Among other aims he was particularly and chiefly concerned in arranging

for the transfer of Weber’s remains from London to Dresden. As this

project was one which interested me also, I lent him my support, though

he was in reality merely following the voice of personal ambition. He

furthermore desired, as head of the Glee Club—which, by the way, from

the point of view of music was quite worthless—to invite all the male

choral unions of Saxony to a great gala performance in Dresden. A

committee was appointed for the execution of this plan, and as things

soon became pretty warm, Lowe turned it into a regular revolutionary

tribunal, over which, as the great day of triumph approached, he

presided day and night without resting, and by his furious zeal earned

from me the nickname of ‘Robespierre.’

In spite of the fact that I had been placed at the head of this

enterprise, I luckily managed to evade his terrorism, as I was fully

occupied with a great composition promised for the festival. The task

had been assigned to me of writing an important piece for male voices

only, which, if possible, should occupy half an hour. I reflected that

the tiresome monotony of male singing, which even the orchestra could

only enliven to a slight extent, can only be endured by the

introduction of dramatic themes. I therefore designed a great choral

scene, selecting the apostolic Pentecost with the outpouring of the

Holy Ghost as its subject. I completely avoided any real solos, but

worked out the whole in such a way that it should be executed by

detached choral masses according to requirement. Out of this

composition arose my Liebesmahl der Apostel (‘Lovefeast of the

Apostles’), which has recently been performed in various places.

As I was obliged at all costs to finish it within a limited time, I do

not mind including this in the list of my uninspired compositions. But

I was not displeased with it when it was done, more especially when it

was played at the rehearsals given by the Dresden choral societies

under my personal supervision. When, therefore, twelve hundred singers

from all parts of Saxony gathered around me in the Frauenkirche, where

the performance took place, I was astonished at the comparatively

feeble effect produced upon my ear by this colossal human tangle of

sounds. The conclusion at which I arrived was, that these enormous

choral undertakings are folly, and I never again felt inclined to

repeat the experiment.

It was with much difficulty that I shook myself free of the Dresden

Glee Club, and I only succeeded in doing so by introducing to Professor

Lowe another ambitious man in the person of Herr Ferdinand Hiller. My

most glorious exploit in connection with this association was the

transfer of Weber’s ashes, of which I will speak later on, though it

occurred at an earlier date. I will only refer now to another

commissioned composition which, as royal bandmaster, I was officially

commanded to produce. On the 7th of June of this year (1843) the statue

of King Frederick Augustus by Rietschl was unveiled in the Dresden

Zwinger [12] with all due pomp and ceremony. In honour of this event I,

in collaboration with Mendelssohn, was commanded to compose a festal

song, and to conduct the gala performance. I had written a simple song

for male voices of modest design, whereas to Mendelssohn had been

assigned the more complicated task of interweaving the National Anthem

(the English ‘God Save the King,’ which in Saxony is called Heil Dir im

Rautenkranz) into the male chorus he had to compose. This he had

effected by an artistic work in counterpoint, so arranged that from the

first eight beats of his original melody the brass instruments

simultaneously played the Anglo-Saxon popular air. My simpler song

seems to have sounded very well from a distance, whereas I understood

that Mendelssohn’s daring combination quite missed its effect, because

no one could understand why the vocalists did not sing the same air as

the wind instruments were playing. Nevertheless Mendelssohn, who was

present, left me a written expression of thanks for the pains I had

taken in the production of his composition. I also received a gold

snuff-box from the grand gala committee, presumably meant as a reward

for my male chorus, but the hunting scene which was engraved on the top

was so badly done that I found, to my surprise, that in several places

the metal was cut through.

[12] This is the name by which the famous Dresden Art Galleries are

known.—Editor.

Amid all the distractions of this new and very different mode of life,

I diligently strove to concentrate and steel my soul against these

influences, bearing in mind my experiences of success in the past. By

May of my thirtieth year I had finished my poem Der Venusberg (‘The

Mount of Venus’), as I called Tannhäuser at that time. I had not yet by

any means gained any real knowledge of mediaeval poetry. The classical

side of the poetry of the Middle Ages had so far only faintly dawned

upon me, partly from my youthful recollections, and partly from the

brief acquaintance I had made with it through Lehrs’ instruction in

Paris.

Now that I was secure in the possession of a royal appointment that

would last my lifetime, the establishment of a permanent domestic

hearth began to assume great importance; for I hoped it would enable me

to take up my serious studies once more, and in such a way as to make

them productive—an aim which my theatrical life and the miseries of my

years in Paris had rendered impossible. My hope of being able to do

this was strengthened by the character of my official employment, which

was never very arduous, and in which I met with exceptional

consideration from the general management. Though I had only held my

appointment for a few months, yet I was given a holiday this first

summer, which I spent in a second visit to Toplitz, a place which I had

grown to like, and whither I had sent on my wife in advance.

Keenly indeed did I appreciate the change in my position since the

preceding year. I could now engage four spacious and well-appointed

rooms in the same house—the Eiche at Schonau—where I had before lived

in such straitened and frugal circumstances. I invited my sister Clara

to pay us a visit, and also my good mother, whose gout necessitated her

taking the Toplitz baths every year. I also seized the opportunity of

drinking the mineral waters, which I hoped might have a beneficial

effect on the gastric troubles from which I had suffered ever since my

vicissitudes in Paris. Unfortunately the attempted cure had a contrary

effect, and when I complained of the painful irritation produced, I

learned that my constitution was not adapted for water cures. In fact,

on my morning promenade, and while drinking my water, I had been

observed to race through the shady alleys of the adjacent Thurn

Gardens, and it was pointed out to me that such a cure could only be

properly wrought by leisurely calm and easy sauntering. It was also

remarked that I usually carried about a fairly stout volume, and that,

armed with this and my bottle of mineral water, I used to take rest in

lonely places.

This book was J. Grimm’s German Mythology. All who know the work can

understand how the unusual wealth of its contents, gathered from every

side, and meant almost exclusively for the student, would react upon

me, whose mind was everywhere seeking for something definite and

distinct. Formed from the scanty fragments of a perished world, of

which scarcely any monuments remained recognisable and intact, I here

found a heterogeneous building, which at first glance seemed but a

rugged rock clothed in straggling brambles. Nothing was finished, only

here and there could the slightest resemblance to an architectonic line

be traced, so that I often felt tempted to relinquish the thankless

task of trying to build from such materials. And yet I was enchained by

a wondrous magic. The baldest legend spoke to me of its ancient home,

and soon my whole imagination thrilled with images; long-lost forms for

which I had sought so eagerly shaped themselves ever more and more

clearly into realities that lived again. There rose up soon before my

mind a whole world of figures, which revealed themselves as so

strangely plastic and primitive, that, when I saw them clearly before

me and heard their voices in my heart, I could not account for the

almost tangible familiarity and assurance of their demeanour. The

effect they produced upon the inner state of my soul I can only

describe as an entire rebirth. Just as we feel a tender joy over a

child’s first bright smile of recognition, so now my own eyes flashed

with rapture as I saw a world, revealed, as it were, by miracle, in

which I had hitherto moved blindly as the babe in its mother’s womb.

But the result of this reading did not at first do much to help me in

my purpose of composing part of the Tannhäuser music. I had had a piano

put in my room at the Eiche, and though I smashed all its strings,

nothing satisfactory would emerge. With much pain and toil I sketched

the first outlines of my music for the Venusberg, as fortunately I

already had its theme in my mind. Meanwhile I was very much troubled by

excitability and rushes of blood to the brain. I imagined I was ill,

and lay for whole days in bed, where I read Grimm’s German legends, or

tried to master the disagreeable mythology. It was quite a relief when

I hit upon the happy thought of freeing myself from the torments of my

condition by an excursion to Prague. Meanwhile I had already ascended

Mount Millischau once with my wife, and in her company I now made the

journey to Prague in an open carriage. There I stayed once more at my

favourite inn, the Black Horse, met my friend Kittl, who had now grown

fat and rotund, made various excursions, revelled in the curious

antiquities of the old city, and learned to my joy that the two lovely

friends of my youth, Jenny and Auguste Pachta, had been happily married

to members of the highest aristocracy. Thereupon, having reassured

myself that everything was in the best possible order, I returned to

Dresden and resumed my functions as musical conductor to the King of

Saxony.

We now set to work on the preparations and furnishing of a roomy and

well-situated house in the Ostra Allee, with an outlook upon the

Zwinger. Everything was good and substantial, as is only right for a

man of thirty who is settling down at last for the whole of his life.

As I had not received any subsidy towards this outlay, I had naturally

to raise the money by loan. But I could look forward to a certain

harvest from my operatic successes in Dresden, and what was more

natural than for me to expect soon to earn more than enough? The three

most valued treasures which adorned my house were a concert grand piano

by Breitkopf and Hartel, which I had bought with much pride; a stately

writing-desk, now in possession of Otto Kummer, the chamber-music

artist; and the title-page by Cornelius for the Nibelungen, in a

handsome Gothic frame—the only object which has remained faithful to me

to the present day. But the thing which above all else made my house

seem homelike and attractive was the presence of a library, which I

procured in accordance with a systematic plan laid down by my proposed

line of study. On the failure of my Dresden career this library passed

in a curious way into the possession of Herr Heinrich Brockhaus, to

whom at that time I owed fifteen hundred marks, and who took it as

security for the amount. My wife knew nothing at the time of this

obligation, and I never afterwards succeeded in recovering this

characteristic collection from his hands. Upon its shelves old German

literature was especially well represented, and also the closely

related work of the German Middle Ages, including many a costly volume,

as, for instance, the rare old work, Romans des douze Paris. Beside

these stood many excellent historical works on the Middle Ages, as well

as on the German people in general. At the same time I made provision

for the poetical and classical literature of all times and languages.

Among these were the Italian poets, Shakespeare and the French writers,

of whose language I had a passable knowledge. All these I acquired in

the original, hoping some day to find time to master their neglected

tongues. As for the Greek and Roman classics, I had to content myself

with standard German translations. Indeed, on looking once more into my

Homer—whom I secured in the original Greek—I soon recognised that I

should be presuming on more leisure than my conductorship was likely to

leave me, if I hoped to find time for regaining my lost knowledge of

that language. Moreover, I provided most thoroughly for a study of

universal history, and to this end did not fail to equip myself with

the most voluminous works. Thus armed, I thought I could bid defiance

to all the trials which I clearly foresaw would inevitably accompany my

calling and position. In hopes, therefore, of long and peaceable

enjoyment of this hard-earned home, I entered into possession with the

best of spirits in October of this year (1843), and though my

conductor’s quarters were by no means magnificent, they were stately

and substantial.

The first leisure in my new home which I could snatch from the claims

of my profession and my favourite studies was devoted to the

composition of Tannhäuser, the first act of which was completed in

January of the new year, 1844. I have no recollections of any

importance regarding my activities in Dresden during this winter. The

only memorable events were two enterprises which took me away from

home, the first to Berlin early in the year, for the production of my

Fliegender Holländer, and the other in March to Hamburg for Rienzi.

Of these the former made the greater impression upon my mind. The

manager of the Berlin theatre, Küstner, quite took me by surprise when

he announced the first performance of the Fliegender Holländer for an

early date.

As the opera house had been burnt down only about a year before, and

could not possibly have been rebuilt, it had not occurred to me to

remind them about the production of my opera. It had been performed in

Dresden with very poor scenic accessories, and knowing how important a

careful and artistic execution of the difficult scenery was for my

dramatic sea-scapes, I had relied implicitly on the admirable

management and staging capacities of the Berlin opera house.

Consequently I was very much annoyed that the Berlin manager should

select my opera as a stopgap to be produced at the Comedy Theatre,

which was being used as a temporary opera house. All remonstrances

proved useless, for I learned that they were not merely thinking about

rehearsing the work, but that it was already actually being rehearsed,

and would be produced in a few days. It was obvious that this

arrangement meant that my opera was to be condemned to quite a short

run in their repertoire, as it was not to be expected that they would

remount it when the new opera house was opened. On the other hand, they

tried to appease me by saying that this first production of the

Fliegender Holländer was to be associated with a special engagement of

Schroder-Devrient, which was to begin in Berlin immediately. They

naturally thought I should be delighted to see the great actress in my

own work. But this only confirmed me in the suspicion that this opera

was simply wanted as a makeshift for the duration of

Schroder-Devrient’s visit. They were evidently in a dilemma with regard

to her repertoire, which consisted mainly of so-called grand

operas—such as Meyerbeer’s—destined exclusively for the opera house,

and which were being specially reserved for the brilliant future of the

new building. I therefore realised beforehand that my Fliegender

Holländer was to be relegated to the category of conductor’s operas,

and would meet with the usual predestined fate of such productions. The

whole treatment meted out to me and my works all pointed in the same

direction; but in consideration of the expected co-operation of

Schroder-Devrient I fought against these vexatious premonitions, and

set out for Berlin to do all I could for the success of my opera. I saw

at once that my presence was very necessary. I found the conductor’s

desk occupied by a man calling himself Conductor Henning (or Henniger),

an official who had won promotion from the ranks of ordinary musicians

by an upright observance of the laws of seniority, but who knew

precious little about conducting an orchestra at all, and about my

opera had not the faintest glimmer of an idea. I took my seat at the

desk, and conducted one full rehearsal and two performances, in neither

of which, however, did Schroder-Devrient take part. Although I found

much to complain of in the weakness of the string instruments and the

consequent mean sound of the orchestra, yet I was well satisfied with

the actors both as regards their capacity and their zeal. The careful

staging, moreover, which under the supervision of the really gifted

stage manager, Blum, and with the co-operation of his skilful and

ingenious mechanics, was truly excellent, gave me a most pleasant

surprise.

I was now very curious to learn what effect these pleasing and

encouraging preparations would have upon the Berlin public when the

full performance took place. My experiences on this point were very

curious. Apparently the only thing that interested the large audience

was to discover my weak points. During the first act the prevalent

opinion seemed to be that I belonged to the category of bores. Not a

single hand was moved, and I was afterwards informed that this was

fortunate, as the slightest attempt at applause would have been

ascribed to a paid claque, and would have been energetically opposed.

Küstner alone assured me that the composure with which, on the close of

this act, I quitted my desk and appeared before the curtain, had filled

him with wonder, considering this entire absence—lucky as it appears to

have been—of all applause. But so long as I myself felt content with

the execution, I was not disposed to let the public apathy discourage

me, knowing, as I did, that the crucial test was in the second act.

It lay, therefore, much nearer my heart to do all I could for the

success of this than to inquire into the reasons for this attitude on

the part of the Berlin public. And here the ice was really broken at

last. The audience seemed to abandon all idea of finding a proper niche

for me, and allowed itself to be carried away into giving vent to

applause, which at last grew into the most boisterous enthusiasm. At

the close of the act, amid a storm of shouts, I led forward my singers

on to the stage for the customary bows of thanks. As the third act was

too short to be tedious, and as the scenic effects were both new and

impressive, we could not help hoping that we had won a veritable

triumph, especially as renewed outbursts of applause marked the end of

the performance. Mendelssohn, who happened at that time to be in

Berlin, with Meyerbeer, on business relating to the general musical

conductorship, was present in a stage box during this performance. He

followed its progress with a pale face, and afterwards came and

murmured to me in a weary tone of voice, ‘Well, I should think you are

satisfied now!’ I met him several times during my brief stay in

Berlin., and also spent an evening with him listening to various pieces

of chamber-music. But never did another word concerning the Fliegender

Holländer pass his lips, beyond inquiries as to the second performance,

and as to whether Devrient or some one else would appear in it. I

heard, moreover, that he had responded with equal indifference to the

earnest warmth of my allusions to his own music for the Midsummer

Night’s Dream, which was being frequently played at that time, and

which I had heard for the first time. The only thing he discussed with

any detail was the actor Gern, who was playing in Zettel, and who he

considered was overacting his part.

A few days later came a second performance with the same cast. My

experiences on this evening were even more startling than on the

former. Evidently the first night had won me a few friends, who were

again present, for they began to applaud after the overture. But others

responded with hisses, and for the rest of the evening no one again

ventured to applaud. My old friend Heine had arrived in the meantime

from Dresden, sent by our own board of directors to study the scenic

arrangements of the Midsummer Night’s Dream for our theatre. He was

present at this second performance, and had persuaded me to accept the

invitation from one of his Berlin relatives to have supper after the

performance in a wine-bar unter den Linden. Very weary, I followed him

to a nasty and badly lighted house, where I gulped down the wine with

hasty ill-humour to warm myself, and listened to the embarrassed

conversation of my good-natured friend and his companion, whilst I

turned over the day’s papers. I now had ample leisure to read the

criticisms they contained on the first performance of my Fliegender

Holländer. A terrible spasm cut my heart as I realised the contemptible

tone and unparalleled shamelessness of their raging ignorance regarding

my own name and work. Our Berlin friend and host, a thorough

Philistine, said that he had known how things would go in the theatre

that night, after having read these criticisms in the morning. The

people of Berlin, he added, wait to hear what Rellstab and his mates

have to say, and then they know how to behave. The good fellow was

anxious to cheer me up, and ordered one wine after another. Heine

hunted up his reminiscences of our merry Rienzi times in Dresden, until

at last the pair conducted me, staggering along in an addled condition,

to my hotel.

It was already midnight. As I was being lighted by the waiter through

its gloomy corridors to my room, a gentleman in black, with a pale

refined face, came forward and said he would like to speak to me. He

informed me that he had waited there since the close of the play, and

as he was determined to see me, had stopped till now. I excused myself

on the ground of being quite unfit for business, and added that,

although not exactly inclined to merriment, I had, as he might

perceive, somewhat foolishly drunk a little too much wine. This I said

in a stammering voice; but my strange visitor seemed only the more

unwilling to be repulsed. He accompanied me to my room, declaring that

it was all the more imperative for him to speak with me. We seated

ourselves in the cold room, by the meagre light of a single candle, and

then he began to talk. In flowing and impressive language he related

that he had been present at the performance that night of my Fliegender

Holländer, and could well conceive the humour in which the evening’s

experiences had left me. For this very reason he felt that nothing

should hinder him from speaking to me that night, and telling me that

in the Fliegender Holländer I had produced an unrivalled masterpiece.

Moreover, the acquaintance he had made with this work had awakened in

him a new and unforeseen hope for the future of German art; and that it

would be a great pity if I yielded to any sense of discouragement as

the result of the unworthy reception accorded to it by the Berlin

public. My hair began to stand on end. One of Hoffmann’s fantastic

creations had entered bodily into my life. I could find nothing to say,

except to inquire the name of my visitor, at which he seemed surprised,

as I had talked with him the day before at Mendelssohn’s house. He said

that my conversation and manner had created such an impression upon him

there, and had filled him with such sudden regret at not having

sufficiently overcome his dislike for opera in general, to be present

at the first performance, that he had at once resolved not to miss the

second. His name, he added, was Professor Werder. That was no use to

me, I said, he must write his name down. Getting paper and ink, he did

as I desired, and we parted. I flung myself unconsciously on the bed

for a deep and invigorating sleep. Next morning I was fresh and well. I

paid a farewell call on Schroeder-Devrient, who promised me to do all

she could for the Fliegender Holländer as soon as possible, drew my fee

of a hundred ducats, and set off for home. On my way through Leipzig I

utilised my ducats for the repayment of sundry advances made me by my

relatives during the earlier and poverty-stricken period of my sojourn

in Dresden, and then continued my journey, to recuperate among my books

and meditate upon the deep impression made on me by Werder’s midnight

visit.

Before the end of this winter I received a genuine invitation to

Hamburg for the performance of Rienzi. The enterprising director, Herr

Cornet, through whom it came, confessed that he had many difficulties

to contend against in the management of his theatre, and was in need of

a great success. This, after the reception with which it had met in

Dresden, he thought he could secure by the production of Rienzi. I

accordingly betook myself thither in the month of March. The journey at

that time was not an easy one, as after Hanover one had to proceed by

mail-coach, and the crossing of the Elbe, which was full of floating

ice, was a risky business. Owing to a great fire that had recently

broken out, the town of Hamburg was in process of being rebuilt, and

there were still many wide spaces encumbered with ruins. Cold weather

and an ever-gloomy sky make my recollections of my somewhat prolonged

sojourn in this town anything but agreeable. I was tormented to such an

extent by having to rehearse with bad material, fit only for the

poorest theatrical trumpery, that, worn out and exposed to constant

colds, I spent most of my leisure time in the solitude of my inn

chamber. My earlier experiences of ill-arranged and badly managed

theatres came back to me afresh. I was particularly depressed when I

realised that I had made myself an unconscious accomplice of Director

Cornet’s basest interests. His one aim was to create a sensation, which

he thought should be of great service to me also; and not only did he

put me off with a smaller fee, but even suggested that it should be

paid by gradual instalments. The dignity of scenic decoration, of which

he had not the smallest idea, was completely sacrificed to the most

ridiculous and tawdry showiness. He imagined that pageantry was all

that was really needed to secure my success. So he hunted out all the

old fairy-ballet costumes from his stock, and fancied that if they only

looked gay enough, and if plenty of people were bustling about on the

stage, I ought to be satisfied. But the most sorry item of all was the

singer he provided for the title-role. He was a man of the name of

Wurda, an elderly, flabby and voiceless tenor, who sang Rienzi with the

expression of a lover—like Elvino, for instance, in the Somnanibula. He

was so dreadful that I conceived the idea of making the Capitol tumble

down in the second act, so as to bury him sooner in its ruins, a plan

which would have cut out several of the processions, which were so dear

to the heart of the director. I found my one ray of light in a lady

singer, who delighted me with the fire with which she played the part

of Adriano. This was a Mme. Fehringer, who was afterwards engaged by

Liszt for the role of Ortrud in the production of Lohengrin at Weimar,

but by that time her powers had greatly deteriorated. Nothing could be

more depressing than my connection with this opera under such dismal

circumstances. And yet there were no outward signs of failure. The

manager hoped in any case to keep Rienzi in his repertoire until

Tichatschek was able to come to Hamburg and give the people of that

town a true idea of the play. This actually took place in the following

summer.

My discouragement and ill-humour did not escape the notice of Herr

Cornet, and discovering that I wished to present my wife with a parrot,

he managed to procure a very fine bird, which he gave me as a parting

gift. I carried it with me in its narrow cage on my melancholy journey

home, and was touched to find that it quickly repaid my care and became

very much attached to me. Minna greeted me with great joy when she saw

this beautiful grey parrot, for she regarded it as a self-evident proof

that I should do something in life. We already had a pretty little dog,

born on the day of the first Rienzi rehearsal in Dresden, which, owing

to its passionate devotion to myself, was much petted by all who knew

me and visited my house during those years. This sociable bird, which

had no vices and was an apt scholar, now formed an addition to our

household; and the pair did much to brighten our dwelling in the

absence of children. My wife soon taught the bird snatches of songs

from Rienzi, with which it would good-naturedly greet me from a

distance when it heard me coming up the stairs.

And thus at last my domestic hearth seemed to be established with every

possible prospect of a comfortable competency.

No further excursions for the performance of any of my operas took

place, for the simple reason that no such performances were given. As I

saw it was quite clear that the diffusion of my works through the

theatrical world would be a very slow business, I concluded that this

was probably due to the fact that no adaptations of them for the piano

existed. I therefore thought that I should do well to press forward

such an issue at all costs, and in order to secure the expected

profits, I hit upon the idea of publishing at my own expense. I

accordingly made arrangements with F. Meser, the court music-dealer,

who had hitherto not got beyond the publication of a valse, and signed

an agreement with him for his firm to appear as the nominal publishers

on the understanding that they should receive a commission of ten per

cent, whilst I provided the necessary capital.

As there were two operas to be issued, including Rienzi, a work of

exceptional bulk, it was not likely that these publications would prove

very profitable unless, in addition to the usual piano selections, I

also published adaptations, such as the music without words, for duet

or solo. For this a fairly large capital was necessary. I also needed

funds for the repayment of the loans already mentioned, and for the

settlement of old debts, as well as to pay off the remaining expenses

of my house-furnishing. I was therefore obliged to try and procure much

larger sums. I laid my project and its motive before Schroder-Devrient,

who had just returned to Dresden, at Easter, 1844, to fulfil a fresh

engagement. She believed in the future of my works, recognised the

peculiarity of my position, as well as the correctness of my

calculations, and declared her willingness to provide the necessary

capital for the publication of my operas, refusing to consider the act

as one involving any sacrifice on her part. This money she proposed to

get by selling out her investments in Polish state-bonds, and I was to

pay the customary rate of interest. The thing was so easily done, and

seemed so much a matter of course, that I at once made all needful

arrangements with my Leipzig printer, and set to work on the

publication of my operas.

When the amount of work delivered brought with it a demand for

considerable payments on account, I approached my friend for a first

advance. And here I became confronted with a new phase of that famous

lady’s life, which placed me in a position which proved as disastrous

as it was unexpected. After having broken away from the unlucky Herr

von Munchhausen some time previously, and returned, as it appeared,

with penitential ardour to her former connection with my friend,

Hermann Muller, it now turned out that she had found no real

satisfaction in this fresh relationship. On the contrary, the star of

her being, whom she had so long and ardently desired, had now at last

arisen in the person of another lieutenant of the Guards. With a

vehemence which made light of her treachery to her old friend, she

elected this slim young man, whose moral and intellectual weaknesses

were patent to every eye, as the chosen keystone of her life’s love. He

took the good luck that befell him so seriously, that he would brook no

jesting, and at once laid hands on the fortune of his future wife, as

he considered that it was disadvantageously and insecurely invested,

and thought that he knew of much more profitable ways of employing it.

My friend therefore explained, with much pain and evident

embarrassment, that she had renounced all control over her capital, and

was unable to keep her promise to me.

Owing to this I entered upon a series of entanglements and troubles

which henceforth dominated my life, and plunged me into sorrows that

left their dismal mark on all my subsequent enterprises. It was clear

that I could not now abandon the proposed plan of publication. The only

satisfactory solution of my perplexities was to be found in the

execution of my project and the success which I hoped would attend it.

I was compelled, therefore, to turn all my energies to the raising of

the money wherewith to publish my two operas, to which in all

probability Tannhäuser would shortly have to be added. I first applied

to my friends, and in some cases had to pay exorbitant rates of

interest, even for short terms. For the present these details are

sufficient to prepare the reader for the catastrophe towards which I

was now inevitably drifting.

The hopelessness of my position did not at first reveal itself. There

seemed no reason to despair of the eventual spread of my operatic works

among the theatres in Germany, though my experience of them indicated

that the process would be slow. In spite of the depressing experiences

in Berlin and Hamburg, there were many encouraging signs to be seen.

Above all, Rienzi maintained its position in favour of the people of

Dresden, a place which undoubtedly occupied a position of great

importance, especially during the summer months, when so many strangers

from all parts of the world pass through it. My opera, which was not to

be heard anywhere else, was in great request, both among the Germans

and other visitors, and was always received with marked approbation,

which surprised me very much. Thus a performance of Rienzi, especially

in summer, became quite a Dionysian revelry, whose effect upon me could

not fail to be encouraging.

On one occasion Liszt was among the number of these visitors. As Rienzi

did not happen to be in the repertoire when he arrived, he induced the

management at his earnest request to arrange a special performance. I

met him between the acts in Tichatschek’s dressing-room, and was

heartily encouraged and touched by his almost enthusiastic

appreciation, expressed in his most emphatic manner. The kind of life

to which Liszt was at that time condemned, and which bound him to a

perpetual environment of distracting and exciting elements, debarred us

from all more intimate and fruitful intercourse. Yet from this time

onward I continued to receive constant testimonies of the profound and

lasting impression I had made upon him, as well as of his sympathetic

remembrance of me. From various parts of the world, wherever his

triumphal progress led him, people, chiefly of the upper classes, came

to Dresden for the purpose of hearing Rienzi. They had been so

interested by Liszt’s reports of my work, and by his playing of various

selections from it, that they all came expecting something of

unparalleled importance.

Besides these indications of Liszt’s enthusiastic and friendly

sympathy, other deeply touching testimonies appeared from different

quarters. The startling beginning made by Werder, on the occasion of

his midnight visit after the second performance of the Fliegender

Holländer in Berlin, was shortly afterwards followed by a similarly

unsolicited approach in the form of an effusive letter from an equally

unknown personage, Alwino Frommann, who afterwards became my faithful

friend. After my departure from Berlin she heard Schroder-Devrient

twice in the Fliegender Holländer, and the letter in which she

described the effect produced upon her by my work conveyed to me for

the first time the vigorous and profound sentiments of a deep and

confident recognition such as seldom falls to the lot of even the

greatest master, and cannot fail to exercise a weighty influence on his

mind and spirit, which long for self-confidence.

I have no very vivid recollections of my own doings during this first

year of my position as conductor in a sphere of action which gradually

grew more and more familiar. For the anniversary of my appointment, and

to some extent as a personal recognition, I was commissioned to procure

Gluck’s Armida. This we performed in March, 1843, with the co-operation

of Schroder-Devrient, just before her temporary departure from Dresden.

Great importance was attached to this production, because, at the same

moment, Meyerbeer was inaugurating his general-directorship in Berlin

by a performance of the same work. Indeed, it was in Berlin that the

extraordinary respect entertained for such a commemoration of Gluck had

its origin. I was told that Meyerbeer went to Rellstab with the score

of Armida in order to obtain hints as to its correct interpretation.

As not long afterwards I also heard a strange story of two silver

candlesticks, wherewith the famous composer was said, to have

enlightened the no less famous critic when showing him the score of his

Feldlager in Schlesien, I decided to attach no great importance to the

instructions he might have received, but rather to help myself by a

careful handling of this difficult score, and by introducing some

softness into it through modulating the variations in tone as much as

possible. I had the gratification later of receiving an exceedingly

warm appreciation of my rendering from Herr Eduard Devrient, a great

Gluck connoisseur. After hearing this opera as presented by us, and

comparing it with the Berlin performance, he heartily praised the

tenderly modulated character of our rendering of certain parts, which,

he said, had been given in Berlin with the coarsest bluntness. He

mentioned, as a striking instance of this, a brief chorus in C major of

male and female nymphs in the third act. By the introduction of a more

moderate tempo and very soft piano I had tried to free this from the

original coarseness with which Devrient had heard it rendered in

Berlin—presumably with traditional fidelity. My most innocent device,

and one which I frequently adopted, for disguising the irritating

stiffness or the orchestral movement in the original, was a careful

modification of the Basso-continuo, which was taken uninterruptedly in

common time. This I felt obliged to remedy, partly by legato playing,

and partly by pizzicato.

Our management were lavish in their expenditure on externals,

especially decoration, and as a spectacular opera the piece drew fairly

large houses, thus earning me the reputation of being a very suitable

conductor for Gluck, and one who was in close sympathy with him. This

result was the more conspicuous from the fact that Iphigenia in Tauris

which is a far superior work, and in which Devrient’s interpretation of

the title-role was admirable had been performed to empty houses.

I had to live upon this reputation for a long time, as it often

happened that I was compelled to give inferior performances of

repertoire pieces, including Mozart’s operas. The mediocrity of these

was particularly disappointing to those who, after my success in

Armida, had expected a great deal from my rendering of these pieces,

and were much disappointed in consequence. Even sympathetic hearers

sought to explain their disappointment on the ground that I did not

appreciate Mozart and could not understand him. But they failed to

realise how impossible it was for me, as a mere conductor, to exercise

any real influence on such desultory performances, which were merely

given as stopgaps, and often without rehearsal. Indeed, in this matter

I often found myself in a false position, which, as I was powerless to

remedy it, contributed not a little to render unbearable both my new

office and my dependence upon the meanest motives of a paltry

theatrical routine, already overweighted with the cares of business.

This, in fact, became worse than I had expected, in spite of my

previous knowledge of the precariousness of such a life. My colleague

Reissiger, to whom from time to time I poured out my woes regarding the

scant attention given by the general management to our demands for the

maintenance of correct representations in the realm of opera, comforted

me by saying that I, like himself, would sooner or later relinquish all

these fads and submit to the inevitable fate of a conductor. Thereupon

he proudly smote his stomach, and hoped that I might soon be able to

boast of one as round as his own.

I received further provocation for my growing dislike of these jog-trot

methods from a closer acquaintance with the spirit in which even

eminent conductors undertook the reproduction of our masterpieces.

During this first year Mendelssohn was invited to conduct his St. Paul

for one of the Palm Sunday concerts in the Dresden chapel, which was

famous at that time. The knowledge I thus acquired of this work, under

such favourable circumstances, pleased me so much, that I made a fresh

attempt to approach the composer with sincere and friendly motives; but

a remarkable conversation which I had with him on the evening of this

performance quickly and strangely repelled my impulse. After the

oratorio Reissiger was to produce Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony. I had

noticed in the preceding rehearsal that Keissiger had fallen into the

error of all the ordinary conductors of this work by taking the tempo

di minuetto of the third movement at a meaningless waltz time, whereby

not only does the whole piece lose its imposing character, but the trio

is rendered absolutely ridiculous by the impossibility of the

violoncello part being interpreted at such a speed. I had called

Reissiger’s attention to this defect, and he acquiesced in my opinion,

promising to take the part in question at true minuetto tempo. I

related this to Mendelssohn, when he was resting after his own

performance in the box beside me, listening to the symphony. He, too,

acknowledged that I was right, and thought that it ought to be played

as I said. And now the third movement began. Reissiger, who, it is

true, did not possess the needful power suddenly to impress so

momentous a change of time upon his orchestra with success, followed

the usual custom and took the tempo di minuetto in the same old waltz

time. Just as I was about to express my anger, Mendelssohn gave me a

friendly nod, as though he thought that this was what I wanted, and

that I had understood the music in this way. I was so amazed by this

complete absence of feeling on the part of the famous musician, that I

was struck dumb, and thenceforth my own particular opinion of

Mendelssohn gradually matured, an opinion which was afterwards

confirmed by R. Schumann. The latter, in expressing the sincere

pleasure he had felt on listening to the time at which I had taken the

first movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, told me that he had been

compelled to hear it year after year taken by Mendelssohn at a

perfectly distracting speed.

Amid my yearning anxiety to exert some influence upon the spirit in

which our noblest masterpieces were executed, I had to struggle against

the profound dissatisfaction I felt with my employment on the ordinary

theatre repertoire. It was not until Palm Sunday of the year 1844, just

after my dispiriting expedition to Hamburg, that my desire to conduct

the Pastoral Symphony was satisfied. But many faults still remained

unremedied, and for the removal of these I had to adopt indirect

methods which gave me much trouble. For instance, at these famous

concerts the arrangement of the orchestra, the members of which were

seated in a long, thin, semicircular row round the chorus of singers,

was so inconceivably stupid that it required the explanation given by

Reissiger to make me understand such folly. He told me that all these

arrangements dated from the time of the late conductor Morlacchi, who,

as an Italian composer of operas, had no true realisation of the

importance of the orchestra nor of its necessities. When, therefore, I

asked why they had permitted him to meddle with things he did not

understand, I learned that the preference shown to this Italian, both

by the court and the general management, even in opposition to Carl

Maria von Weber, had always been absolute and brooked no contradiction.

I was warned that, even now, we should experience great difficulty in

ridding ourselves of these inherited vices, because the opinion still

prevailed in the highest circles that he must have understood best what

he was about.

Once more my childish memories of the eunuch Sassaroli flashed through

my mind, and I remembered the warning of Weber’s widow as to the

significance of my succession to her husband’s post of conductor in

Dresden. But, in spite of all this, our performance of the Pastoral

Symphony succeeded beyond expectation, and the incomparable and

wonderfully stimulating enjoyment, which I was in future to derive from

my intercourse with Beethoven’s works, now first enabled me to realise

his prolific strength. Kockel shared in this enjoyment with heartfelt

sympathy; he supported me with eye and ear at every rehearsal, always

stood by my side, and was at one with me both in his appreciation and

his aims.

After this encouraging success I was to receive the gratification of

another triumph in the summer, which, although it was of no particular

moment from the musical point of view, was of great social importance.

The King of Saxony, towards whom, as I have already said, I had felt

warmly drawn when he was Prince Friedrich, was expected home from a

long visit to England. The reports received of his stay there had

greatly rejoiced my patriotic soul. While this homely monarch, who

shrank from all pomp and noisy demonstration, was in England, it

happened that the Tsar Nicholas arrived quite unexpectedly on a visit

to the Queen. In his honour great festivities and military reviews were

held, in which our King, much against his will, was obliged to

participate, and he was consequently compelled to receive the

enthusiastic acclamations of the English crowd, who were most

demonstrative in showing their preference for him, as compared with the

unpopular Tsar. This preference was also reflected in the newspapers,

so that a flattering incense floated over from England to our little

Saxony which filled us all with a peculiar pride in our King. While I

was in this mood, which absorbed me completely, I learned that

preparations were being made in Leipzig for a special welcome to the

King on his return, which was to be further dignified by a musical

festival in the directing of which Mendelssohn was to take part. I made

inquiries as to what was going to be done in Dresden, and learned that

the King did not propose to call there at all, but was going direct to

his summer residence at Pillnitz.

A moment’s reflection showed me that this would only further my desire

of preparing a pleasant and hearty reception for his Majesty. As I was

a servant of the Crown, any attempt on my part to render an act of

homage in Dresden might have had the appearance of an official parade

which would not be admissible. I seized the idea, therefore, of

hurriedly collecting together all who could either play or sing, so

that we might perform a Reception song hastily composed in honour of

the event. The obstacle to my plan was that my Director Lüttichau was

away at one of his country seats. To come to an understanding with my

colleague Reissiger would, moreover, have involved delay, and given the

enterprise the very aspect of an official ovation which I wished to

avoid. As no time was to be lost, if anything worthy of the occasion

was to be done—as the King was due to arrive in a few days—I availed

myself of my position as conductor of the Glee Club, and summoned all

its singers and instrumentalists to my aid. In addition to these, I

invited the members of our theatrical company, and also those of the

orchestra, to join us. This done, I drove quickly to Pillnitz to

arrange matters with the Lord Chamberlain, whom I found favourably

disposed towards my project. The only leisure I could snatch for

composing the verses of my song and setting them to music was during

the rapid drive there and back, for by the time I reached home I had to

have every thing ready for the copyist and lithographer. The agreeable

sensation of rushing through the warm summer air and lovely country,

coupled with the sincere affection with which I was inspired for our

German Prince, and which had prompted my effort, elated me and worked

me up to a high pitch of tension, in which I now formed a clear

conception of the lyrical outlines of the ‘Tannhäuser March,’ which

first saw the light of day on the occasion of this royal welcome. I

soon afterwards developed this theme, and thus produced the march which

became the most popular of the melodies I had hitherto composed.

On the next day it had to be tried over with a hundred and twenty

instrumentalists and three hundred singers. I had taken the liberty of

inviting them to meet me on the stage of the Court Theatre, where

everything went off capitally. Every one was delighted, and I not the

least so, when a messenger arrived from the director, who had just

returned to town, requesting an immediate interview. Littichau was

enraged beyond measure at my high-handed proceedings in this matter, of

which he had been informed by our good friend Reissiger. If his

baronial coronet had been on his head during this interview, it would

assuredly have tumbled off. The fact that I should have conducted my

negotiations in person with the court officials, and could report that

my endeavours had met with extraordinarily prompt success, aroused his

deepest fury, for the chief importance of his own position consisted in

always representing everything which had to be obtained by these means

as surrounded by the greatest obstacles, and hedged in by the strictest

etiquette. I offered to cancel everything, but that only embarrassed

him the more. I thereupon asked him what he wanted me to do, if the

plan was still to be carried out. On this point he seemed uncertain,

but thought I had shown a great lack of fellow-feeling in having not

only ignored him, but Reissiger as well. I answered that I was

perfectly ready to hand over my composition and the conducting of the

piece to Reissiger. But he could not swallow this, as he really had an

exceedingly poor opinion of Reissiger, of which I was very well aware.

His real grievance was that I had arranged the whole business with the

Lord Chamberlain, Herr von Reizenstein, who was his personal enemy, and

he added that I could form no conception of the rudeness he had been

obliged to endure from the hands of this official. This outburst of

confidence made it easier for me to exhibit an almost sincere emotion,

to which he responded by a shrug of the shoulders, meaning that he must

resign himself to a disagreeable necessity.

But my project was even more seriously threatened by the wretched

weather than by this storm with the director; for it rained all day in

torrents. If it lasted, which it seemed only too likely to do, I could

hardly start on the special boat at five o’clock in the morning, as

proposed, with my hundreds of helpers, to give an early morning concert

at Pillnitz, two hours away. I anticipated such a disaster with genuine

dismay. But Röckel consoled me by saying that I could rely upon it that

we should have glorious weather the next day; for I was lucky! This

belief in my luck has followed me ever since, even down to my latest

days; and amid the great misfortunes which have so often hampered my

enterprises, I have felt as if this statement were a wicked insult to

fate. But this time, at least, my friend was right; the 12th of August,

1844 was from sunrise till late at night the most perfect summer day

that I can remember in my whole life. The sensation of blissful content

with which I saw my light-hearted legion of gaily dressed bandsmen and

singers gathering through the auspicious morning mists on board our

steamer, swelled my breast with a fervent faith in my lucky star.

By my friendly impetuosity I had succeeded in overcoming Reissiger’s

smouldering resentment, and had persuaded him to share the honour of

our undertaking by conducting the performance of my composition

himself. When we arrived at the spot, everything went off splendidly.

The King and royal family were visibly touched, and in the evil times

that followed the Queen of Saxony spoke of this occasion, I am told,

with peculiar emotion, as the fairest day of her life. After Reissiger

had wielded his baton with great dignity, and I had sung with the

tenors in the choir, we two conductors were summoned to the presence of

the royal family. The King warmly expressed his thanks, while the Queen

paid us the high compliment of saying that I composed very well and

that Reissiger conducted very well. His Majesty asked us to repeat the

last three stanzas only, as, owing to a painful ulcerated tooth, he

could not remain much longer out of doors. I rapidly devised a combined

evolution, the remarkably successful execution of which I am very

proud, even to this day. I had the entire song repeated, but, in

accordance with the King’s wish, only one verse was sung in our

original crescent formation. At the beginning of the second verse I

made my four hundred undisciplined bandsmen and singers file off in a

march through the garden, which, as they gradually receded, was so

arranged that the final notes could only reach the royal ear as an

echoing dream-song. Thanks to my unexampled activity and ever-present

help, this retreat was so steadily carried out that not the slightest

faltering was perceptible either in time or delivery, and the whole

might have been taken for a carefully rehearsed theatrical manœuvre. On

reaching the castle court we found that, by the Queen’s kindly

forethought, an ample breakfast had been provided for our party on the

lawn, where the tables were already spread. We often saw our royal

hostess herself busily supervising the attendants, or moving with

excited delight about the windows and corridors of the castle. Every

eye beamed rapture to my soul, as the successful author of the general

happiness, and I almost felt amid the glories of that day as though the

millennium had been proclaimed. After roaming in a body through the

lovely grounds of the castle, and not omitting to pay a visit to the

Keppgrund which had been so dear to me in my youth, we returned late at

night, and in the highest spirits, to Dresden.

Next morning I was again summoned to the presence of the director. But

a change had come over him during the night.

As I began to offer my apologies for the anxiety I had caused him, the

tall thin man, with the hard dry face, seized me by the hand and

addressed me with a rapturous expression, which I am sure no one else

ever saw on his face. He told me to say no more about these anxieties.

I was a great man, and soon no one would know anything about him,

whereas I should be universally admired and loved. I was deeply moved,

and wished only to express my embarrassment at so unexpected an

outburst, when he kindly interrupted me and sought an escape from his

own emotion in good-humoured confidences. He referred, with a smile, to

the self-denial which had yielded the place of honour on so

extraordinary an occasion to an undeserving man like Reissiger. When I

assured him that this act had afforded me the liveliest satisfaction,

and that I had myself persuaded my colleague to take the baton, he

confessed that at last he began to understand me, but failed altogether

to comprehend how the other could accept a position to which he had no

right.

Lüttichau’s altered attitude towards me was such that for some time our

intercourse on matters of business assumed an almost confidential tone.

But, unfortunately, in course of time things changed for the worse, so

that our relationship became one of open enmity; nevertheless, a

certain peculiar tenderness towards me on the part of this singular man

was always clearly perceptible. Indeed, I might almost say that much of

his subsequent abuse of me sounded more like the strangely perverted

plaints of a love that met with no response.

For my holiday this year I went, early in September, to Fischer’s

vineyard, near Loschwitz, not far from the famous Firidlater vineyard,

where, somewhat late in the year, I rented a summer residence. Where

under the kindly and strengthening stimulus of six week of open-air

life, I composed my music for the second act of Tannhäuser, which I

completed by the 15th of October. During this period a performance of

Rienzi was given before an audience of no ordinary importance. For this

event I went up to town. Spontini, Meyerbeer, and General Lwoff, the

composer of the Russian National Anthem, were seated together in a

stage box. I sought no opportunity of learning the impression made by

my opera upon these learned judges and magnates of the musical world.

It was enough for me to have the complacent satisfaction of knowing

that they had heard my oft-repeated work performed before a crowded

house and amid overwhelming applause. I was delighted at the close of

the opera to have my little dog Peps, which had run after me all the

way from the country, brought to me; and without waiting to greet the

European celebrities, I drove off with it at once to our quiet

vineyard, where Minna was greatly relieved to recover her little pet,

which for hours she had believed to be lost.

Here I also received a visit from Werder, the man whose friendship I

had made in Berlin under such dramatic circumstances. But this time he

appeared in ordinary human guise, beneath the kindly light of heaven,

by which we disputed in a friendly way concerning the true worth of the

Fliegender Holländer, my mind having somewhat turned against this work

since Tannhäuser had got into my head. It certainly seemed odd to find

myself contradicted on this point by my friend, and to receive

instruction from him on the significance of my own work.

When we returned to our winter quarters I tried to avoid allowing so

lengthy an interval to elapse between the composition of the second and

third acts as had separated that of the first and second. In spite of

many absorbing engagements I succeeded in my aim. By carefully

cultivating a habit of taking solitary walks, and thanks to their

soothing influence over me, I managed to finish the music of Act iii.

by the 29th of December, that is to say, before the end of the year.

During this period my time was otherwise very seriously occupied by a

visit paid us by Spontini with reference to a proposed presentation of

his Vestalin, the preparation for which had just begun. The singular

episodes and characteristic features of the intercourse which I thus

gained with this eminent and hoary-headed master are still so vividly

imprinted on my memory that they seem worthy of a place in this record.

Since, with the co-operation of Schroder-Devrient, we could, on the

whole, rely upon an admirable presentation of the opera, I had inspired

Lüttichau with the idea of inviting Spontini to undertake the personal

superintendence of his justly famous work. He had just left Berlin for

ever, after enduring great humiliation there, and such an invitation at

this moment would be a well-timed proof of respect. This was

accordingly sent, and as I had myself been entrusted with the

conductorship of the opera, I was given the singular task of deciding

this point with the master. My letter, it appears, although written in

French, inspired him with a high opinion of my zeal for the enterprise,

and in a gracious reply he informed me what his special wishes were

regarding the arrangements to be made for his collaboration. As far as

the vocalists were concerned, and seeing that a Schroder-Devrient was

among the number, he frankly expressed his satisfaction. As for chorus

and ballet, he took it for granted that nothing would be lacking to the

dignity of the performance; and finally, as regarded the orchestra, he

expected that this also would be sure to please him, as he presumed it

contained the necessary complement of excellent instruments which, to

use his own words, ‘he hoped would furnish the performance with twelve

good contrabass!’ (le tout garni de douze bonnes contre-basses). This

phrase bowled me over, for the proportion thus bluntly stated in

figures gave me so logical a conception of his exalted expectations,

that I hurried away at once to the director to warn him that the

enterprise on which we had embarked would not, after all, prove as easy

as we thought. His alarm was great, and he said that some plan must at

once be devised for breaking off the engagement.

When Schroder-Devrient heard of our dilemma, knowing Spontini well, she

laughed as though she would never stop at the ingenuous impudence with

which we had issued our invitation. A trifling indisposition from which

she then suffered provided a reasonable excuse for a delay, more or

less prolonged, and this she generously placed at our disposal.

Spontini had, in fact, urged us to use all possible despatch in the

execution of our project, for, as he was impatiently awaited in Paris,

he could spare us but little time. It fell to my lot to weave the

tissue of innocent deceptions by which we hoped to divert the master

from a definite acceptance of our invitation. Now we could breathe

again, and duly began rehearsing. But on the very day before we

proposed to hold our full-dress rehearsal at our leisure, lo and

behold! about noon a carriage drove up to my door, in which, clad in a

long blue coat of pilot-cloth, sat no other than the haughty master

himself, whose manners resembled those of a Spanish grandee. All

unattended and greatly excited, he entered my room, showed me my

letters, and proved from our correspondence that the invitation had not

been declined, but that he had in all points accurately complied with

our wishes. Forgetting for the moment all the possible embarrassments

which might arise, in my genuine delight at beholding the wonderful man

before me, and hearing his work conducted by himself, I at once

undertook to do everything I possibly could to meet his desires. This

declaration I made with the utmost sincerity of zeal. He smiled with

almost childlike kindliness on hearing me, and I at once begged him to

conduct the rehearsal arranged for the morrow. He thereupon grew

suddenly thoughtful, and began to weigh the numerous disadvantages of

such an action on his part. So acute did his agitation become that he

had the greatest difficulty in expressing himself clearly on any point,

and I found it no easy matter to inquire what arrangements on our part

would persuade him to undertake the morrow’s rehearsal. After a

moment’s reflection he asked what sort of baton I was accustomed to use

when conducting. With my hands I indicated the approximate length and

thickness of a medium-sized wooden rod, such as our choir-attendant was

in the habit of supplying, freshly covered with white paper. He sighed,

and asked if I thought it possible to procure him by to-morrow a baton

of black ebony, whose very respectable length and thickness he

indicated by a gesture, and on each end of which a fairly large knob of

ivory was to be affixed. I promised to have one prepared for the next

rehearsal, which should at least be similar in appearance to what he

desired, and another of the specified materials in time for the actual

performance. Visibly relieved, he then passed his hand over his brow,

and granted me permission to announce his consent to conduct on the

following day. After once more strongly enforcing his instructions as

to the baton, he went back to his hotel.

I seemed to be moving in a dream, and hastened in a whirl-wind of

excitement to publish the news of what had happened and was to be

expected. We were fairly trapped. Schroder-Devrient offered to become

our scapegoat, while I entered into precise details with the theatre

carpenter concerning the baton. This turned out so far correct that it

possessed the requisite length and breadth, was black in its colour,

and had two large white knobs. Then came the fateful rehearsal.

Spontini was evidently ill at ease on his seat in the orchestra. First

of all he wished to have the oboists placed behind him. As this partial

change of position just at that moment would have caused much confusion

in the disposition of the orchestra, I promised to effect the

alteration after the rehearsal. He said no more, and took up his baton.

In a moment I understood why he attached such importance to its form

and size. He held it, not as other conductors do, by the end, but

gripped it about the middle with his clenched fist, waving it so as to

make it evident that he wielded his baton like a field-marshal’s staff,

not for beating time, but for command.

Confusion arose in the very first scene, which was increased by the

fact that the master’s instructions, both to orchestra and singers,

were rendered almost unintelligible by his confused use of the German

language. This much at least we were soon able to grasp, that he was

particularly anxious to disabuse us of the idea that this was a

full-dress rehearsal, and to show us that he was set upon a thorough

re-study of the opera from the very beginning. Great, indeed, was the

despair of my good old chorus-master and stage manager, Fischer—who

before had enthusiastically advocated the invitation of Spontini—when

he recognised that the dislocation of our repertoire was now

inevitable. This feeling swelled by degrees to open anger, in the

blindness of which every fresh suggestion of Spontini’s appeared but

frivolous fault-finding, to which he bluntly responded in the coarsest

German. After one of the choruses Spontini beckoned me to his side and

whispered: ‘Mais savez-vous, vos choeurs ne chantent pas mal’;

whereupon Fischer, regarding this with suspicion, shouted out to me in

a rage: ‘What does the old hog want now?’ and I had some trouble to

pacify the speedily converted enthusiast.

But our most serious delay arose, during the first act, through the

evolutions of a triumphal march. With the most vociferous emphasis the

master expressed intense dissatisfaction with the apathetic demeanour

of our populace during the procession of vestal virgins. He was quite

unaware of the fact that, in obedience to our stage manager’s

instructions, they had fallen on their knees upon the appearance of the

priestesses; for he was so excited, and withal so terribly

short-sighted, that nothing which appealed to the eye alone was

perceptible to his senses. What he demanded was that the Roman army

should manifest its devout respect in more drastic fashion by flinging

themselves as one man to the ground, and marking this by delivering a

crashing blow of their spears on their shields. Endless attempts were

made, but some one always clattered either too soon or too late. Then

he repeated the action himself several times with his baton on the

desk, but all to no purpose; the crash was not sufficiently sharp and

emphatic. This reminded me of the impression made upon me some years

before in Berlin by the wonderful precision and almost alarming effect

with which I had seen similar evolutions carried out in the play of

Ferdinand Cortez, and I realized that it would require an immediate and

tedious accentuation of our customary softness of action in such

maneouvres before we could meet the fastidious master’s requirements.

At the end of the first act Spontini went on the stage himself, in

order to give a detailed explanation of his reasons for wishing to

defer his opera for a considerable time, so as to prepare by

multitudinous rehearsals for its production in accordance with his

taste. He expected to find the actors of the Dresden Court Theatre

gathered there to hear him; but the company had already dispersed.

Singers and stage manager had hastily scattered in every direction to

give vent, each in his own fashion, to the misery of the situation.

None but the workmen, lamp-cleaners, and a few of the chorus gathered

in a semicircle around Spontini, in order to have a look at that

remarkable man, as he held forth with wonderful effect on the

requirements of true theatrical art. Turning towards the dismal scene,

I gently and respectfully pointed out to Spontini the uselessness of

his declamation, and promised that everything should eventually be done

precisely as he desired.

Finally, I succeeded in extricating him from the undignified position

in which, to my horror, he had been placed, by telling him that Herr

Eduard Devrient, who had seen the Vestalin in Berlin, and carried every

detail of the performance in his mind, should personally drill our

chorus and supers into a becoming solemnity during the reception of the

vestals. This pacified him, and we proceeded to settle on a plan for a

series of rehearsals according to his wishes. But, in spite of all

this, I was the only person to whom this strange turn of affairs was

not unwelcome; for through the burlesque extravagances of Spontini, and

notwithstanding his extraordinary eccentricities, which, however, I

learned in time to understand, I could perceive the miraculous energy

with which he pursued and attained an ideal of theatrical art such as

in our days had become almost unknown.

We began, therefore, with a pianoforte rehearsal, at which the master

made a point of telling the singers what he wanted. He did not tell us

anything new, however, for he said little about the details of the

rendering; on the other hand, he expatiated upon the general

interpretation, and I noticed that in doing this, he had accustomed

himself to make the most decided allowances for the great singers,

especially Schroder-Devrient and Tichatschek. The only thing he did was

to forbid the latter to use the word Braut (bride) with which Licinius

had to address Julia in the German translation; this word sounded

horrible in his ears, and he could not understand how anybody could set

such a vulgar sound as that to music. He gave a long lecture, however,

to the somewhat coarse and less talented singer who took the part of

the high-priest, and explained to him how to understand and interpret

this character from the dialogue (in recitative) between him and

Haruspex. He told him that he must understand that the whole thing was

based upon priestcraft and superstition. Pontifex must make it clear

that he does not fear his antagonist at the head of the Roman army,

because, should the worst come to the worst, he has his machines ready,

which, if necessary, will miraculously rekindle the dead fire of Vesta.

In this way, even though Julia should escape the sacrifice, the power

of the priesthood would still be unassailable.

During one of the rehearsals I asked Spontini why he, who, as a rule,

made such very effective use of the trombone, should have left it

entirely out in the magnificent triumphal march of the first act. Very

much astonished he asked: ‘Est-ce que je n’ai pas de trombones?’ I

showed him the printed score, and he then asked me to add the trombones

to the march, so that, if possible, they might be used at the next

rehearsal. He also said: ‘J’ai entendu dans votre Rienzi un instrument,

que vous appelez Basse-tuba; je ne veux pas bannir cet instrument de

l’orchestre: faites m’en une partie pour la Vestale.’ It gave me great

pleasure to perform this task for him with all the care and good

judgment I could dispose of. When at the rehearsal he heard the effect

for the first time, he threw me a really grateful glance, and so much

appreciated the really simple additions I had made to his score, that a

little later on he wrote me a very friendly letter from Paris in which

he asked me kindly to send him the extra instrumental parts I had

prepared for him. His pride would not allow him, however, to ask

outright for something for which I alone had been responsible, so he

wrote: ‘Envoyez-moi une partition des trombones pour la marche

triomphale et de la Basse-tuba telle qu’elle a ete executee sous ma

direction a Dresde.’ Apart from this, I also showed how greatly I

respected him, in the eagerness with which, at his special request, I

regrouped all the instruments in the orchestra. He was forced to this

request more by habit than by principle, and how very important it

seemed to him not to make the slightest change in his customary

arrangements, was proved to me when he explained his method of

conducting. He conducted the orchestra, so he said, only with his eyes:

‘My left eye is the first violin, my right eye the second, and if the

eye is to have power, one must not wear glasses (as so many bad

conductors do), even if one is short-sighted. I,’ he admitted

confidentially, ‘cannot see twelve inches in front of me, but all the

same I can make them play as I want, merely by fixing them with my

eye.’ In some respects the arbitrary way in which he used to arrange

his orchestra was really very irrational. From his old days in Paris he

had retained the habit of placing the two oboists immediately behind

him, and although this was a fad which owed its origin to a mere

accident, it was one to which he always adhered. The consequence was

that these players had to avert the mouthpiece of their instruments

from the audience, and our excellent oboist was so angry about this

arrangement, that it was only by dint of great diplomacy that I

succeeded in pacifying him.

Apart from this, Spontini’s method was based upon the absolutely

correct system (which even at the present time is misunderstood by some

German orchestras) of spreading the string quartette over the whole

orchestra. This system further consisted in preventing the brass and

percussion instruments from culminating in one point (and drowning each

other) by dividing them on both sides, and by placing the more delicate

wind instruments at a judicious distance from each other, thus forming

a chain between the violins. Even some great and celebrated orchestras

of the present day still retain the custom of dividing the mass of

instruments into two halves, the string and the wind instruments, an

arrangement that denotes roughness and a lack of understanding of the

sound of the orchestra, which ought to blend harmoniously and be well

balanced.

I was very glad to have the chance of introducing this excellent

improvement in Dresden, for now that Spontini himself had initiated it,

it was an easy matter to get the King’s command to let the alteration

stand. Nothing remained after Spontini’s departure but to modify and

correct certain eccentricities and arbitrary features in his

arrangements; and from that moment I attained a high level of success

with my orchestra.

With all the peculiarities he showed at rehearsals, this exceptional

man fascinated both musicians and singers to such an extent that the

production attracted quite an unusual amount of attention. Very

characteristic was the energy with which he insisted on exceptionally

sharp rhythmic accents; through his association with the Berlin

orchestra he had acquired the habit of marking the note that he wished

to be brought out with the word diese (this), which at first was quite

incomprehensible to me. The great singer Tichatschek, who had a

positive genius for rhythm, was highly pleased by this; for he also had

acquired the habit of compelling the chorus to great precision in very

important entries, and maintained that if one only accentuated the

first note properly, the rest followed as a matter of course. On the

whole, therefore, a spirit of devotion to the master gradually pervaded

the orchestra; the violas alone bore him a grudge for a while, and for

this reason. In the accompaniment of the lugubrious cantilena of Julia

at the end of the second act, he would not put up with the way in which

the violas played the horribly sentimental accompaniment. Suddenly

turning towards them he called in a sepulchral tone, ‘Are the violas

dying?’ The two pale and incurably melancholy old men who held on

tenaciously to their posts in the orchestra, notwithstanding their

right to a pension, stared at Spontini with real fright, reading a

threat in his words, and I had to explain Spontini’s wish in sober

language in order to call them back to life.

On the stage Herr Eduard Devrient helped very materially in bringing

about wonderfully distinct ensembles; he also knew how to gratify a

certain wish of Spontini’s, which threw us all into tremendous

confusion. In accordance with the cuts adopted by all the German

theatres, we too ended the opera with the fiery duet, supported by the

chorus, between Licinius and Julia after their rescue. The master,

however, insisted on adding a lively chorus and ballet to the finale,

according to the antiquated method of ending common to French opera

seria. He was absolutely against finishing his work with a dismal

churchyard episode; consequently the whole scene had to be altered.

Venus was to shine resplendent in a rose bower, and the long-suffering

lovers were to be wedded at her altar, amid lively dancing and singing,

by rose-bedecked priests and priestesses. We performed it like this,

but unluckily not with the success we had all hoped for.

In the course of the production, which was proceeding with wonderful

accuracy and verve, we came across a difficulty with regard to the

principal part for which none of us had been prepared. Our great

Schroder-Devrient was obviously no longer of an age to give the desired

effect as the youngest of the vestal virgins; she had acquired matronly

contours, and her age was moreover accentuated by the extremely

girlish-looking high-priestess with whom she had to act, and whose

youth it was difficult to dissimulate. This was my niece, Johanna

Wagner, who, because of her marvellous voice and great talent as an

actress, made every one in the audience long to see the parts of the

two women reversed. Schroder-Devrient, who was well aware of this fact,

tried by every effective means in her power to overcome her most

difficult position; this effort, however, resulted not infrequently in

great exaggeration and straining of the voice, and in one very

important place her part was sadly overacted. When, after the great

trio in the second act, she had to gasp the words, ‘er ist frei’ (‘he

is free’), and to move away from her rescued lover towards the front of

the stage, she made the mistake of speaking the words instead of

singing them.

She had often proved the effect of a decisive word uttered with an

exaggerated and yet careful imitation of the ordinary accents of the

spoken language, by exciting the audience’s wildest enthusiasm when she

almost whispered the words, ‘Noch einen Schritt und du bist todt!’

(‘Just one more step and thou art dead!’) in Fidelia. This terrific

effect, which I too had felt, was produced by the shock—like unto the

blow of an executioner’s axe—which I received on suddenly coming down

from the ideal sphere to which music itself can exalt the most awful

situations, to the naked surface of dreadful reality. This sensation

was due simply to the knowledge of the utmost height of the sublime,

and the memory of the impression I received led me to call that

particular moment the moment of lightning; for it was as if two

different worlds that meet, and yet are divided, were suddenly

illumined and revealed as by a flash. Thoroughly to understand such a

moment, and not to treat it wrongly, was the whole secret, and this I

fully realised on that day from the absolute failure on the great

singer’s part to produce the right effect. The toneless, hoarse way in

which she uttered the words was like throwing cold water over the

audience and myself, and not one of those present could see any more in

the incident than a botched theatrical effect. It is possible that the

public had expected too much, for they were curious to see Spontini

conduct, and the prices had been raised accordingly; it may also have

been that the whole style of the work, with its antiquated French plot,

seemed rather obsolete in spite of the majestic beauty, of the music;

or, perhaps, the very tame end left the same cold impression as

Devrient’s dramatic failure. In any case there was no real enthusiasm,

and the only sign of approval was a rather lukewarm call for the

celebrated master, who, covered with numerous decorations, made a sad

impression on me as he bowed his thanks to the audience for their very

moderate applause.

Nobody was less blind to the somewhat disappointing result than

Spontini himself. He decided, however, to defy fate, and to this end

had recourse to means which he had often employed in Berlin, in order

to get packed houses for his operatic productions. Thus, he always gave

Sunday performances, for experience had taught him that he could always

have a full house on that day. As the next Sunday on which his Vestalin

was to be produced was still some time ahead, his prolonged stay gave

us several more chances of enjoying his interesting company. I have

such a vivid recollection of the hours spent with him either at Madame

Devrient’s or at my house, that I shall be pleased to quote a few

reminiscences.

I shall never forget a dinner at Schroder-Devrient’s house at which we

had a charming conversation with Spontini and his wife (a sister of the

celebrated pianoforte maker, Erard). Spontini generally listened

deferentially to what the others had to say, his attitude being that of

a man who expected to be asked for his opinion. When he did speak in

the end it was with a sort of rhetorical solemnity, in sharp and

precise sentences, categorical and well accentuated, which forbade

contradiction from the outset. Herr Ferdinand Hiller was among the

invited guests, and he began to speak about Liszt. After some time

Spontini gave his opinion in his characteristic fashion, but in a

spirit which showed only too clearly, that from the heights of his

Berlin throne he had not judged the affairs of the world either with

impartiality or goodwill. While he was laying down the law in this

style he could not brook any interruption. When, therefore, during the

dessert, the general conversation became livelier, and Madame Devrient

happened to laugh with her neighbour at the table in the middle of a

long harangue of Spontini’s, he shot an extremely angry glance at his

wife. Madame Devrient apologised for her at once by saying that it was

she (Madame Devrient) who had been laughing about some lines on a

_bonbonnière_, whereupon Spontini retorted: _‘Pourtant je suis sûr que

c’est ma femme qui a suscité ce rire; je ne veux pas que l’on rie

devant moi, je ne rie jamais moi, j’aime le sérieux.’_ In spite of that

he sometimes succeeded in being jovial. For instance, it amused him to

set us all wondering at the way in which he crunched enormous lumps of

sugar with his marvellous teeth. After dinner, when we drew our chairs

closer together, he usually became very excited.

As far as he was capable of affection he seemed really to like me; he

declared openly that he loved me, and said that he would prove this

best by trying to keep me from the misfortune of proceeding in my

career as a dramatic composer. He said he knew it would be difficult to

convince me of the value of this friendly service, but as he felt it

his sacred duty to look after my happiness in this particular line, he

was prepared to stay in Dresden for another half-year, during which

period he suggested that we should produce his other operas, and

especially _Agnes von Hohenstaufen_, under his direction. To explain

his views about the fatal mistake of trying to succeed as a dramatic

composer ‘after Spontini,’ he began by praising me in these terms:

_‘Quand j’ai entendu votre Rienzi, j’ai dit, c’est un homme de génie,

mais déjà il a plus fait qu’il ne peut faire.’_ In order to show me

what he meant by this paradox, he proceeded as follows: _‘Après Gluck

c’est moi qui ai fait la grande révolution avec la_ Vestale; _j’ai

introduit le_ Vorhalt _de la sexte’_ (the suspension of the sixth)

_‘dans l’harmonie et la grosse caisse dans l’orchestre; avec_ Cortez

_j’ai fait un pas de plus en avant; puis j’ai fait trois pas avec_

Olympic. Nurmahal, Alcidor _et tout ce que j’ai fait dans les premiers

temps à Berlin, je vous les livre, c’étaient des œuvres occasionnelles;

mais depuis j’ai fait cent pas en avant avec_ Agnès de Hohenstaufen,

_où j’ai imaginé un emploi de l’orchestre remplacant parfaitement

l’orgue.’_

Since then he had tried his hand at a new work, Les Atheniennes; the

Crown Prince (now King of Prussia[13]) had urged him to finish this

work, and to testify to the truth of his words, he took several letters

which he had received from this monarch out of his pocket-book, and

handed them to us for inspection. Not until he had insisted upon our

reading them carefully through did he continue by saying that, in spite

of this flattering invitation, he had given up the idea of setting this

excellent subject to music, because he felt sure he could never surpass

his Agnes von Hohenstaufen, nor invent anything new. In conclusion he

said: ‘Or, comment voulez-vous que quiconque puisse inventer quelque

chose de nouveau, moi Spontini declarant ne pouvoir en aucune facon

surpasser mes œuvres precedentes, d’autre part etant avise que depuis

la Vestale il n’a point ete ecrit une note qui ne fut volee de mes

partitions.’

[13] William the First.

To prove that this assertion was not merely talk, but that it was based

on scientific investigations, he quoted his wife, who was supposed to

have read with him an elaborate discussion on the subject by a

celebrated member of the French academy, and he added that the essay in

question had, for some mysterious reason, never been printed. In this

very important and scientific treatise it was proved that without

Spontini’s invention of the suspension of the sixth in his Vestalin,

the whole of modern melody would not have existed, and that any and

every form of melody that had been used since had been borrowed from

his compositions. I was thunderstruck, but hoped all the same to bring

the inexorable master to a better frame of mind, especially in regard

to certain reservations he had made. I acknowledged that the

academician in question was right in many ways, but I asked him if he

did not believe that if somebody brought him a dramatic poem full of an

absolutely new and hitherto unknown spirit, it would not inspire him to

invent new musical combinations? With a ring of compassion in his

voice, he replied that my question was wholly mistaken; in what would

the novelty consist? ‘Dans la Vestale j’ai compose un sujet romain,

dans Ferdinand Cortez un sujet espagnol-mexicain, dans Olympic un sujet

greco-macedonien, enfin dans Agnes de Hohenstaufen un sujet allemand:

tout le reste ne vaut rien!’ He hoped that I was not thinking of the

so-called romantic style a la Freischutz? With such childish stuff no

serious man could have anything to do; for art was a serious thing, and

he had exhausted serious art! And, after all, what nation could produce

the composer who could surpass HIM? Surely not the Italians, whom he

characterised simply as cochons; certainly not the French, who had only

imitated the Italians; nor the Germans, who would never get beyond

their childhood in music, and who, if they had ever possessed any

talent, had had it all spoilt for them by the Jews? ‘Oh, croyez-moi, il

y avait de l’espoir pour l’Allemagne lorsque j’etais empereur de la

musique a Berlin; mais depuis que le roi de Prusse a livre sa musique

au desordre occasionne par les deux juifs errants qu’il a attires, tout

espoir est perdu.’

Our charming hostess now thought it time to change the subject, and to

divert the master’s thoughts. The theatre was situated quite near to

her house; she invited him to go across with our friend Heine, who was

amongst the guests, and to have a look at Antigone, which was then

being given, and which was sure to interest him on account of the

antique equipment of the stage, which had been carried out according to

Semper’s excellent plans. At first he wanted to refuse, on the plea

that he had seen all this so much better when his Olympia had been

performed. After a while he consented; but in a very short time he

returned to his original opinion, and, smiling scornfully, assured us

that he had seen and heard enough to strengthen him in his verdict.

Heine told us that shortly after he and Spontini had taken their seats

in the almost empty amphitheatre, and as soon as the Bacchus chorus had

started, Spontini had said to him: ‘C’est de la Berliner Sing-Academie,

allons-nous-en.’ Through an open door a streak of light had fallen on a

lonely figure behind one of the columns; Heine had recognised

Mendelssohn, and concluded that he had overheard Spontini’s remark.

From the master’s very excited conversations we soon realised very

distinctly that he intended to stay longer in Dresden, so as to get all

his operas performed. It was Schroder-Devrient’s idea to save Spontini,

in his own interest, from the mortifying disappointment of finding all

his enthusiastic hopes in regard to a second performance of Vestalin

unfounded, and, if possible, to prevent this second performance during

his stay in Dresden. She pretended to be ill, and the director

requested me to inform Spontini of the fact that his production would

have to be indefinitely postponed. This visit was so distasteful to me,

that I was glad to make it in Röckel’s company. He was also a friend of

Spontini’s, and his French was moreover much better than mine. As we

were quite prepared for a bad reception, we were really frightened to

enter. Imagine, therefore, our astonishment when we found the master,

who had already been informed of the news in a letter from Devrient, in

the very brightest spirits.

He told us that he had to leave immediately for Paris, and that from

there he was to travel to Rome, the Holy Father having commanded him to

come in order to receive the title of ‘Count of San Andrea.’ Then he

showed us a second document, in which the King of Denmark was supposed

to have raised him to the Danish nobility. This meant, however, only

that the title of ‘Ritter’ of the ‘Elephanten-Order’ had been conferred

upon him; and although this was indeed a high honour, in speaking about

it he only mentioned the word ‘Ritter’ without referring to the

particular order, because this seemed to him too ordinary for a person

of his dignity. He was, however, childishly pleased over the affair,

and felt that he had been miraculously rescued from the narrow sphere

of his Dresden Vestalin production to find himself suddenly transported

into regions of glory, from which he looked down upon the distressing

‘opera’ world with sublime self-content.

Meanwhile Röckel and I silently thanked the Holy Father and the King of

Denmark from the bottom of our hearts. We bode an affectionate farewell

to the strange master, and to cheer him I promised him seriously to

think over his friendly advice with regard to my career as a composer

of opera.

Later on I heard what Spontini had said about me, on hearing that I had

fled from Dresden for political reasons, and had sought refuge in

Switzerland. He thought that this was in consequence of my share in a

plot of high treason against the King of Saxony, whom he looked upon as

my benefactor, because I had been nominated conductor of the royal

orchestra, and he expressed his opinion about me by ejaculating in

tones of the deepest anguish: ‘Quelle ingratitude!’

From Berlioz, who was at Spontini’s deathbed until the end, I heard

that the master had struggled most determinedly against death, and had

cried repeatedly, ‘Je ne veux pas mourir, je ne veux pas mourir!’ When

Berlioz tried to comfort him by saying, ‘Comment pouvez-vous penser

mourir vous, mon maître, qui etes immortel!’ Spontini retorted angrily,

‘Ne faites pas de mauvaises plaisanteries!’ In spite of all the

extraordinary experiences I had had with him, the news of his death,

which I received in Zürich, touched me very deeply. Later on I

expressed my feelings towards him, and my opinion of him as an artist,

in a somewhat condensed form in the Eidgenossischen Zeitung, and in

this article the quality I extolled more particularly in him was that,

unlike Meyerbeer, who was then the rage, and the very aged Rossini, he

believed absolutely in himself and his art. All the same, and somewhat

to my disgust, I could not but see that this belief in himself had

deteriorated into a veritable superstition.

I do not remember in those days having gone deeply into my feelings

about Spontini’s exceedingly strange individuality, nor do I recollect

having troubled to discover how far they were consistent with the high

opinion I formed of him after I had got to know him more intimately.

Obviously I had only seen the caricature of the man, although the

tendency towards such plainly overweening self-confidence may, at all

events, have manifested itself earlier in life. At the same time, one

could trace in all this the influence of the decay of the musical and

dramatic life of the period, which Spontini, situated as he was in

Berlin, was well able to witness. The surprising fact that he saw his

chief merit in unessential details showed plainly that his judgment had

become childish; in my opinion this did not detract from the great

value of his works, however much he might exaggerate their value. In a

sense I could justify his boundless self-confidence, which was

principally the outcome of the comparison between himself and the great

composers who were now replacing him; for in my heart of hearts I

shared the contempt which he felt for these artists, although I did not

dare to say so openly. And thus it came about that, in spite of his

many somewhat absurd idiosyncrasies, I learned during this meeting at

Dresden to feel a deep sympathy for this man, the like of whom I was

never again to meet.

My next experiences of important musical celebrities of this age were

of quite a different character. Amongst the more distinguished of these

was Heinrich Marschner, who, as a very young man, had been nominated

musical director of the Dresden orchestra by Weber. After Weber’s death

he seemed to have hoped that he would take his place entirely, and it

was due less to the fact that his talent was still unknown, than to his

repellent manner, that he was disappointed in his expectations. His

wife, however, suddenly came into some money, and this windfall enabled

him to devote all his energies to his work as composer of operas,

without being obliged to fill any fixed post.

During the wild days of my youth Marschner lived in Leipzig, where his

operas Der Vampir and Templer und Judin saw their first appearance. My

sister Rosalie had once taken me to him in order to hear his opinion

about me. He did not treat me uncivilly, but my visit led to nothing. I

was also present at the first night of his opera Des Falkner’s Braut,

which however was not a success. Then he went to Hanover. His opera

Hans Heiling, which was originally produced in Berlin, I heard for the

first time in Wurzburg; it showed vacillation in its tendency, and a

decrease in constructive power. After that he produced several other

operas, such as Das Schloss am Aetna and Der Babu, which never became

popular. He was always neglected by the management at Dresden, as

though they bore him some grudge, and only his Templer was played at

all often. My colleague, Reissiger, had to conduct this opera, and as

in his absence I always had to take his place, it also fell to my lot

on one occasion to direct a performance of this work.

This was during the time that I worked at my Tannhäuser. I remember

that, although I had often conducted this opera before in Magdeburg, on

this occasion the wild nature of the instrumentation and its lack of

mastership affected me to such an extent that it literally made me ill,

and as soon as he returned, therefore, I implored Reissiger at any cost

to resume the leadership. On the other hand, immediately after my

nomination I had started on the production of Hans Heiling, but merely

for the sake of the artistic honour. The insufficient distribution of

the parts, however, a difficulty which in those days could not be

overcome, made a complete success impossible. In any case, though, the

whole spirit of the work seemed to be terribly old-fashioned.

I now heard that Marschner had finished another opera called Adolph von

Nassau, and in a criticism of this work, of the genuineness of which I

was unable to judge, particular stress was laid upon the ‘patriotic and

noble German atmosphere’ of this new creation. I did my best to make

the Dresden theatre take the initiative, and to urge Lüttichau to

secure this opera before it was produced elsewhere. Marschner, who did

not seem to have been treated with particular consideration by the

Hanoverian opera authorities, accepted the invitation with great joy,

sent his score, and declared himself willing to come to Dresden for the

first performance. Lüttichau, however, was not anxious to see him take

his place at the head of the orchestra; while I, also, was of the

opinion that the too frequent appearance of outside conductors, even if

it were for the purpose of conducting their own works, would not only

lead to confusion, but might also fail to be as amusing and instructive

as Spontini’s visit had proved to be. It was therefore decided that I

should conduct the new opera myself. And how I lived to regret it!

The score arrived: to a weak plot by Karl Golmick the composer of the

Templer had written such superficial music, that the principal effect

lay in a drinking song for a quartette, in which the German Rhine and

German wine played the usual stereotyped part peculiar to such male

quartettes. I lost all courage; but we had to go on with it now, and

all I could do was to try, by maintaining a grave bearing, to make the

singers take an interest in their task; this, however, was not easy. To

Tichatschek and Mitterwurzer were assigned the two principal male

parts; being both eminently musical, they sang everything at first

sight, and after each number looked up at me as if to say, ‘What do you

think of it all?’ I maintained that it was good German music; they must

not allow themselves to get confused. But all they did was to stare at

each other in amazement, not knowing what to make of me. Nevertheless,

in the end they could not stand it any longer, and when they saw that I

still retained my gravity, they burst into loud laughter, in which I

could not help joining.

I now had to take them into my confidence, and make them promise to

follow my lead and pretend to be serious, for it was impossible to give

up the opera at this stage. A Viennese ‘colorature’ singer of the

latest style—Madame Spatser Gentiluomo—who came to us from Hanover, and

on whose services Marschner greatly relied, was rather taken with her

part chiefly because it gave her the chance of showing ‘brilliancy.’

And, indeed, there was a finale in which my ‘German master’ had

actually tried to steal a march on Donizetti. The Princess had been

poisoned by a golden rose, a present from the wicked Bishop of Mainz,

and had become delirious. Adolph von Nassau, with the knights of the

German empire, swears vengeance, and, accompanied by the chorus, pours

out his feelings in a stretta of such incredible vulgarity and

amateurishness that Donizetti would have thrown it at the head of any

of his pupils who had dared to compose such a thing. Marschner now

arrived for the dress rehearsal; he was very pleased, and, without

compelling me to falsehood, he gave me sufficient opportunities for

exercising my powers in the art of concealing my real thoughts. At all

events I must have succeeded fairly well, for he had every reason to

think himself considerately and kindly treated by me.

During the performance the public behaved very much as the singers had

done at the rehearsals. We had brought a still-born child into the

world. But Marschner was comforted by the fact that his drinking

quartette was encored. This was reminiscent of one of Becker’s songs:

Sie sollen ihn nicht haben, den freien deutschen Rhein (‘They shall not

have it, our free German Rhine’). After the performance the composer

was my guest at a supper party at which, I am sorry to say, the

singers, who had had enough of it, would not attend. Herr Ferdinand

Hiller had the presence of mind to insist, in his toast to Marschner,

that ‘whatever one might say, all stress must be laid on the GERMAN

master and GERMAN art.’ Strangely enough, Marschner himself

contradicted him by saying that there was something wrong with German

operatic compositions, and that one ought to consider the singers and

how to write more brilliantly for their voices than he had succeeded in

doing up to the present.

Highly gifted as Marschner was, there can be no doubt that the decline

of his genius was due partly to a tendency which even in the ageing

master himself, as he frankly admitted, was effecting an important and

most salutary change. In later years I met him once more in Paris at

the time of my memorable production of Tannhäuser. I did not feel

inclined to renew the old relations, for, to tell the truth, I wanted

to spare myself the unpleasantness of witnessing the consequences of

his change of views, of which we had seen the beginning in Dresden. I

learned that he was in a state of almost helpless childishness, and

that he was in the hands of a young and ambitious woman, who was trying

to make a last attempt at conquering Paris for him. Among other puff

paragraphs calculated to spread Marschner’s glory, I read one which

said that the Parisians must not believe that I (Wagner) was

representative of German art; no—if only Marschner were given a

hearing, it would be discovered that he was beyond a doubt better

suited to the French taste than I could ever be. Marschner died before

his wife had succeeded in establishing this point.

Ferdinand Hiller, on the other hand, who was in Dresden, behaved in a

very charming and friendly manner, particularly at this time. Meyerbeer

also stayed in the same town from time to time; precisely why, nobody

knew. Once he had rented a little house for the summer near the

Pirnaischer Schlag, and under a pretty tree in the garden of this place

he had had a small piano installed, whereon, in this idyllic retreat,

he worked at his Feldlager in Schlesien. He lived in great retirement,

and I saw very little of him. Ferdinand Hiller, on the contrary, took a

commanding position in the Dresden musical world in so far as this was

not already monopolised by the royal orchestra and its masters, and for

many years he worked hard for its success. Having a little private

capital, he established himself comfortably amongst us, and was soon

known as a delightful host, who kept a pleasant house, which, thanks to

his wife’s influence, was frequented by a numerous Polish colony. Frau

Hiller was indeed an exceptional Jewish woman of Polish origin, and she

was perhaps all the more exceptional seeing that she, in company with

her husband, had been baptized a Protestant in Italy. Hiller began his

career in Dresden with the production of his opera, Der Traum in der

Christnacht. Since the unheard-of fact that Rienzi had been able to

rouse the Dresden public to lasting enthusiasm, many an opera composer

had felt himself drawn towards our ‘Florence on the Elbe,’ of which

Laube once said that as soon as one entered it one felt bound to

apologise because one found so many good things there which one

promptly forgot the moment one departed.

The composer of Der Traum in der Christnacht looked upon this work as a

peculiarly ‘German composition.’ Hiller had set to music a gruesome

play by Raupach, Der Muller und sein Kind (‘The Miller and his Child’),

in which father and daughter, within but a short space of time, both

die of consumption. He declared that he had conceived the dialogue and

the music of this opera in what he called the ‘popular style,’ but this

work met with the same fate as that which, according to Liszt, befell

all his compositions. In spite of his undoubted musical merits, which

even Rossini acknowledged, and whether he gave them in French in Paris

or in Italian in Italy, it was his sad experience always to see his

operas fail. In Germany he had tried the Mendelssohnian style, and had

succeeded in composing an oratorio called Die Zerstorung Jerusalems,

which luckily was not taken notice of by the moody theatre-going

public, and which consequently received the unassailable reputation of

being ‘a solid German work.’ He also took Mendelssohn’s place as

director of the Leipzig Gewandhaus concerts when the latter was called

to Berlin in the capacity of general director. Hiller’s evil fortune

still pursued him, however, and he was unable to retain his position,

everybody being given to understand that it was because his wife was

not sufficiently acknowledged as concert prima-donna. Mendelssohn

returned and made Hiller leave, and Hiller boasted of having quarrelled

with him.