily

be realised, the satisfaction of reconciling her once more was all that

remained to me. Certain it was that our mutual attitude became more and

more incomprehensible and inexplicable to us both.

These quarrels, which now became more frequent and more distressing,

may have gone far to diminish the strength of any affection which Minna

was able to give me, but I had no idea that she was only waiting for a

favourable opportunity to come to a desperate decision.

To fill the place of tenor in our company, I had summoned Friedrich

Schmitt to Königsberg, a friend of my first year in Magdeburg, to whom

allusion has already been made. He was sincerely devoted to me, and

helped me as much as possible in overcoming the dangers which

threatened the prosperity of the theatre as well as my own position.

The necessity of being on friendly terms with the public made me much

less reserved and cautious in making new acquaintances, especially when

in his company.

A rich merchant, of the name of Dietrich, had recently constituted

himself a patron of the theatre, and especially of the women. With due

deference to the men with whom they were connected, he used to invite

the pick of these ladies to dinner at his house, and affected, on these

occasions, the well-to-do Englishman, which was the beau-ideal for

German merchants, especially in the manufacturing towns of the north.

I had shown my annoyance at the acceptance of the invitation, sent to

us among the rest, at first simply because his looks were repugnant to

me. Minna considered this very unjust. Anyhow, I set my face decidedly

against continuing our acquaintance with this man, and although Minna

did not insist on receiving him, my conduct towards the intruder was

the cause of angry scenes between us.

One day Friedrich Schmitt considered it his duty to inform me that this

Herr Dietrich had spoken of me at a public dinner in such a manner as

to lead every one to suppose that he had a suspicious intimacy with my

wife. I felt obliged to suspect Minna of having, in some way unknown to

me, told the fellow about my conduct towards her, as well as about our

precarious position.

Accompanied by Schmitt, I called this dangerous person to account on

the subject in his own home. At first this only led to the usual

denials. Afterwards, however, he sent secret communications to Minna

concerning the interview, thus providing her with a supposed new

grievance against me in the form of my inconsiderate treatment of her.

Our relations now reached a critical stage, and on certain points we

preserved silence.

At the same time—it was towards the end of May, 1837—the business

affairs of the theatre had reached the crisis above mentioned, when the

management was obliged to fall back on the self-sacrificing

co-operation of the staff to assure the continuance of the undertaking.

As I have said before, my own position at the end of a year so

disastrous to my welfare was seriously affected by this; nevertheless,

there seemed to be no alternative for me but to face these difficulties

patiently, and relying on the faithful Friedrich Schmitt, but ignoring

Minna, I began to take the necessary steps for making my post at

Königsberg secure. This, as well as the arduous part I took in the

business of the theatre, kept me so busy and so much away from home,

that I was not able to pay any particular attention to Minna’s silence

and reserve.

On the morning of the 31st of May I took leave of Minna, expecting to

be detained till late in the afternoon by rehearsals and business

matters. With my entire approval she had for some time been accustomed

to have her daughter Nathalie, who was supposed by every one to be her

youngest sister, to stay with her.

As I was about to wish them my usual quiet good-bye, the two women

rushed after me to the door and embraced me passionately, Minna as well

as her daughter bursting into tears. I was alarmed, and asked the

meaning of this excitement, but could get no answer from them, and I

was obliged to leave them and ponder alone over their peculiar conduct,

of the reason for which I had not even the faintest idea.

I arrived home late in the afternoon, worn out by my exertions and

worries, dead-tired, pale and hungry, and was surprised to find the

table not laid and Minna not at home, the maid telling me that she had

not yet returned from her walk with Nathalie.

I waited patiently, sinking down exhausted at the work-table, which I

absent-mindedly opened. To my intense astonishment it was empty.

Horror-struck, I sprang up and went to the wardrobe, and realised at

once that Minna had left the house; her departure had been so cunningly

planned that even the maid was unaware of it.

With death in my soul I dashed out of the house to investigate the

cause of Minna’s disappearance.

Old Möller, by his practical sagacity, very soon found out that

Dietrich, his personal enemy, had left Königsberg in the direction of

Berlin by the special coach in the morning.

This horrible fact stood staring me in the face.

I had now to try and overtake the fugitives. With the lavish use of

money this might have been possible, but funds were lacking, and had,

in part, to be laboriously collected.

On Möller’s advice I took the silver wedding presents with me in case

of emergency, and after the lapse of a few terrible hours went off,

also by special coach, with my distressed old friend. We hoped to

overtake the ordinary mail-coach, which had started a short time

before, as it was probable that Minna would also continue her journey

in this, at a safe distance from Königsberg.

This proved impossible, and when next morning at break of day we

arrived in Elbing, we found our money exhausted by the lavish use of

the express coach, and were compelled to return; we discovered,

moreover, that even by using the ordinary coach we should be obliged to

pawn the sugar-basin and cake-dish.

This return journey to Königsberg rightly remains one of the saddest

memories of my youth. Of course, I did not for a moment entertain the

idea of remaining in the place; my one thought was how I could best get

away. Hemmed in between the law-suits of my Magdeburg creditors and the

Königsberg tradesmen, who had claims on me for the payment by

instalment of my domestic accounts, my departure could only be carried

out in secrecy. For this very reason, too, it was necessary for me to

raise money, particularly for the long journey from Königsberg to

Dresden, whither I determined to go in quest of my wife, and these

matters detained me for two long and terrible days.

I received no news whatever from Minna; from Möller I ascertained that

she had gone to Dresden, and that Dietrich had only accompanied her for

a short distance on the excuse of helping her in a friendly way.

I succeeded in assuring myself that she really only wished to get away

from a position that filled her with desperation, and for this purpose

had accepted the assistance of a man who sympathised with her, and that

she was for the present seeking rest and shelter with her parents. My

first indignation at the event accordingly subsided to such an extent

that I gradually acquired more sympathy for her in her despair, and

began to reproach myself both for my conduct and for having brought

unhappiness on her.

I became so convinced of the correctness of this view during the

tedious journey to Dresden via Berlin, which I eventually undertook on

the 3rd of June, that when at last I found Minna at the humble abode of

her parents, I was really quite unable to express anything but

repentence and heartbroken sympathy.

It was quite true that Minna thought herself badly treated by me, and

declared that she had only been forced to take this desperate step by

brooding over our impossible position, to which she thought me both

blind and deaf. Her parents were not pleased to see me: the painfully

excited condition of their daughter seemed to afford sufficient

justification for her complaints against me. Whether my own sufferings,

my hasty pursuit, and the heartfelt expression of my grief made any

favourable impression on her, I can really hardly say, as her manner

towards me was very confused and, to a certain extent,

incomprehensible. Still she was impressed when I told her that there

was a good prospect of my obtaining the post of musical conductor at

Riga, where a new theatre was about to be opened under the most

favourable conditions. I felt that I must not press for new resolutions

concerning the regulation of our future relations just then, but must

strive the more earnestly to lay a better foundation for them.

Consequently, after spending a fearful week with my wife under the most

painful conditions, I went to Berlin, there to sign my agreement with

the new director of the Riga theatre. I obtained the appointment on

fairly favourable terms which, I saw, would enable me to keep house in

such a style that Minna could retire from the theatre altogether. By

this means she would be in a position to spare me all humiliation and

anxiety.

On returning to Dresden, I found that Minna was ready to lend a willing

ear to my proposed plans, and I succeeded in inducing her to leave her

parents’ house, which was very cramped for us, and to establish herself

in the country at Blasewitz, near Dresden, to await our removal to

Riga. We found modest lodgings at an inn on the Elbe, in the farm-yard

of which I had often played as a child. Here Minna’s frame of mind

really seemed to be improving. She had begged me not to press her too

hard, and I spared her as much as possible. After a few weeks I thought

I might consider the period of uneasiness past, but was surprised to

find the situation growing worse again without any apparent reason.

Minna then told me of some advantageous offers she had received from

different theatres, and astonished me one day by announcing her

intention of taking a short pleasure trip with a girl friend and her

family. As I felt obliged to avoid putting any restraint upon her, I

offered no objection to the execution of this project, which entailed a

week’s separation, but accompanied her back to her parents myself,

promising to await her return quietly at Blasewitz. A few days later

her eldest sister called to ask me for the written permission required

to make out a passport for my wife. This alarmed me, and I went to

Dresden to ask her parents what their daughter was about. There, to my

surprise, I met with a very unpleasant reception; they reproached me

coarsely for my behaviour to Minna, whom they said I could not even

manage to support, and when I only replied by asking for information as

to the whereabouts of my wife, and about her plans for the future, I

was put off with improbable statements. Tormented by the sharpest

forebodings, and understanding nothing of what had occurred, I went

back to the village, where I found a letter from Königsberg, from

Möller, which poured light on all my misery. Herr Dietrich had gone to

Dresden, and I was told the name of the hotel at which he was staying.

The terrible illumination thrown by this communication upon Minna’s

conduct showed me in a flash what to do. I hurried into town to make

the necessary inquiries at the hotel mentioned, and found that the man

in question had been there, but had moved on again. He had vanished,

and Minna too! I now knew enough to demand of the Fates why, at such an

early age, they had sent me this terrible experience which, as it

seemed to me, had poisoned my whole existence.

I sought consolation for my boundless grief in the society of my sister

Ottilie and her husband, Hermann Brockhaus, an excellent fellow to whom

she had been married for some years. They were then living at their

pretty summer villa in the lovely Grosser Garten, near Dresden. I had

looked them up at once the first time I went to Dresden, but as I had

not at that time the slightest idea of how things were going to turn

out, I had told them nothing, and had seen but little of them. Now I

was moved to break my obstinate silence, and unfold to them the cause

of my misery, with but few reservations.

For the first time I was in a position gratefully to appreciate the

advantages of family intercourse, and of the direct and disinterested

intimacy between blood relations. Explanations were hardly necessary,

and as brother and sister we found ourselves as closely linked now as

we had been when we were children. We arrived at a complete

understanding without having to explain what we meant; I was unhappy,

she was happy; consolation and help followed as a matter of course.

This was the sister to whom I once had read Leubald und Adelaïde in a

thunderstorm; the sister who had listened, filled with astonishment and

sympathy, to that eventful performance of my first overture on

Christmas Eve, and whom I now found married to one of the kindest of

men, Hermann Brockhaus, who soon earned a reputation for himself as an

expert in oriental languages. He was the youngest brother of my elder

brother-in-law, Friedrich Brockhaus. Their union was blessed by two

children; their comfortable means favoured a life free from care, and

when I made my daily pilgrimage from Blasewitz to the famous Grosser

Garten, it was like stepping from a desert into paradise to enter their

house (one of the popular villas), knowing that I would invariably find

a welcome in this happy family circle. Not only was my spirit soothed

and benefited by intercourse with my sister, but my creative instincts,

which had long lain dormant, were stimulated afresh by the society of

my brilliant and learned brother-in-law. It was brought home to me,

without in any way hurting my feelings, that my early marriage,

excusable as it may have been, was yet an error to be retrieved, and my

mind regained sufficient elasticity to compose some sketches, designed

this time not merely to meet the requirements of the theatre as I knew

it. During the last wretched days I had spent with Minna at Blasewitz,

I had read Bulwer Lytton’s novel, Rienzi; during my convalescence in

the bosom of my sympathetic family, I now worked out the scheme for a

grand opera under the inspiration of this book. Though obliged for the

present to return to the limitations of a small theatre, I tried from

this time onwards to aim at enlarging my sphere of action. I sent my

overture, Rule Britannia, to the Philharmonic Society in London, and

tried to get into communication with Scribe in Paris about a setting

for H. Konig’s novel, Die Hohe Braut, which I had sketched out.

Thus I spent the remainder of this summer of ever-happy memory. At the

end of August I had to leave for Riga to take up my new appointment.

Although I knew that my sister Rosalie had shortly before married the

man of her choice, Professor Oswald Marbach of Leipzig, I avoided that

city, probably with the foolish notion of sparing myself any

humiliation, and went straight to Berlin, where I had to receive

certain additional instructions from my future director, and also to

obtain my passport. There I met a younger sister of Minna’s, Amalie

Planer, a singer with a pretty voice, who had joined our opera company

at Magdeburg for a short time. My report of Minna quite overwhelmed

this exceedingly kind-hearted girl. We went to a performance of Fidelia

together, during which she, like myself, burst into tears and sobs.

Refreshed by the sympathetic impression I had received, I went by way

of Schwerin, where I was disappointed in my hopes of finding traces of

Minna, to Lubeck, to wait for a merchant ship going to Riga. We had set

sail for Travemunde when an unfavourable wind set in, and held up our

departure for a week: I had to spend this disagreeable time in a

miserable ship’s tavern. Thrown on my own resources I tried, amongst

other things, to read Till Eulenspiegel, and this popular book first

gave me the idea of a real German comic opera. Long afterwards, when I

was composing the words for my Junger Siegfried, I remember having many

vivid recollections of this melancholy sojourn in Travemunde and my

reading of Till Eulenspiegel. After a voyage of four days we at last

reached port at Bolderaa. I was conscious of a peculiar thrill on

coming into contact with Russian officials, whom I had instinctively

detested since the days of my sympathy with the Poles as a boy. It

seemed to me as if the harbour police must read enthusiasm for the

Poles in my face, and would send me to Siberia on the spot, and I was

the more agreeably surprised, on reaching Riga, to find myself

surrounded by the familiar German element which, above all, pervaded

everything connected with the theatre.

After my unfortunate experiences in connection with the conditions of

small German stages, the way in which this newly opened theatre was run

had at first a calming effect on my mind. A society had been formed by

a number of well-to-do theatre-goers and rich business men to raise, by

voluntary subscription, sufficient money to provide the sort of

management they regarded as ideal with a solid foundation. The director

they appointed was Karl von Holtei, a fairly popular dramatic writer,

who enjoyed a certain reputation in the theatrical world. This man’s

ideas about the stage represented a special tendency, which was at that

time on the decline. He possessed, in addition to his remarkable social

gifts, an extraordinary acquaintance with all the principal people

connected with the theatre during the past twenty years, and belonged

to a society called Die Liebenswurdigen Libertins (‘The Amiable

Libertines’). This was a set of young would-be wits, who looked upon

the stage as a playground licensed by the public for the display of

their mad pranks, from which the middle class held aloof, while people

of culture were steadily losing all interest in the theatre under these

hopeless conditions.

Holtei’s wife had in former days been a popular actress at the

Konigstadt theatre in Berlin, and it was here, at the time when

Henriette Sontag raised it to the height of its fame, that Holtei’s

style had been formed. The production there of his melodrama Leonore

(founded on Burger’s ballad) had in particular earned him a wide

reputation as a writer for the stage, besides which he produced some

Liederspiele, and among them one, entitled Der Alte Feldherr, became

fairly popular. His invitation to Riga had been particularly welcome,

as it bid fair to gratify his craving to absorb himself completely in

the life of the stage; he hoped, in this out-of-the-way place, to

indulge his passion without restraint. His peculiar familiarity of

manner, his inexhaustible store of amusing small talk, and his airy way

of doing business, gave him a remarkable hold on the tradespeople of

Riga, who wished for nothing better than such entertainment as he was

able to give them. They provided him liberally with all the necessary

means and treated him in every respect with entire confidence. Under

his auspices my own engagement had been very easily secured. Surly old

pedants he would have none of, favouring young men on the score of

their youth alone. As far as I myself was concerned, it was enough for

him to know that I belonged to a family which he knew and liked, and

hearing, moreover, of my fervent devotion to modern Italian and French

music in particular, he decided that I was the very man for him. He had

the whole shoal of Bellini’s, Donizetti’s, Adam’s, and Auber’s operatic

scores copied out, and I was to give the good people of Riga the

benefit of them with all possible speed.

The first time I visited Holtei I met an old Leipzig acquaintance,

Heinrich Dorn, my former mentor, who now held the permanent municipal

appointment of choir-master at the church and music-teacher in the

schools. He was pleased to find his curious pupil transformed into a

practical opera conductor of independent position, and no less

surprised to see the eccentric worshipper of Beethoven changed into an

ardent champion of Bellini and Adam. He took me home to his summer

residence, which was built, according to Riga phraseology, ‘in the

fields,’ that is literally, on the sand. While I was giving him some

account of the experiences through which I had passed, I grew conscious

of the strangely deserted look of the place. Feeling frightened and

homeless, my initial uneasiness gradually developed into a passionate

longing to escape from all the whirl of theatrical life which had wooed

me to such inhospitable regions. This uneasy mood was fast dispelling

the flippancy which at Magdeburg had led to my being dragged down to

the level of the most worthless stage society, and had also conduced to

spoil my musical taste. It also contained the germs of a new tendency

which developed during the period of my activity at Riga, brought me

more and more out of touch with the theatre, thereby causing Director

Holtei all the annoyance which inevitably attends disappointment.

For some time, however, I found no difficulty in making the best of a

bad bargain. We were obliged to open the theatre before the company was

complete. To make this possible, we gave a performance of a short comic

opera by C. Blum, called Marie, Max und Michel. For this work I

composed an additional air for a song which Holtei had written for the

bass singer, Gunther; it consisted of a sentimental introduction and a

gay military rondo, and was very much appreciated. Later on, I

introduced another additional song into the Schweizerfamilie, to be

sung by another bass singer, Scheibler; it was of a devotional

character, and pleased not only the public, but myself, and showed

signs of the upheaval which was gradually taking place in my musical

development. I was entrusted with the composition of a tune for a

National Hymn written by Brakel in honour of the Tsar Nicholas’s

birthday. I tried to give it as far as possible the right colouring for

a despotic patriarchal monarch, and once again I achieved some fame,

for it was sung for several successive years on that particular day.

Holtei tried to persuade me to write a bright, gay comic opera, or

rather a musical play, to be performed by our company just as it stood.

I looked up the libretto of my Glucktiche Barenfamilie, and found

Holtei very well disposed towards it (as I have stated elsewhere); but

when I unearthed the little music which I had already composed for it,

I was overcome with disgust at this way of writing; whereupon I made a

present of the book to my clumsy, good-natured friend, Lobmann, my

right-hand man in the orchestra, and never gave it another thought from

that day to this. I managed, however, to get to work on the libretto of

Rienzi, which I had sketched out at Blasewitz. I developed it from

every point of view, on so extravagant a scale, that with this work I

deliberately cut off all possibility of being tempted by circumstances

to produce it anywhere but on one of the largest stages in Europe.

But while this helped to strengthen my endeavour to escape from all the

petty degradations of stage life, new complications arose which

affected me more and more seriously, and offered further opposition to

my aims. The prima donna engaged by Holtei had failed us, and we were

therefore without a singer for grand opera. Under the circumstances,

Holtei joyfully agreed to my proposal to ask Amalie, Minna’s sister

(who was glad to accept an engagement that brought her near me), to

come to Riga at once. In her answer to me from Dresden, where she was

then living, she informed me of Minna’s return to her parents, and of

her present miserable condition owing to a severe illness. I naturally

took this piece of news very coolly, for what I had heard about Minna

since she left me for the last time had forced me to authorise my old

friend at Königsberg to take steps to procure a divorce. It was certain

that Minna had stayed for some time at a hotel in Hamburg with that

ill-omened man, Herr Dietrich, and that she had spread abroad the story

of our separation so unreservedly that the theatrical world in

particular had discussed it in a manner that was positively insulting

to me. I simply informed Amalie of this, and requested her to spare me

any further news of her sister.

Hereupon Minna herself appealed to me, and wrote me a positively

heartrending letter, in which she openly confessed her infidelity. She

declared that she had been driven to it by despair, but that the great

trouble she had thus brought upon herself having taught her a lesson,

all she now wished was to return to the right path. Taking everything

into account, I concluded that she had been deceived in the character

of her seducer, and the knowledge of her terrible position had placed

her both morally and physically in a most lamentable condition, in

which, now ill and wretched, she turned to me again to acknowledge her

guilt, crave my forgiveness, and assure me, in spite of all, that she

had now become fully aware of her love for me. Never before had I heard

such sentiments from Minna, nor was I ever to hear the same from her

again, save on one touching occasion many years later, when similar

outpourings moved and affected me in the same way as this particular

letter had done. In reply I told her that there should never again be

any mention between us of what had occurred, for which I took upon

myself the chief blame; and I can pride myself on having carried out

this resolution to the letter.

When her sister’s engagement was satisfactorily settled, I at once

invited Minna to come to Riga with her. Both gladly accepted my

invitation, and arrived from Dresden at my new home on 19th October,

wintry weather having already set in. With much regret I perceived that

Minna’s health had really suffered, and therefore did all in my power

to provide her with all the domestic comforts and quiet she needed.

This presented difficulties, for my modest income as a conductor was

all I had at my disposal, and we were both firmly determined not to let

Minna go on the stage again. On the other hand, the carrying out of

this resolve, in view of the financial inconvenience it entailed,

produced strange complications, the nature of which was only revealed

to me later, when startling developments divulged the real moral

character of the manager Holtei. For the present I had to let people

think that I was jealous of my wife. I bore patiently with the general

belief that I had good reasons to be so, and rejoiced meanwhile at the

restoration of our peaceful married life, and especially at the sight

of our humble home, which we made as comfortable as our means would

allow, and in the keeping of which Minna’s domestic talents came

strongly to the fore. As we were still childless, and were obliged as a

rule to enlist the help of a dog in order to give life to the domestic

hearth, we once lighted upon the eccentric idea of trying our luck with

a young wolf which was brought into the house as a tiny cub. When we

found, however, that this experiment did not increase the comfort of

our home life, we gave him up after he had been with us a few weeks. We

fared better with sister Amalie; for she, with her good-nature and

simple homely ways, did much to make up for the absence of children for

a time. The two sisters, neither of whom had had any real education,

often returned playfully to the ways of their childhood. When they sang

children’s duets, Minna, though she had had no musical training, always

managed very cleverly to sing seconds, and afterwards, as we sat at our

evening meal, eating Russian salad, salt salmon from the Dwina, or

fresh Russian caviare, we were all three very cheerful and happy far

away in our northern home.

Amalie’s beautiful voice and real vocal talent at first won for her a

very favourable reception with the public, a fact which did us all a

great deal of good. Being, however, very short, and having no very

great gift for acting, the scope of her powers was very limited, and as

she was soon surpassed by more successful competitors, it was a real

stroke of good luck for her that a young officer in the Russian army,

then Captain, now General, Carl von Meek, fell head over ears in love

with the simple girl, and married her a year later. The unfortunate

part of this engagement, however, was that it caused many difficulties,

and brought the first cloud over our menage a trois. For, after a

while, the two sisters quarrelled bitterly, and I had the very

unpleasant experience of living for a whole year in the same house with

two relatives who neither saw nor spoke to each other.

We spent the winter at the beginning of 1838 in a very small dingy

dwelling in the old town; it was not till the spring that we moved into

a pleasanter house in the more salubrious Petersburg suburb, where, in

spite of the sisterly breach before referred to, we led a fairly bright

and cheerful life, as we were often able to entertain many of our

friends and acquaintances in a simple though pleasant fashion. In

addition to members of the stage I knew a few people in the town, and

we received and visited the family of Dorn, the musical director, with

whom I became quite intimate. But it was the second musical director,

Franz Lobmann, a very worthy though not a very gifted man, who became

most faithfully attached to me. However, I did not cultivate many

acquaintances in wider circles, and they grew fewer as the ruling

passion of my life grew steadily stronger; so that when, later on, I

left Riga, after spending nearly two years there, I departed almost as

a stranger, and with as much indifference as I had left Magdeburg and

Königsberg. What, however, specially embittered my departure was a

series of experiences of a particularly disagreeable nature, which

firmly determined me to cut myself off entirely from the necessity of

mixing with any people like those I had met with in my previous

attempts to create a position for myself at the theatre.

Yet it was only gradually that I became quite conscious of all this. At

first, under the safe guidance of my renewed wedded happiness, which

had for a time been so disturbed in its early days, I felt distinctly

better than I had before in all my professional work. The fact that the

material position of the theatrical undertaking was assured exercised a

healthy influence on the performances. The theatre itself was cooped up

in a very narrow space; there was as little room for scenic display on

its tiny stage as there was accommodation for rich musical effects in

the cramped orchestra. In both directions the strictest limits were

imposed, yet I contrived to introduce considerable reinforcements into

an orchestra which was really only calculated for a string quartette,

two first and two second violins, two violas, and one ‘cello. These

successful exertions of mine were the first cause of the dislike Holtei

evinced towards me later on. After this we were able to get good

concerted music for the opera. I found the thorough study of Mehul’s

opera, Joseph in Aegypten, very stimulating. Its noble and simple

style, added to the touching effect of the music, which quite carries

one away, did much towards effecting a favourable change in my taste,

till then warped by my connection with the theatre.

It was most gratifying to feel my former serious taste again aroused by

really good dramatic performances. I specially remember a production of

King Lear, which I followed with the greatest interest, not only at the

actual performances, but at all the rehearsals as well. Yet these

educative impressions tended to make me feel ever more and more

dissatisfied with my work at the theatre. On the one hand, the members

of the company became gradually more distasteful to me, and on the

other I was growing discontented with the management. With regard to

the staff of the theatre, I very soon found out the hollowness, vanity,

and the impudent selfishness of this uncultured and undisciplined class

of people, for I had now lost my former liking for the Bohemian life

that had such an attraction for me at Magdeburg. Before long there were

but a few members of our company with whom I had not quarrelled, thanks

to one or the other of these drawbacks. But my saddest experience was,

that in such disputes, into which in fact I was led simply by my zeal

for the artistic success of the performances as a whole, not only did I

receive no support from Holtei, the director, but I actually made him

my enemy. He even declared publicly that our theatre had become far too

respectable for his taste, and tried to convince me that good

theatrical performances could not be given by a strait-laced company.

In his opinion the idea of the dignity of theatrical art was pedantic

nonsense, and he thought light serio-comic vaudeville the only class of

performance worth considering. Serious opera, rich musical ensemble,

was his particular aversion, and my demands for this irritated him so

that he met them only with scorn and indignant refusals. Of the strange

connection between this artistic bias and his taste in the domain of

morality I was also to become aware, to my horror, in due course. For

the present I felt so repelled by the declaration of his artistic

antipathies, as to let my dislike for the theatre as a profession

steadily grow upon me. I still took pleasure in some good performances

which I was able to get up, under favourable circumstances, at the

larger theatre at Mitau, to where the company went for a time in the

early part of the summer. Yet it was while I was there, spending most

of my time reading Bulwer Lytton’s novels, that I made a secret resolve

to try hard to free myself from all connection with the only branch of

theatrical art which had so far been open to me.

The composition of my Rienzi, the text of which I had finished in the

early days of my sojourn in Riga, was destined to bridge me over to the

glorious world for which I had longed so intensely. I had laid aside

the completion of my Gluckliche Barenfamilie, for the simple reason

that the lighter character of this piece would have thrown me more into

contact with the very theatrical people I most despised. My greatest

consolation now was to prepare Rienzi with such an utter disregard of

the means which were available there for its production, that my desire

to produce it would force me out of the narrow confines of this puny

theatrical circle to seek a fresh connection with one of the larger

theatres. It was after our return from Mitau, in the middle of the

summer of 1838, that I set to work on this composition, and by so doing

roused myself to a state of enthusiasm which, considering my position,

was nothing less than desperate dare-devilry. All to whom I confided my

plan perceived at once, on the mere mention of my subject, that I was

preparing to break away from my present position, in which there could

be no possibility of producing my work, and I was looked upon as

light-headed and fit only for an asylum.

To all my acquaintances my procedure seemed stupid and reckless. Even

the former patron of my peculiar Leipzig overture thought it

impracticable and eccentric, seeing that I had again turned my back on

light opera. He expressed this opinion very freely in the Neue

Zeitschrift fur Musik, in a report of a concert I had given towards the

end of the previous winter, and openly ridiculed the Magdeburg Columbus

Overture and the Rule Britannia Overture previously mentioned. I myself

had not taken any pleasure in the performance of either of these

overtures, as my predilection for cornets, strongly marked in both

these overtures, again played me a sorry trick, as I had evidently

expected too much of our Riga musicians, and had to endure all kinds of

disappointment on the occasion of the performance. As a complete

contrast to my extravagant setting of Rienzi, this same director, H.

Dorn, had set to work to write an opera in which he had most carefully

borne in mind the conditions obtaining at the Riga theatre. Der Schoffe

van Paris, an historical operetta of the period of the siege of Paris

by Joan of Arc, was practised and performed by us to the complete

satisfaction of the composer. However, the success of this work gave me

no reason for abandoning my project to complete my Rienzi, and I was

secretly pleased to find that I could regard this success without a

trace of envy. Though animated by no feeling of rivalry, I gradually

gave up associating with the Riga artists, confining myself chiefly to

the performance of the duties I had undertaken, and worked away at the

two first acts of my big opera without troubling myself at all whether

I should ever get so far as to see it produced.

The serious and bitter experiences I had had so early in life had done

much to guide me towards that intensely earnest side of my nature that

had manifested itself in my earliest youth. The effect of these bitter

experiences was now to be still further emphasised by other sad

impressions. Not long after Minna had rejoined me, I received from home

the news of the death of my sister Rosalie. It was the first time in my

life that I had experienced the passing away of one near and dear to

me. The death of this sister struck me as a most cruel and significant

blow of fate; it was out of love and respect for her that I had turned

away so resolutely from my youthful excesses, and it was to gain her

sympathy that I had devoted special thought and care to my first great

works. When the passions and cares of life had come upon me and driven

me away from my home, it was she who had read deep down into my sorely

stricken heart, and who had bidden me that anxious farewell on my

departure from Leipzig. At the time of my disappearance, when the news

of my wilful marriage and of my consequent unfortunate position reached

my family, it was she who, as my mother informed me later, never lost

her faith in me, but who always cherished the hope that I would one day

reach the full development of my capabilities and make a genuine

success of my life.

Now, at the news of her death, and illuminated by the recollection of

that one impressive farewell, as by a flash of lightning I saw the

immense value my relations with this sister had been to me, and I did

not fully realise the extent of her influence until later on, when,

after my first striking successes, my mother tearfully lamented that

Rosalie had not lived to witness them. It really did me good to be

again in communication with my family. My mother and sisters had had

news of my doings somehow or other, and I was deeply touched, in the

letters which I was now receiving from them, to hear no reproaches

anent my headstrong and apparently heartless behaviour, but only

sympathy and heartfelt solicitude. My family had also received

favourable reports about my wife’s good qualities, a fact about which I

was particularly glad, as I was thus spared the difficulties of

defending her questionable behaviour to me, which I should have been at

pains to excuse. This produced a salutary calm in my soul, which had so

recently been a prey to the worst anxieties. All that had driven me

with such passionate haste to an improvident and premature marriage,

all that had consequently weighed on me so ruinously, now seemed set at

rest, leaving peace in its stead. And although the ordinary cares of

life still pressed on me for many years, often in a most vexatious and

troublesome form, yet the anxieties attendant on my ardent youthful

wishes were in a manner subdued and calm. From thence forward till the

attainment of my professional independence, all my life’s struggles

could be directed entirely towards that more ideal aim which, from the

time of the conception of my Rienzi, was to be my only guide through

life.

It was only later that I first realised the real character of my life

in Riga, from the utterance of one of its inhabitants, who was

astonished to learn of the success of a man of whose importance, during

the whole of his two years’ sojourn in the small capital of Livonia,

nothing had been known. Thrown entirely on my own resources, I was a

stranger to every one. As I mentioned before, I kept aloof from all the

theatre folk, in consequence of my increasing dislike of them, and

therefore, when at the end of March, 1839, at the close of my second

winter there, I was given my dismissal by the management, although this

occurrence surprised me for other reasons, yet I felt fully reconciled

to this compulsory change in my life. The reasons which led to this

dismissal were, however, of such a nature that I could only regard it

as one of the most disagreeable experiences of my life. Once, when I

was lying dangerously ill, I heard of Holtei’s real feelings towards

me. I had caught a severe cold in the depth of winter at a theatrical

rehearsal, and it at once assumed a serious character, owing to the

fact that my nerves were in a state of constant irritation from the

continual annoyance and vexatious worry caused by the contemptible

character of the theatrical management. It was just at the time when a

special performance of the opera Norma was to be given by our company

in Mitau. Holtei insisted on my getting up from a sick-bed to make this

wintry journey, and thus to expose myself to the danger of seriously

increasing my cold in the icy theatre at Mitau. Typhoid fever was the

consequence, and this pulled me down to such an extent that Holtei, who

heard of my condition, is said to have remarked at the theatre that I

should probably never conduct again, and that, to all intents and

purposes, ‘I was on my last legs.’ It was to a splendid homoeopathic

physician, Dr. Prutzer, that I owed my recovery and my life. Not long

after that Holtei left our theatre and Riga for ever; his occupation

there, with ‘the far too respectable conditions,’ as he expressed it,

had become intolerable to him. In addition, however, circumstances had

arisen in his domestic life (which had been much affected by the death

of his wife) which seemed to make him consider a complete break with

Riga eminently desirable. But to my astonishment I now first became

aware that I too had unconsciously been a sufferer from the troubles he

had brought upon himself. When Holtei’s successor in the

management—Joseph Hoffmann the singer—informed me that his predecessor

had made it a condition to his taking over the post that he should

enter into the same engagement that Holtei had made with the conductor

Dorn for the post which I had hitherto filled, and my reappointment had

therefore been made an impossibility, my wife met my astonishment at

this news by giving me the reason, of which for some considerable time

past she had been well aware, namely, Holtei’s special dislike of us

both. When I was afterwards informed by Minna of what had happened—she

having purposely kept it from me all this time, so as not to cause bad

feeling between me and my director—a ghastly light was thrown upon the

whole affair. I did indeed remember perfectly how, soon after Minna’s

arrival in Riga, I had been particularly pressed by Holtei not to

prevent my wife’s engagement at the theatre. I asked him to talk things

quietly over with her, so that he might see that Minna’s unwillingness

rested on a mutual understanding, and not on any jealousy on my part. I

had intentionally given him the time when I was engaged at the theatre

on rehearsals for the necessary discussions with my wife. At the end of

these meetings I had, on my return, often found Minna in a very excited

condition, and at length she declared emphatically that under no

circumstances would she accept the engagement offered by Holtei. I had

also noticed in Minna’s demeanour towards me a strange anxiety to know

why I was not unwilling to allow Holtei to try to persuade her. Now

that the catastrophe had occurred, I learned that Holtei had in fact

used these interviews for making improper advances to my wife, the

nature of which I only realised with difficulty on further acquaintance

with this man’s peculiarities, and after having heard of other

instances of a similar nature. I then discovered that Holtei considered

it an advantage to get himself talked about in connection with pretty

women, in order thus to divert the attention of the public from other

conduct even more disreputable. After this Minna was exceedingly

indignant at Holtei, who, finding his own suit rejected, appeared as

the medium for another suitor, on whose behalf he urged that he would

think none the worse of her for rejecting him, a grey-haired and

penniless man, but at the same time advocated the suit of Brandenburg,

a very wealthy and handsome young merchant. His fierce indignation at

this double repulse, his humiliation at having revealed his real nature

to no purpose, seems, to judge from Minna’s observations, to have been

exceedingly great. I now understood too well that his frequent and

profoundly contemptuous sallies against respectable actors and

actresses had not been mere spirited exaggerations, but that he had

probably often had to complain of being put thoroughly to shame on this

account.

The fact that the playing of such criminal parts as the one he had had

in view with my wife was unable to divert the ever-increasing attention

of the outside world from his vicious and dissolute habits, does not

seem to have escaped him; for those behind the scenes told me candidly

that it was owing to the fear of very unpleasant revelations that he

had suddenly decided to give up his position at Riga altogether. Even

in much later years I heard about Holtei’s bitter dislike of me, a

dislike which showed itself, among other things, in his denunciation of

The Music of the Future,[8] and of its tendency to jeopardise the

simplicity of pure sentiment. I have previously mentioned that he

displayed so much personal animosity against me during the latter part

of the time we were together in Riga that he vented his hostility upon

me in every possible way. Up to that time I had felt inclined to

ascribe it to the divergence of our respective views on artistic

points.

[8] _Zukunftsmusik_ is a pamphlet revealing some of Wagner’s artistic

aims and aspirations, written 1860-61.—EDITOR.

To my dismay I now became aware that personal considerations alone were

at the bottom of all this, and I blushed to realise that by my former

unreserved confidence in a man whom I thought was absolutely honest, I

had based my knowledge of human nature on such very weak foundations.

But still greater was my disappointment when I discovered the real

character of my friend H. Dorn. During the whole time of our

intercourse at Riga, he, who formerly treated me more like a

good-natured elder brother, had become my most confidential friend. We

saw and visited each other almost daily, very frequently in our

respective homes. I kept not a single secret from him, and the

performance of his Schoffe van Paris under my direction was as

successful as if it had been under his own. Now, when I heard that my

post had been given to him, I felt obliged to ask him about it, in

order to learn whether there was any mistake on his part as to my

intention regarding the position I had hitherto held. But from his

letter in reply I could clearly see that Dorn had really made use of

Holtei’s dislike for me to extract from him, before his departure, an

arrangement which was both binding on his successor and also in his

(Dorn’s) own favour. As my friend he ought to have known that he could

benefit by this agreement only in the event of my resigning my

appointment in Riga, because in our confidential conversations, which

continued to the end, he always carefully refrained from touching on

the possibility of my going away or remaining. In fact, he declared

that Holtei had distinctly told him he would on no account re-engage

me, as I could not get on with the singers. He added that after this

one could not take it amiss if he, who had been inspired with fresh

enthusiasm for the theatre by the success of his Schoffe von Paris, had

seized and turned to his own advantage the chance offered to him.

Moreover, he had gathered from my confidential communications that I

was very awkwardly situated, and that, owing to my small salary having

been cut down by Holtei from the very beginning, I was in a very

precarious position on account of the demands of my creditors in

Königsberg and Magdeburg. It appeared that these people had employed

against me a lawyer, who was a friend of Dorn’s, and that,

consequently, he had come to the conclusion that I would not be able to

remain in Riga. Therefore, even as my friend, he had felt his

conscience quite clear in accepting Holtei’s proposal.

In order not to leave him in the complacent enjoyment of this

self-deception, I put it clearly before him that he could not be

ignorant of the fact that a higher salary had been promised to me for

the third year of my contract; and that, by the establishment of

orchestral concerts, which had already made a favourable start, I now

saw my way to getting free from those long-standing debts, having

already overcome the difficulties of the removal and settling down. I

also asked him how he would act if I saw it was to my own interest to

retain my post, and to call on him to resign his agreement with Holtei,

who, as a matter of fact, after his departure from Riga, had withdrawn

his alleged reason for my dismissal. To this I received no answer, nor

have I had one up to the present day; but, on the other hand, in 1865,

I was astonished to see Dorn enter my house in Munich unannounced, and

when to his joy I recognised him, he stepped up to me with a gesture

which clearly showed his intention of embracing me. Although I managed

to evade this, yet I soon saw the difficulty of preventing him from

addressing me with the familiar form of ‘thou,’ as the attempt to do so

would have necessitated explanations that would have been a useless

addition to all my worries just then; for it was the time when my

Tristan was being produced.

Such a man was Heinrich Dorn. Although, after the failure of three

operas, he had retired in disgust from the theatre to devote himself

exclusively to the commercial side of music, yet the success of his

opera, Der Schoffe von Paris, in Riga helped him back to a permanent

place among the dramatic musicians of Germany. But to this position he

was first dragged from obscurity, across the bridge of infidelity to

his friend, and by the aid of virtue in the person of Director Holtei,

thanks to a magnanimous oversight on the part of Franz Listz. The

preference of King Friedrich Wilhelm IV. for church scenes contributed

to secure him eventually his important position at the greatest lyric

theatre in Germany, the Royal Opera of Berlin. For he was prompted far

less by his devotion to the dramatic muse than by his desire to secure

a good position in some important German city, when, as already hinted,

through Liszt’s recommendation he was appointed musical director of

Cologne Cathedral. During a fete connected with the building of the

cathedral he managed, as a musician, so to work upon the Prussian

monarch’s religious feelings, that he was appointed to the dignified

post of musical conductor at the Royal Theatre, in which capacity he

long continued to do honour to German dramatic music in conjunction

with Wilhelm Taubert.

I must give J. Hoffmann, who from this time forward was the manager of

the Riga theatre, the credit of having felt the treachery practised

upon me very deeply indeed. He told me that his contract with Dorn

bound him only for one year, and that the moment the twelve months had

elapsed he wished to come to a fresh agreement with me. As soon as this

was known, my patrons in Riga came forward with offers of teaching

engagements and arrangements for sundry concerts, by way of

compensating me for the year’s salary which I should lose by being away

from my work as a conductor. Though I was much gratified by these

offers, yet, as I have already pointed out, the longing to break loose

from the kind of theatrical life which I had experienced up to that

time so possessed me that I resolutely seized this chance of abandoning

my former vocation for an entirely new one. Not without some

shrewdness, I played upon my wife’s indignation at the treachery I had

suffered, in order to make her fall in with my eccentric notion of

going to Paris. Already in my conception of Rienzi I had dreamed of the

most magnificent theatrical conditions, but now, without halting at any

intermediate stations, my one desire was to reach the very heart of all

European grand opera. While still in Magdeburg I had made H. Konig’s

romance, Die Hohe Braut, the subject of a grand opera in five acts, and

in the most luxurious French style. After the scenic draft of this

opera, which had been translated into French, was completely worked

out, I sent it from Königsberg to Scribe in Paris. With this manuscript

I sent a letter to the famous operatic poet, in which I suggested that

he might make use of my plot, on condition that he would secure me the

composition of the music for the Paris Opera House. To convince him of

my ability to compose Parisian operatic music, I also sent him the

score of my Liebesverbot. At the same time I wrote to Meyerbeer,

informing him of my plans, and begging him to support me. I was not at

all disheartened at receiving no reply, for I was content to know that

now at last ‘I was in communication with Paris.’ When, therefore, I

started out upon my daring journey from Riga, I seemed to have a

comparatively serious object in view, and my Paris projects no longer

struck me as being altogether in the air. In addition to this I now

heard that my youngest sister, Cecilia, had become betrothed to a

certain Eduard Avenarius, an employee of the Brockhaus book-selling

firm, and that he had undertaken the management of their Paris branch.

To him I applied for news of Scribe, and for an answer to the

application I had made to that gentleman some years previously.

Avenarius called on Scribe, and from him received an acknowledgment of

the receipt of my earlier communication. Scribe also showed that he had

some recollection of the subject itself; for he said that, so far as he

could remember, there was a joueuse de harpe in the piece, who was

ill-treated by her brother. The fact that this merely incidental item

had alone remained in his memory led me to conclude that he had not

extended his acquaintance with the piece beyond the first act, in which

the item in question occurs. When, moreover, I heard that he had

nothing to say in regard to my score, except that he had had portions

of it played over to him by a pupil of the Conservatoire, I really

could not flatter myself that he had entered into definite and

conscious relations with me. And yet I had palpable evidence in a

letter of his to Avenarius, which the latter forwarded to me, that

Scribe had actually occupied himself with my work, and that I was

indeed in communication with him, and this letter of Scribe’s made such

an impression upon my wife, who was by no means inclined to be

sanguine, that she gradually overcame her apprehensions in regard to

the Paris adventure. At last it was fixed and settled that on the

expiry of my second year’s contract in Riga (that is to say, in the

coming summer, 1839), we should journey direct from Riga to Paris, in

order that I might try my luck there as a composer of opera.

The production of my Rienzi now began to assume greater importance. The

composition of its second act was finished before we started, and into

this I wove a heroic ballet of extravagant dimensions. It was now

imperative that I should speedily acquire a knowledge of French, a

language which, during my classical studies at the Grammar School, I

had contemptuously laid aside. As there were only four weeks in which

to recover the time I had lost, I engaged an excellent French master.

But as I soon realised that I could achieve but little in so short a

time, I utilised the hours of the lessons in order to obtain from him,

under the pretence of receiving instruction, an idiomatic translation

of my Rienzi libretto. This I wrote with red ink on such parts of the

score as were finished, so that on reaching Paris I might immediately

submit my half-finished opera to French judges of art.

Everything now seemed to be carefully prepared for my departure, and

all that remained to be done was to raise the necessary funds for my

undertaking. But in this respect the outlook was bad. The sale of our

modest household furniture, the proceeds of a benefit concert, and my

meagre savings only sufficed to satisfy the importunate demands of my

creditors in Magdeburg and Königsberg. I knew that if I were to devote

all my cash to this purpose, there would not be a farthing left. Some

way out of the fix must be found, and this our old Königsberg friend,

Abraham Möller, suggested in his usual flippant and obscure manner.

Just at this critical moment he paid us a second visit to Riga. I

acquainted him with the difficulties of our position, and all the

obstacles which stood in the way of my resolve to go to Paris. In his

habitual laconical way he counselled me to reserve all my savings for

our journey, and to settle with my creditors when my Parisian successes

had provided the necessary means. To help us in carrying out this plan,

he offered to convey us in his carriage across the Russian frontier at

top speed to an East Prussian port. We should have to cross the Russian

frontier without passports, as these had been already impounded by our

foreign creditors. He assured us that we should find it quite simple to

carry out this very hazardous expedition, and declared that he had a

friend on a Prussian estate close to the frontier who would render us

very effective assistance. My eagerness to escape at any price from my

previous circumstances, and to enter with all possible speed upon the

wider field, in which I hoped very soon to realise my ambition, blinded

me to all the unpleasantnesses which the execution of his proposal must

entail. Director Hoffmann, who considered himself bound to serve me to

the utmost of his ability, facilitated my departure by allowing me to

leave some months before the expiration of my engagement. After

continuing to conduct the operatic portion of the Mitau theatrical

season through the month of June, we secretly started in a special

coach hired by Möller and under his protection. The goal of our journey

was Paris, but many unheard-of hardships were in store for us before we

were to reach that city.

The sense of contentment involuntarily aroused by our passage through

the fruitful Courland in the luxuriant month of July, and by the sweet

illusion that now at last I had cut myself loose from a hateful

existence, to enter upon a new and boundless path of fortune, was

disturbed from its very outset by the miserable inconveniences

occasioned by the presence of a huge Newfoundland dog called Robber.

This beautiful creature, originally the property of a Riga merchant,

had, contrary to the nature of his race, become devotedly attached to

me. After I had left Riga, and during my long stay in Mitau, Robber

incessantly besieged my empty house, and so touched the hearts of my

landlord and the neighbours by his fidelity, that they sent the dog

after me by the conductor of the coach to Mitau, where I greeted him

with genuine effusion, and swore that, in spite of all difficulties, I

would never part with him again. Whatever might happen, the dog must go

with us to Paris. And yet, even to get him into the carriage proved

almost impossible. All my endeavours to find him a place in or about

the vehicle were in vain, and, to my great grief, I had to watch the

huge northern beast, with his shaggy coat, gallop all day long in the

blazing sun beside the carriage. At last, moved to pity by his

exhaustion, and unable to bear the sight any longer, I hit upon a most

ingenious plan for bringing the great animal with us into the carriage,

where, in spite of its being full to overflowing, he was just able to

find room.

On the evening of the second day we reached the Russo-Prussian

frontier. Möller’s evident anxiety as to whether we should be able to

cross it safely showed us plainly that the matter was one of some

danger. His good friend from the other side duly turned up with a small

carriage, as arranged, and in this conveyance drove Minna, myself, and

Robber through by paths to a certain point, whence he led us on foot to

a house of exceedingly suspicious exterior, where, after handing us

over to a guide, he left us. There we had to wait until sundown, and

had ample leisure in which to realise that we were in a smugglers’

drinking den, which gradually became filled to suffocation with Polish

Jews of most forbidding aspect.

At last we were summoned to follow our guide. A few hundred feet away,

on the slope of a hill, lay the ditch which runs the whole length of

the Russian frontier, watched continually and at very narrow intervals

by Cossacks. Our chance was to utilise the few moments after the relief

of the watch, during which the sentinels were elsewhere engaged. We

had, therefore, to run at full speed down the hill, scramble through

the ditch, and then hurry along until we were beyond the range of the

soldiers’ guns; for the Cossacks were bound in case of discovery to

fire upon us even on the other side of the ditch. In spite of my almost

passionate anxiety for Minna, I had observed with singular pleasure the

intelligent behaviour of Robber, who, as though conscious of the

danger, silently kept close to our side, and entirely dispelled my fear

that he would give trouble during our dangerous passage. At last our

trusted helpmeet reappeared, and was so delighted that he hugged us all

in his arms. Then, placing us once more in his carriage, he drove us to

the inn of the Prussian frontier village, where my friend Möller,

positively sick with anxiety, leaped sobbing and rejoicing out of bed

to greet us.

It was only now that I began to realise the danger to which I had

exposed, not only myself, but also my poor Minna, and the folly of

which I had been guilty through my ignorance of the terrible

difficulties of secretly crossing the frontier—difficulties concerning

which Möller had foolishly allowed me to remain in ignorance.

I was simply at a loss to convey to my poor exhausted wife how

extremely I regretted the whole affair.

And yet the difficulties we had just overcome were but the prelude to

the calamities incidental to this adventurous journey which had such a

decisive influence on my life. The following day, when, with courage

renewed, we drove through the rich plain of Tilsit to Arnau, near

Königsberg, we decided, as the next stage of our journey, to proceed

from the Prussian harbour of Pillau by sailing vessel to London. Our

principal reason for this was the consideration of the dog we had with

us. It was the easiest way to take him. To convey him by coach from

Königsberg to Paris was out of the question, and railways were unknown.

But another consideration was our budget; the whole result of my

desperate efforts amounted to not quite one hundred ducats, which were

to cover not only the journey to Paris, but our expenses there until I

should have earned something. Therefore, after a few days’ rest in the

inn at Arnau, we drove to the little seaport town of Pillau, again

accompanied by Möller, in one of the ordinary local conveyances, which

was not much better than a wagon. In order to avoid Königsberg, we

passed through the smaller villages and over bad roads. Even this short

distance was not to be covered without accident. The clumsy conveyance

upset in a farmyard, and Minna was so severely indisposed by the

accident, owing to an internal shock, that I had to drag her—with the

greatest difficulty, as she was quite helpless—to a peasant’s house.

The people were surly and dirty, and the night we spent there was a

painful one for the poor sufferer. A delay of several days occurred

before the departure of the Pillau vessel, but this was welcome as a

respite to allow of Minna’s recovery. Finally, as the captain was to

take us without a passport, our going on board was accompanied by

exceptional difficulties. We had to contrive to slip past the harbour

watch to our vessel in a small boat before daybreak. Once on board, we

still had the troublesome task of hauling Robber up the steep side of

the vessel without attracting attention, and after that to conceal

ourselves at once below deck, in order to escape the notice of

officials visiting the ship before its departure. The anchor was

weighed, and at last, as the land faded gradually out of sight, we

thought we could breathe freely and feel at ease.

We were on board a merchant vessel of the smallest type. She was called

the Thetis; a bust of the nymph was erected in the bows, and she

carried a crew of seven men, including the captain. With good weather,

such as was to be expected in summer, the journey to London was

estimated to take eight days. However, before we had left the Baltic,

we were delayed by a prolonged calm. I made use of the time to improve

my knowledge of French by the study of a novel, La Derniere Aldini, by

George Sand. We also derived some entertainment from associating with

the crew. There was an elderly and peculiarly taciturn sailor named

Koske, whom we observed carefully because Robber, who was usually so

friendly, had taken an irreconcilable dislike to him. Oddly enough,

this fact was to add in some degree to our troubles in the hour of

danger. After seven days’ sailing we were no further than Copenhagen,

where, without leaving the vessel, we seized an opportunity of making

our very spare diet on board more bearable by various purchases of food

and drink. In good spirits we sailed past the beautiful castle of

Elsinore, the sight of which brought me into immediate touch with my

youthful impressions of Hamlet. We were sailing all unsuspecting

through the Cattegat to the Skagerack, when the wind, which had at

first been merely unfavourable, and had forced us to a process of weary

tacking, changed on the second day to a violent storm. For twenty-four

hours we had to struggle against it under disadvantages which were

quite new to us. In the captain’s painfully narrow cabin, in which one

of us was without a proper berth, we were a prey to sea-sickness and

endless alarms. Unfortunately, the brandy cask, at which the crew

fortified themselves during their strenuous work, was let into a hollow

under the seat on which I lay at full length. Now it happened to be

Koske who came most frequently in search of the refreshment which was

such a nuisance to me, and this in spite of the fact that on each

occasion he had to encounter Robber in mortal combat. The dog flew at

him with renewed rage each time he came climbing down the narrow steps.

I was thus compelled to make efforts which, in my state of complete

exhaustion from sea-sickness, rendered my condition every time more

critical. At last, on 27th July, the captain was compelled by the

violence of the west wind to seek a harbour on the Norwegian coast. And

how relieved I was to behold that far-reaching rocky coast, towards

which we were being driven at such speed! A Norwegian pilot came to

meet us in a small boat, and, with experienced hand, assumed control of

the Thetis, whereupon in a very short time I was to have one of the

most marvellous and most beautiful impressions of my life. What I had

taken to be a continuous line of cliffs turned out on our approach to

be a series of separate rocks projecting from the sea. Having sailed

past them, we perceived that we were surrounded, not only in front and

at the sides, but also at our back, by these reefs, which closed in

behind us so near together that they seemed to form a single chain of

rocks. At the same time the hurricane was so broken by the rocks in our

rear that the further we sailed through this ever-changing labyrinth of

projecting rocks, the calmer the sea became, until at last the vessel’s

progress was perfectly smooth and quiet as we entered one of those long

sea-roads running through a giant ravine—for such the Norwegian fjords

appeared to me.

A feeling of indescribable content came over me when the enormous

granite walls echoed the hail of the crew as they cast anchor and

furled the sails. The sharp rhythm of this call clung to me like an

omen of good cheer, and shaped itself presently into the theme of the

seamen’s song in my Fliegender Holländer. The idea of this opera was,

even at that time, ever present in my mind, and it now took on a

definite poetic and musical colour under the influence of my recent

impressions. Well, our next move was to go on shore. I learned that the

little fishing village at which we landed was called Sandwike, and was

situated a few miles away from the much larger town of Arendal. We were

allowed to put up at the hospitable house of a certain ship’s captain,

who was then away at sea, and here we were able to take the rest we so

much needed, as the unabated violence of the wind in the open detained

us there two days. On 31st July the captain insisted on leaving,

despite the pilot’s warning. We had been on board the Thetis a few

hours, and were in the act of eating a lobster for the first time in

our lives, when the captain and the sailors began to swear violently at

the pilot, whom I could see at the helm, rigid with fear, striving to

avoid a reef—barely visible above the water—towards which our ship was

being driven. Great was our terror at this violent tumult, for we

naturally thought ourselves in the most extreme danger. The vessel did

actually receive a severe shock, which, to my vivid imagination, seemed

like the splitting up of the whole ship. Fortunately, however, it

transpired that only the side of our vessel had fouled the reef, and

there was no immediate danger. Nevertheless, the captain deemed it

necessary to steer for a harbour to have the vessel examined, and we

returned to the coast and anchored at another point. The captain then

offered to take us in a small boat with two sailors to Tromsond, a town

of some importance situated at a few hours’ distance, where he had to

invite the harbour officials to examine his ship. This again proved a

most attractive and impressive excursion. The view of one fjord in

particular, which extended far inland, worked on my imagination like

some unknown, awe-inspiring desert. This impression was intensified,

during a long walk from Tromsond up to the plateau, by the terribly

depressing effect of the dun moors, bare of tree or shrub, boasting

only a covering of scanty moss, which stretch away to the horizon, and

merge imperceptibly into the gloomy sky. It was long after dark when we

returned from this trip in our little boat, and my wife was very

anxious. The next morning (1st August), reassured as to the condition

of the vessel, and the wind favouring us, we were able to go to sea

without further hindrance.

After four days’ calm sailing a strong north wind arose, which drove us

at uncommon speed in the right direction. We began to think ourselves

nearly at the end of our journey when, on 6th August, the wind changed,

and the storm began to rage with unheard-of violence. On the 7th, a

Wednesday, at half-past two in the afternoon, we thought ourselves in

imminent danger of death. It was not the terrible force with which the

vessel was hurled up and down, entirely at the mercy of this sea

monster, which appeared now as a fathomless abyss, now as a steep

mountain peak, that filled me with mortal dread; my premonition of some

terrible crisis was aroused by the despondency of the crew, whose

malignant glances seemed superstitiously to point to us as the cause of

the threatening disaster. Ignorant of the trifling occasion for the

secrecy of our journey, the thought may have occurred to them that our

need of escape had arisen from suspicious or even criminal

circumstances. The captain himself seemed, in his extreme distress, to

regret having taken us on board; for we had evidently brought him

ill-luck on this familiar passage—usually a rapid and uncomplicated

one, especially in summer. At this particular moment there raged,

beside the tempest on the water, a furious thunderstorm overhead, and

Minna expressed the fervent wish to be struck by lightning with me

rather than to sink, living, into the fearful flood. She even begged me

to bind her to me, so that we might not be parted as we sank. Yet

another night was spent amid these incessant terrors, which only our

extreme exhaustion helped to mitigate.

The following day the storm had subsided; the wind remained

unfavourable, but was mild. The captain now tried to find our bearings

by means of his astronomical instruments. He complained of the sky,

which had been overcast so many days, swore that he would give much for

a single glimpse of the sun or the stars, and did not conceal the

uneasiness he felt at not being able to indicate our whereabouts with

certainty. He consoled himself, however, by following a ship which was

sailing some knots ahead in the same direction, and whose movements he

observed closely through the telescope. Suddenly he sprang up in great

alarm, and gave a vehement order to change our course. He had seen the

ship in front go aground on a sand-bank, from which, he asserted, she

could not extricate herself; for he now realised that we were near the

most dangerous part of the belt of sand-banks bordering the Dutch coast

for a considerable distance. By dint of very skilful sailing, we were

enabled to keep the opposite course towards the English coast, which we

in fact sighted on the evening of 9th August, in the neighbourhood of

Southwold. I felt new life come into me when I saw in the far distance

the English pilots racing for our ship. As competition is free among

pilots on the English coast, they come out as far as possible to meet

incoming vessels, even when the risks are very great.

The winner in our case was a powerful grey-haired man, who, after much

vain battling with the seething waves, which tossed his light boat away

from our ship at each attempt, at last succeeded in boarding the

Thetis. (Our poor, hardly-used boat still bore the name, although the

wooden figure-head of our patron nymph had been hurled into the sea

during our first storm in the Cattegat—an ill-omened incident in the

eyes of the crew.) We were filled with pious gratitude when this quiet

English sailor, whose hands were torn and bleeding from his repeated

efforts to catch the rope thrown to him on his approach, took over the

rudder. His whole personality impressed us most agreeably, and he

seemed to us the absolute guarantee of a speedy deliverance from our

terrible afflictions. We rejoiced too soon, however, for we still had

before us the perilous passage through the sand-banks off the English

coast, where, as I was assured, nearly four hundred ships are wrecked

on an average every year. We were fully twenty-four hours (from the

evening of the 10th to the 11th of August) amid these sandbanks,

fighting a westerly gale, which hindered our progress so seriously that

we only reached the mouth of the Thames on the evening of the 12th of

August. My wife had, up to that point, been so nervously affected by

the innumerable danger signals, consisting chiefly of small guardships

painted bright red and provided with bells on account of the fog, that

she could not close her eyes, day or night, for the excitement of

watching for them and pointing them out to the sailors. I, on the

contrary, found these heralds of human proximity and deliverance so

consoling that, despite Minna’s reproaches, I indulged in a long

refreshing sleep. Now that we were anchored in the mouth of the Thames,

waiting for daybreak, I found myself in the best of spirits; I dressed,

washed, and even shaved myself up on deck near the mast, while Minna

and the whole exhausted crew were wrapped in deep slumber. And with

deepening interest I watched the growing signs of life in this famous

estuary. Our desire for a complete release from our detested

confinement led us, after we had sailed a little way up, to hasten our

arrival in London by going on board a passing steamer at Gravesend. As

we neared the capital, our astonishment steadily increased at the

number of ships of all sorts that filled the river, the houses, the

streets, the famous docks, and other maritime constructions which lined

the banks. When at last we reached London Bridge, this incredibly

crowded centre of the greatest city in the world, and set foot on land

after our terrible three weeks’ voyage, a pleasurable sensation of

giddiness overcame us as our legs carried us staggering through the

deafening uproar. Robber seemed to be similarly affected, for he

whisked round the corners like a mad thing, and threatened to get lost

every other minute. But we soon sought safety in a cab, which took us,

on our captain’s recommendation, to the Horseshoe Tavern, near the

Tower, and here we had to make our plans for the conquest of this giant

metropolis.

The neighbourhood in which we found ourselves was such that we decided

to leave it with all possible haste. A very friendly little hunchbacked

Jew from Hamburg suggested better quarters in the West End, and I

remember vividly our drive there, in one of the tiny narrow cabs then

in use, the journey lasting fully an hour. They were built to carry two

people, who had to sit facing each other, and we therefore had to lay

our big dog crosswise from window to window. The sights we saw from our

whimsical nook surpassed anything we had imagined, and we arrived at

our boarding-house in Old Compton Street agreeably stimulated by the

life and the overwhelming size of the great city. Although at the age

of twelve I had made what I supposed to be a translation of a monologue

from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, I found my knowledge of English

quite inadequate when it came to conversing with the landlady of the

King’s Arms. But the good dame’s social condition as a sea-captain’s

widow led her to think she could talk French to me, and her attempts

made me wonder which of us knew least of that language. And then a most

disturbing incident occurred—we missed Robber, who must have run away

at the door instead of following us into the house. Our distress at

having lost our good dog after having brought him all the way there

with such difficulty occupied us exclusively during the first two hours

we spent in this new home on land. We kept constant watch at the window

until, of a sudden, we joyfully recognised Robber strolling

unconcernedly towards the house from a side street. Afterwards we

learned that our truant had wandered as far as Oxford Street in search

of adventures, and I have always considered his amazing return to a

house which he had not even entered as a strong proof of the absolute

certainty of the animal’s instincts in the matter of memory.

We now had time to realise the tiresome after-effects of the voyage.

The continuous swaying of the floor and our clumsy efforts to keep from

falling we found fairly entertaining; but when we came to take our

well-earned rest in the huge English double bed, and found that that

too rocked up and down, it became quite unbearable. Every time we

closed our eyes we sank into frightful abysses, and, springing up

again, cried out for help. It seemed as if that terrible voyage would

go on to the end of our lives. Added to this we felt miserably sick;

for, after the atrocious food on board, we had been only too ready to

partake, with less discretion than relish, of tastier fare.

We were so exhausted by all these trials that we forgot to consider

what was, after all, the vital question—the probable result in hard

cash. Indeed, the marvels of the great city proved so fascinating, that

we started off in a cab, for all the world as if we were on a pleasure

trip, to follow up a plan I had sketched on my map of London. In our

wonder and delight at what we saw, we quite forgot all we had gone

through. Costly as it proved, I considered our week’s stay justified in

view of Minna’s need of rest in the first place, and secondly, the

excellent opportunity it afforded me of making acquaintances in the

musical world. During my last visit to Dresden I had sent Rule

Britannia, the overture composed at Königsberg, to Sir John Smart,

president of the Philharmonic Society. It is true he had never

acknowledged it, but I felt it the more incumbent on me to bring him to

task about it. I therefore spent some days trying to find out where he

lived, wondering meanwhile in which language I should have to make

myself understood, but as the result of my inquiries I discovered that

Smart was not in London at all. I next persuaded myself that it would

be a good thing to look up Bulwer Lytton, and to come to an

understanding about the operatic performance of his novel, Rienzi,

which I had dramatised. Having been told, on the continent, that Bulwer

was a member of Parliament, I went to the House, after a few days, to

inquire on the spot. My total ignorance of the English language stood

me in good stead here, and I was treated with unexpected consideration;

for, as none of the lower officials in that vast building could make

out what I wanted, I was sent, step by step, to one high dignitary

after the other, until at last I was introduced to a

distinguished-looking man, who came out of a large hall as we passed,

as an entirely unintelligible individual. (Minna was with me all the

time; only Robber. had been left behind at the King’s Arms.) He asked

me very civilly what I wanted, in French, and seemed favourably

impressed when I inquired for the celebrated author. He was obliged to

tell me, however, that he was not in London. I went on to ask whether I

could not be admitted to a debate, but was told that, in consequence of

the old Houses of Parliament having been burnt down, they were using

temporary premises where the space was so limited that only a few

favoured visitors could procure cards of admittance. But on my pressing

more urgently he relented, and shortly after opened a door leading

direct into the strangers’ seats in the House of Lords. It seemed

reasonable to conclude from this that our friend was a lord in person.

I was immensely interested to see and hear the Premier, Lord Melbourne,

and Brougham (who seemed to me to take a very active part in the

proceedings, prompting Melbourne several times, as I thought), and the

Duke of Wellington, who looked so comfortable in his grey beaver hat,

with his hands diving deep into his trousers pockets, and who made his

speech in so conversational a tone that I lost my feeling of excessive

awe. He had a curious way, too, of accenting his points of special

emphasis by shaking his whole body, I was also much interested in Lord

Lyndhurst, Brougham’s particular enemy, and was amazed to see Brougham

go across several times to sit down coolly beside him, apparently with

a view to prompting even his opponent. The matter in hand was, as I

learned afterwards from the papers, the discussion of measures to be

taken against the Portuguese Government to ensure the passing of the

Anti-Slavery Bill. The Bishop of London, who was one of the speakers on

this occasion, was the only one of these gentlemen whose voice and

manner seemed to me stiff or unnatural, but possibly I was prejudiced

by my dislike of parsons generally.

After this pleasing adventure I imagined I had exhausted the

attractions of London for the present, for although I could not gain

admittance to the Lower House, my untiring friend, whom I came across

again as I went out, showed me the room where the Commons sat,

explained as much as was necessary, and gave me a sight of the

Speaker’s woolsack, and of his mace lying hidden under the table. He

also gave me such careful details of various things that I felt I knew

all there was to know about the capital of Great Britain. I had not the

smallest intention of going to the Italian opera, possibly because I

imagined the prices to be too ruinous. We thoroughly explored all the

principal streets, often tiring ourselves out; we shuddered through a

ghastly London Sunday, and wound up with a train trip (our very first)

to Gravesend Park, in the company of the captain of the Thetis. On the

20th of August we crossed over to France by steamer, arriving the same

evening at Boulogne-sur-mer, where we took leave of the sea with the

fervent desire never to go on it again.

We were both of us secretly convinced that we should meet with

disappointments in Paris, and it was partly on that account that we

decided to spend a few weeks at or near Boulogne. It was, in any case,

too early in the season to find the various important people whom I

proposed to see, in town; on the other hand, it seemed to me a most

fortunate circumstance that Meyerbeer should happen to be at Boulogne.

Also, I had the instrumentation of part of the second act of Rienzi to

finish, and was bent on having at least half of the work ready to show

on my arrival in the costly French capital. We therefore set out to

find less expensive accommodation in the country round Boulogne.

Beginning with the immediate neighbourhood, our search ended in our

taking two practically unfurnished rooms in the detached house of a

rural wine merchant’s, situated on the main road to Paris at half an

hour’s distance from Boulogne. We next provided scanty but adequate

furniture, and in bringing our wits to bear upon this matter Minna

particularly distinguished herself. Besides a bed and two chairs, we

dug up a table, which, after I had cleared away my Rienzi papers,

served for our meals, which we had to prepare at our own fireside.

While we were here I made my first call on Meyerbeer. I had often read

in the papers of his proverbial amiability, and bore him no ill-will

for not replying to my letter. My favourable opinion was soon to be

confirmed, however, by his kind reception of me. The impression he made

was good in every respect, particularly as regards his appearance. The

years had not yet given his features the flabby look which sooner or

later mars most Jewish faces, and the fine formation of his brow round

about the eyes gave him an expression of countenance that inspired

confidence. He did not seem in the least inclined to depreciate my

intention of trying my luck in Paris as a composer of opera; he allowed

me to read him my libretto for Rienzi, and really listened up to the

end of the third act. He kept the two acts that were complete, saying

that he wished to look them over, and assured me, when I again called

on him, of his whole-hearted interest in my work. Be this as it may, it

annoyed me somewhat that he should again and again fall back on

praising my minute handwriting, an accomplishment he considered

especially Saxonian. He promised to give me letters of recommendation

to Duponchel, the manager of the Opera House, and to Habeneck, the

conductor. I now felt that I had good cause to extol my good fortune

which, after many vicissitudes, had sent me precisely to this

particular spot in France. What better fortune could have befallen me

than to secure, in so short a time, the sympathetic interest of the

most famous composer of French opera! Meyerbeer took me to see

Moscheles, who was then in Boulogne, and also Fraulein Blahedka, a

celebrated virtuoso whose name I had known for many years. I spent a

few informal musical evenings at both houses, and thus came into close

touch with musical celebrities, an experience quite new to me.

I had written to my future brother-in-law, Avernarius, in Paris, to ask

him to find us suitable accommodations, and we started on our journey

thither on 16th September in the diligence, my efforts to hoist Robber

on to the top being attended by the usual difficulties.

My first impression of Paris proved disappointing in view of the great

expectations I had cherished of that city; after London it seemed to me

narrow and confined. I had imagined the famous boulevards to be much

vaster, for instance, and was really annoyed, when the huge coach put

us down in the Rue de la Juissienne, to think that I should first set

foot on Parisian soil in such a wretched little alley. Neither did the

Rue Richelieu, where my brother-in-law had his book-shop, seem imposing

after the streets in the west end of London. As for the chambre garnie,

which had been engaged for me in the Rue de la Tonnellerie, one of the

narrow side-streets which link the Rue St. Honore with the Marche des

Innocents, I felt positively degraded at having to take up my abode

there. I needed all the consolation that could be derived from an

inscription, placed under a bust of Moliere, which read: maison ou

naquit Moliere, to raise my courage after the mean impression the house

had first made upon me. The room, which had been prepared for us on the

fourth floor, was small but cheerful, decently furnished, and

inexpensive. From the windows we could see the frightful bustle in the

market below, which became more and more alarming as we watched it, and

I wondered what we were doing in such a quarter.

Shortly after this, Avenarius had to go to Leipzig to bring home his

bride, my youngest sister Cecilia, after the wedding in that city.

Before leaving, he gave me an introduction to his only musical

acquaintance, a German holding an appointment in the music department

of the Bibliotheque Royale, named E. G. Anders, who lost no time in

looking us up in Moliere’s house. He was, as I soon discovered, a man

of very unusual character, and, little as he was able to help me, he

left an affecting and ineffaceable impression on my memory. He was a

bachelor in the fifties, whose reverses had driven him to the sad

necessity of earning a living in Paris entirely without assistance. He

had fallen back on the extraordinary bibliographical knowledge which,

especially in reference to music, it had been his hobby to acquire in

the days of his prosperity. His real name he never told me, wishing to

guard the secret of that, as of his misfortunes, until after his death.

For the time being he told me only that he was known as Anders, was of

noble descent, and had held property on the Rhine, but that he had lost

everything owing to the villainous betrayal of his gullibility and

good-nature. The only thing he had managed to save was his very

considerable library, the size of which I was able to estimate for

myself. It filled every wall of his small dwelling. Even here in Paris

he soon complained of bitter enemies; for, in spite of having come

furnished with an introduction to influential people, he still held the

inferior position of an employee in the library. In spite of his long

service there and his great learning, he had to see really ignorant men

promoted over his head. I discovered afterwards that the real reason

lay in his unbusinesslike methods, and the effeminacy consequent on the

delicate way in which he had been nurtured in early life, which made

him incapable of developing the energy necessary for his work. On a

miserable pittance of fifteen hundred francs a year, he led a weary

existence, full of anxiety. With nothing in view but a lonely old age,

and the probability of dying in a hospital, it seemed as if our society

put new life into him; for though we were poverty-stricken, we looked

forward boldly and hopefully to the future. My vivacity and invincible

energy filled him with hopes of my success, and from this time forward

he took a most tender and unselfish part in furthering my interests.

Although he was a contributor to the Gazette Musicale, edited by Moritz

Schlesinger, he had never succeeded in making his influence felt there

in the slightest degree. He had none of the versatility of a

journalist, and the editors entrusted him with little besides the

preparation of bibliographical notes. Oddly enough, it was with this

unworldly and least resourceful of men that I had to discuss my plan

for the conquest of Paris, that is, of musical Paris, which is made up

of all the most questionable characters imaginable. The result was

practically always the same; we merely encouraged each other in the

hope that some unforeseen stroke of luck would help my cause.

To assist us in these discussions Anders called in his friend and

housemate Lehrs, a philologist, my acquaintance with whom was soon to

develop into one of the most beautiful friendships of my life. Lehrs

was the younger brother of a famous scholar at Königsberg. He had left

there to come to Paris some years before, with the object of gaining an

independent position by his philological work. This he preferred, in

spite of the attendant difficulties, to a post as teacher with a salary

which only in Germany could be considered sufficient for a scholar’s

wants. He soon obtained work from Didot, the bookseller, as assistant

editor of a large edition of Greek classics, but the editor traded on

his poverty, and was much more concerned about the success of his

enterprise than about the condition of his poor collaborator. Lehrs had

therefore perpetually to struggle against poverty, but he preserved an

even temper, and showed himself in every way a model of

disinterestedness and self-sacrifice. At first he looked upon me only

as a man in need of advice, and incidentally a fellow-sufferer in

Paris; for he had no knowledge of music, and had no particular interest

in it. We soon became so intimate that I had him dropping in nearly

every evening with Anders, Lehrs being extremely useful to his friend,

whose unsteadiness in walking obliged him to use an umbrella and a

walking-stick as crutches. He was also nervous in crossing crowded

thorough-fares, and particularly so at night; while he always liked to

make Lehrs cross my threshold in front of him to distract the attention

of Robber, of whom he stood in obvious terror. Our usually good-natured

dog became positively suspicious of this visitor, and soon adopted

towards him the same aggressive attitude which he had shown to the

sailor Koske on board the Thetis. The two men lived at an hotel garni

in Rue de Seine. They complained greatly of their landlady, who

appropriated so much of their income that they were entirely in her

power. Anders had for years been trying to assert his independence by

leaving her, without being able to carry out his plan. We soon threw

off mutually every shred of disguise as to the present state of our

finances, so that, although the two house-holds were actually

separated, our common troubles gave us all the intimacy of one united

family.

The various ways by which I might obtain recognition in Paris formed

the chief topic of our discussions at that time. Our hopes were at

first centred on Meyerbeer’s promised letters of introduction.

Duponchel, the director of the Opera, did actually see me at his

office, where, fixing a monocle in his right eye, he read through

Meyerbeer’s letter without betraying the least emotion, having no doubt

opened similar communications from the composer many times before. I

went away, and never heard another word from him. The elderly

conductor, Habeneck, on the other hand, took an interest in my work

that was not merely polite, and acceded to my request to have something

of mine played at one of the orchestral practises at the Conservatoire

as soon as he should have leisure. I had, unfortunately, no short

instrumental piece that seemed suitable except my queer Columbus

Overture, which I considered the most effective of all that had

emanated from my pen. It had been received with great applause on the

occasion of its performance in the theatre at Magdeburg, with the

assistance of the valiant trumpeters from the Prussian garrison. I gave

Habeneck the score and parts, and was able to report to our committee

at home that I had now one enterprise on foot.