One day I asked him if he had any plans for his new-born son

RICHARD WAGNER

AND

and his Poetical Work

FROM

"RIENZI" TO "PARSIFAL"

BY

JUDITH GAUTIER

TRANSLATED WITH THE AUTHOR'S SPECIAL

PERMISSION

By L. S. J.

BOSTON

A. WILLIAMS AND COMPANY

Old Corner Bookstore

1883

AMERICAN INTRODUCTION.

Richard Wagner was born May 22, 1813, in Leipsic, Germany. He died in

Venice on February 13, 1883. His father was a Leipsic city official,

who gave his son the benefit of the illustrious Thomas School,

preparatory to a university career. The latter, however, was not of

much advantage to him, as young Wagner devoted himself mainly to

musical studies. He led a theatre orchestra in Magdeburg, then in

Königsberg, then in Riga.

From the latter place he went, in 1839, to Paris, where he completed

"Rienzi" and the "Flying Dutchman," in 1841. The latter was suggested

by a gale which Wagner experienced during a short voyage. "Rienzi" was

first brought out at Dresden in 1842, and led to Wagner's appointment

as orchestra leader in Dresden, where he brought out his "Tanhäuser" in

1845. In 1849 Wagner had to leave Germany for political reasons, and

went to Switzerland, where "Lohengrin" was finished and the tetralogy

of the "Nibelung" was begun. Wagner then lived in Italy, Vienna, and

Paris, where "Tanhäuser" met with a disastrous presentation in 1861,

and led accidentally to the following pages.

In 1864 Wagner became intimate with Louis II., the young King of

Bavaria, under whose zealous patronage he brought out his "Tristan"

in 1857 the "Mastersingers" in 1768, "Rhinegold" in 1853 and the

"Walkyria" in 1870,--all at Munich, wrote the text for his operas, and

also numerous pamphlets, most of which led to acrimonious discussions.

Wagner's musical ideals received some outward impulses from the

Oberammergau passion play and the success of the Franco-Prussian

war, which led to the establishment of the German Empire. A special

Wagner theatre was begun in 1872 at Bayreuth, where the master has

since lived, and his works were first presented in 1876, in entire

harmony with his vast requirements. Wagner's last work, "Parsifal," was

published in 1878.

Wagner's early writings were collected in an edition of nine volumes,

published in Leipsic, 1871 to 1873. His life was written by Glasenapp

in two volumes, 1876 to 1878. Kastner published a Wagner catalogue. But

it will take years, perhaps decades, before a final and just estimate

can be formed of so great a master. The following pages were written

by Judith Gautier, the Paris writer, and translated by an American

lady. They have gone through several European editions, as they give an

account of Wagner's opera texts, and pay a tribute to the genius of the

great composer, who was also a remarkable and original author.

PREFACE

Will the reader kindly look upon the first pages of this book as a

fragment of reminiscences, which I hope some day to publish; not that

my life in itself is worth relating, but it has been frequently brought

in contact with that of celebrated artists. It treats here of certain

experiences only, written as if for myself,--reminiscences gathered

during several years of uninterrupted relations with Richard Wagner.

The books already published on the master, in every language and

every style, either to combat or glorify him, would fill a shelf; the

catalogue of these criticisms, studies, and biographies would form a

volume. Thus, the subject of his defeats, victories, and what is termed

his musical system, has been exhausted; repetition is therefore useless.

Beside this, I have of late renounced all idea of proselytism; after

a long struggle I abandon the contest, at the moment when, to many,

victory seems most probable. I have reasons for this which I do not

care to indicate, but which seem to me decisive. What I have for

so long a time taken to be the customary and fatal resistance, the

instinctive hatred which is experienced by every public in every

country for the innovations of genius, is, I fear, in France something

even more. Our quick intelligence, so light, so mobile, so disposed

to mockery, deprives us of that quality so indispensable to the

comprehension of master works--simplicity. We cannot refrain from

finding something to ridicule in grand sentiments, sublimity, and noble

or terrible passions; what pleases us above all is graceful, spirited

art, slightly sentimental, quick observation, and arrows of satire;

also, no people can rival us when comic operas, vaudevilles, and

comedies of manners are in question.

Art is for us an amusement. We frankly weary of anything serious, and

if by chance we happen to admit a masterpiece upon the scenes, it

is simply on the score of curiosity. Does a theatre exist in Paris,

this world's capital, where the great works, lyrical and dramatic,

of the entire world may be represented? Who troubles himself about

Calderon, Schiller, Goethe, Shakspeare? While absurd fairy scenes

and miserable comedies, in which the only discoverable merit is the

play or personality of the actors, and scenes of disgraceful realism,

remain upon the boards during a whole year, Othello drags painfully

on, barely reaching the twentieth representation. It will, perhaps, be

urged that the Frenchman dare not travel, and that works of art created

outside of his own little world do not interest him. And Victor Hugo!

Is there any sort of indignity or outrage which has been spared him in

his own country? It is true, that after sixty years of contest, his

glory radiates at last splendid and triumphant. Well, where is Victor

Hugo's theatre? Has the new generation ever seen the representations

of this master's greatest works? "Les Burgraves," "Cromwell," and "Le

Roi qui S'Amuse." This last drama, it is true, is about to reappear

upon the stage. But fifty years will have intervened between its first

and second representations. Why hope that Richard Wagner should stand

a better chance of vanquishing the native antipathy of the French

public to serious works than Shakspeare, who after three hundred years

has not yet triumphed among us; than Victor Hugo, the greatest glory

of France? Are the enchantments of music capable of working this

miracle? It is possible, but I no longer hope for it. The success of

Lohengrin in Paris is probable, but we shall go no farther. Neither the

great Scandinavian epopée, nor the metaphysical loves of Tristan and

Isolde, nor the mysticism of Parsifal will reach us. For this reason,

recognizing the generous error in which I have so long persisted, I

renounce all sterile efforts, and, blessing the invention of railroads,

I go bravely toward the mountain which cannot be brought to me.

This book is, in reality, only addressed to the small number of the

initiated who, having broken through the occult precinct of the new

art, have the incomparable joy of admiring without reserve all that

is worthy of admiration. They will find in these pages, in addition

to certain characteristic traits of the master, drawn from life,

and from which they will be able to modify the ideas which they may

have received from fantastic portraits, the detailed analyses of

poems which have not been translated into French, and, above all,

that of Parsifal. These analyses will enable those undertaking the

pilgrimage to Bayreuth, and who do not understand German, to follow the

representations. My sole ambition is to be useful to the extent of my

power to this intelligent minority, who, in my opinion, alone form this

world, and who, I truly hope, may alone form another, should it exist;

for I am convinced, with Charles Baudelaire, that paradise is made up

of the small number of chosen ones.

CONTENTS.

Part First

RICHARD WAGNER

Part Second

RICHARD WAGNER'S POETIC WORK.

From Rienzi to Tristan and Isolde

RIENZI--THE FLYING DUTCHMAN--TANHÄUSER--LOHENGRIN--TRISTAN AND ISOLDE.

THE MASTERSINGERS OF NUREMBERG

THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG

RHINEGOLD (introductory)--WALKYRIA (first day)--SIGFRID (second day)

--GLOOM OF THE GODS (third day)

PARSIFAL: A LYRICAL FEAST

FIRST ACT--SECOND ACT--THIRD ACT.

RICHARD WAGNER.

It was under rather peculiar circumstances that the name of Wagner

was mentioned in my presence, for the first time, the evening of the

first representation of Tanhäuser in Paris. I had left school the day

before on a vacation, and if this great combat in regard to Tänhauser

had been mentioned in my hearing, I, at least, remembered nothing

of it. I was accidentally crossing the Passage de l'Opéra with my

father, the evening of this representation, during an _entr'acte_.

The passage was crowded; a gentleman, who approached my father with a

bow, stopped us. He was rather small, thin, with hollow cheeks and a

prominent nose, a broad forehead and brilliant eyes. He began to speak

of the representation, at which he had been present, with malignant

intensity, and such a ferocious joy at seeing the confirmation of its

failure, that, carried away by an involuntary sentiment, I suddenly

emerged from the silence and reserve imposed upon one of my age, to

cry with astonishing impertinence, "In hearing you, sir, it is easy

to divine that a great work is in question, and that you speak of a

brother-artist."

"Now, what has come over you, naughty child," said my father, wishing

to reprove me, but quietly laughing to himself. "Who is it?" I asked,

when the gentleman had left us. "That was Hector Berlioz."

I have never forgotten this incident, and I have seemed later to see

in this sudden movement of anger, which roused my young conscience

to indignation in so singular a manner, a sort of presentiment,

--something which premonished me that one day I should become a

passionate admirer of this artist, whose name I now heard for the first

time.

It seems evident that, at the moment when a new genius reveals

itself, a little group of chosen mortals springs to life, called to

form about him a devoted company to defend him, to console him for

all but universal hatred, to sustain him in his agonies, all the

while upholding the divinity of his inspirations. It was doubtless

my vocation to become a disciple of this new hero, to understand and

believe in him, for I was influenced by no one. One day chance placed

in my hands the score of the Flying Dutchman. My music teacher, who

hired music at Flaxland's, had taken this volume, among others, without

knowing its contents, and left it with me until the next lesson, as it

was inconveniently burdensome. I had profited little by my lessons,

and was a most indifferent pianist; notwithstanding which, after

having deciphered in the most incomplete and crude manner this unknown

score, I was entirely overcome, and in spite of my numberless mistakes,

the grandeur and meaning of this music were revealed to me by a sort

of intuition. I could not be persuaded to leave the piano; I became

infatuated, and my friends tried in vain to get the score out of my

hands. From this moment Richard Wagner had one more faithful disciple.

When, in 1868, I wrote several articles upon his works, I had still

a very imperfect knowledge of them from more or less satisfactory

executions upon the piano and desultory fragments heard at the popular

concerts. I was much alarmed at my own audacity, after having addressed

these articles to Wagner, then at Lucerne, accompanied by a letter,

begging him to aid me kindly with his advice for their correction and

completion. I hoped and waited for an answer with extreme anxiety:

would it come? I could not believe it, and yet I could think of

nothing else. I could hardly sleep, and as each morning passed, and

the messenger brought nothing, my heart filled with anguish. One day,

however, I spied the Lucerne postmark upon an envelope addressed in an

unknown hand, which I immediately recognized as remarkable.

I held this letter a long time between my fingers before opening it.

I experienced a strange emotion,--a sort of fear. How had I dared,

with my heedlessness, characteristically French, to write, confiding

alone in my instinct, upon the works of this artist, for whom I felt

already such an enthusiasm that I could only imagine him as existing,

after the manner of the gods, upon an inaccessible Olympus. Was this

letter really from him? I opened it at last, four pages of elegant

handwriting, very legible, and at the last line the magic signature.

The letter began thus: "Madam,--It is impossible that you could have

experienced the slightest doubt of the touching and kindly impression

made upon me by your letter and your fine articles. Accept my thanks

for them, and permit me to count you among the small number of true

friends whose clear-eyed sympathy is my only glory. There is nothing in

your articles to correct, nothing to suggest; but I perceive that you

have not yet a thorough knowledge of the Mastersingers." He then gave

me an interesting explanation of the introduction to the third act in

the Mastersingers, which had been performed by Pasdeloup a short time

previous at the popular concerts. The letter ended thus:--

"Pardon me, madam, if I venture to complete, above all with the aid of

my bad French, your acquaintance, otherwise so profound and intimate,

with my music, by which you have truly touched and surprised me. I

shall probably visit Paris before long, perhaps even this winter, and I

rejoice beforehand in the true pleasure of taking you by the hand, and

telling you face to face of the pleasure you have given to your truly

obliged and devoted,

RICHARD WAGNER."

I waited in vain for this proposed journey. Wagner did not visit France

during that winter. Nor has he come since then. There was but one thing

to be done,--go to Lucerne. But how should I be received? Fantastic

legends were reported in regard to Wagner; among others, it was related

that he had in his house a seraglio, composed of women of all colors,

from all countries, in magnificent costumes; but that no visitor

crossed the threshold of his dwelling. On the other hand, persons

who pretended to know him intimately, depicted him as an unsocial

man, gloomy and sullen, living in jealous retreat, having for sole

companionship two large black dogs. This wild solitude was tolerable,

and even pleased me; but the idea that a feeling of polite gratitude

might force him to break through it in my favor troubled me greatly.

On this account I wrote an extremely complicated letter, saying, that

passing through Lucerne by chance, only passing, I begged him to inform

me if he were still there and would permit me the pleasure of greeting

him. By this arrangement the fear of his disturbance being prolonged

beyond that of a short interview would be averted. To tell the truth,

chance had nothing to do with this journey, and there was nothing to

hurry me. The following letter entirely reassured me: "Madam,--I am

at Lucerne, and I have no need to tell you how much pleasure I shall

have in seeing you. I shall but beg you to prolong your sojourn at

Lucerne in order that the happiness you accord me may not vanish

too quickly. I suppose that you go to Munich for the Exposition of

pictures; however, as I have the presumption to believe that it will be

agreeable to you to hear some of my works, I would inform you that the

representation of Tanhäuser, Lohengrin, Tristan, and the Mastersingers

will take place in the month of June, that the theatre is at the

present moment closed, and that Rhinegold will be given at the earliest

on the 29th of August, if indeed it be given then. But I trust that

neither the postponement of the exposition, nor the closing of the

theatre, will retard your visit to Lucerne. Quite on the contrary, I

shall hope for a prolongation of your stay here, and while begging you

to kindly notify me by a word, of the day when you expect to arrive, I

pray you to accept the assurance of my respectful gratitude.

RICHARD WAGNER."

I arrived in Lucerne on a beautiful afternoon in the month of July,

1869. On entering the station I looked out of the carriage-door,

when I suddenly perceived Wagner on the platform. He did not in the

least resemble the unfavorable photographs which I had seen. I had

no hesitation in recognizing him and ran toward him. We shook hands

in silence, and he enveloped me with that intense glance which is

peculiar to himself, and seems to pierce one's soul. I experienced no

embarrassment during that moment of strange silence, in which my heart

was, so to speak, bare beneath his gaze, but a profound emotion, a

wild joy. "Come," he said, offering me his arm, "If you do not care

for magnificence, the Lake Hotel will please you; I have engaged rooms

there." The hotel was near by, and we went on foot. He stopped a moment

on the way, and with a very grave, almost solemn expression, said to

me: "We are bound by a very noble sentiment, madam." But an instant

later, after having recommended me to the innkeeper, he took leave of

me. "I am going to prepare for your reception," he said, "else I should

be stupid. Come presently when you have taken a little rest." From my

window I saw him move away with a rapid step, cross the old bridge of

Lucerne, and step into a boat. He told me later that he was in haste to

impart to his wife his impressions, which were not in the least what he

had anticipated. At sunset I reached Tribscheu, that consecrated bit of

land where, since that time, I have passed so many charming hours.

It was a sort of promontory, extremely picturesque, jutting into the

lake. There was neither grating nor door; the garden had no defined

limits, and extended indefinitely toward the neighboring mountains. The

exterior of the house was perfectly plain,--gray, with dark tiles; but

in the interior arrangements, full of grace and elegance, one felt

the presence of a woman. Madame Wagner appeared in the midst of her

children, fair, tall and gracious, with a charming smile, and tender,

dreamy-blue eyes. The sympathy with which she inspired me from the

first moment has never been broken, and our friendship, already of long

standing, has never known a cloud. It was a delightful evening; the

master displayed incomparable animation and gayety of spirits. I was

unprepared for this vivacity of mind, these witticisms, the delicacies

of language which we are wont to consider the monopoly of the Parisian,

and which acquired in him a peculiar charm from his foreign accent,

and, in spite of the great facility with which he spoke French, his

original and unexpected expressions. He spoke of Paris, where he had

greatly suffered, but which he still loved, and of the great contest

over Tanhäuser, without bitterness. I remember, among others, this

phrase:" Since the public at the opera do not like my music why inflict

it upon them?" The group of warm partisans which had formed itself in

France appeared to touch him deeply. Perhaps he founded secret hopes

upon the initiative spirit of the French. In spite of his steadily

increasing success in Germany he still had bitter adversaries, and was

still exposed to base persecutions. The press reviled him incessantly

with a coarseness and violence of which our French journals, even those

most eager for scandal, can give no idea. The calumnies went even so

far that Wagner, for the first and last time in his life, decided to

reply to them. "I have seen," he said, among other things, "the London

and Paris papers mock my works and tendencies without pity; these

works have been dragged through the mire, they have been hissed in the

theatres; but it still remained to me to see my person, my private

character, my domestic life, exposed to public contempt in the country

where my works are admired, and where a masculine energy and lofty

aspirations are recognized in my efforts." The nobility and clergy

were arrayed against him. What they sought for in him was doubtless

the revolutionist of the days in May, 1849; the deep thinker, the

powerful and energetic man of action, marching toward progress and the

liberation of thought. And what hatred! Banished, pursued, and not

knowing where to take refuge. Thus came about this almost incredible

thing, that, at one time, he might be thought the only German who had

not seen the representation of Lohengrin.

Notwithstanding the unalterable affection of King Louis II. he was, at

the time I saw him, morally exiled from Bavaria. His long-cherished

project of a theatre, the plans of which were already drawn by the

great architect, Semper, and which the king wished to have erected in

Munich, nearly revolutionized the city. The project was relinquished

and the plaster model of the building was sorrowfully banished to an

attic in the palace. But Wagner had not ceased to think of it, and who

knows if at this moment Paris was not the aim of his dreams? He was

then working upon the third part of the Nibelungen, Siegfried. I saw

the manuscript on his study piano, in a little apartment adjoining the

drawing-room. There was a portrait of his noble friend, handsome as

a hero of the Edda. I was told that he sometimes escaped from Munich

to pass a few days at Tribscheu, and that in this same room a bed was

arranged for him.

There is nothing more touching than the enthusiastic affection with

which this young king was inspired by the man of genius. He came to

him like a saving angel at the moment when all abandoned him. "What

shall I say to you," wrote Wagner to a friend, some time after his

first interview with the king; "the most incomprehensible thing, and

the only one, moreover, which could save me, is completely realized. In

the very year of my first representation of Tanhäuser, a queen brought

into this world the good genius of my life, him who was destined later,

in the depth of my distress, to give me safety and consolation. It

seems as if he had been sent me from heaven." The king was obliged,

however, to do battle for his great friend, for the entire court

was hostile to him, and the struggle was not without danger for the

newly-crowned youth. But nothing could change his heart. The world in

general revenged itself upon him by inventing various legends more or

less absurd and unworthy of his notice. His only peculiarity lies in

his deep intelligence, and his preference for masterpieces over the

frivolous and commonplace pleasures of the world.

For fifteen days I passed my afternoons and evenings in the charming

retreat Tribscheu, for I soon had the honor of being considered

a friend. When minds are once in sympathy hearts come quicker to

an understanding, and my affection for my host soon equalled the

admiration with which the artist had inspired me. Of all the

information given me about Wagner, his home life, the great reality,

was the one black spot. Rus was a handsome Newfoundland, very gentle

and pacific, who often came by himself to see me at the Lake Hotel. Few

visitors ever crossed the threshold of the master's house. He knew no

one at Lucerne, and this tranquillity was favorable to his work. Thus

I saw him alone with his family, in all the simplicity of his life,

and could form an exact idea of his character. I was greatly struck

in the first place by his powerful, resolute head, the extraordinary

brilliancy of his eyes, and his intensity of expression. There was also

an expression of infinite goodness, which would never be suspected from

his portraits. This almost superhuman goodness radiated from him at

every moment; it was visible in the adoration with which he inspired

not only his family but all who surrounded him. The members of his

little domain took advantage of this gentleness. Little by little

relations of every degree, near or far, gathered about him, who having

come for a visit stayed indefinitely. As I knew the master better, I

gained a further insight into his exquisite tenderness of soul, which

in him has nothing in common with the vulgar philanthropy so frequently

met with, and which is for the most part theoretic. It was a Frenchman,

the Count of Gobineau, who said of Wagner, "He can never be absolutely

happy, for he will always have some one near him whose sorrows he

feels bound to share."

One day I asked him if he had any plans for his new-born son. "My first

ambition," he said, "is to assure him a modest income, which will

render him independent, that he may be sheltered from the miserable

annoyances from which I have so cruelly suffered. Then I should wish

him to know something of surgery, enough to render aid to a wounded

person in emergencies, to prepare a first dressing. I have so often

been troubled by my own inability that I wish to spare him this

pain. Beyond this I shall leave him entirely free." Madame Wagner

told me that the composition of the Mastersingers had been suspended

during long months on account of a sick dog, wandering and abandoned,

which Wagner, then at Zurich, had picked up and endeavored to cure.

The dog had bitten his right hand badly, and the wound became so

painful as to prevent him from writing. It is impossible to dictate

music, and he was thus reduced to inaction, which put his patience

to a hard test; but the dog was none the less cared for. There are,

however, violence and roughness in Richard Wagner's character which

must be recognized, and which are frequently the cause of his being

misjudged, but only by those who regard merely the exterior. Nervous

and impassionable to excess, the emotions which he experiences are

always carried to an extreme. With him slight pain is almost despair,

the smallest irritation has the appearance of madness. This wonderful

organization of such exquisite sensibility has terrible vibrations,

and his resistance of them is wonderful. A day of anxiety ages him

ten years, but, happiness once reinstated, the day following finds

him younger than ever. He gives himself to others with extraordinary

prodigality. Always sincere, his whole heart is in everything he does;

but of an extremely variable temper, his opinions and ideas, fixed

the first moment, are by no means irrevocable. No one recognizes an

error more quickly than he does, but he must have passed his first

enthusiasm. By his frankness and vehemence he often wounds his best

friends unintentionally; always excessive he goes farther than he

intends, and does not recognize the grief he causes. Many, wounded in

their self-love, bear in silence the injury which aggravates them, and

thus they lose a precious friendship; whereas, if they had cried out

that they were hurt, they would have found the master filled with such

sincere regrets that he would have made an effusive effort to console

them, and their love for him would only have increased.

"With Wagner the second movement is the good one," said a French

violinist, who had left everything to enroll himself in the orchestra

at Bayreuth,--an artist of great merit, a man of spirit who was one

of those preferred by the master. In spite of his occasionally rough

manner, Wagner is, when he so chooses, a perfect charmer. There is

nothing to be compared with the fascination which he exercises upon

the interpreters working under his orders. After a few days the most

hostile and rebellious orchestra becomes attached to him. It is the

same with the singers, whom he inspires with unbounded devotion. The

illustrious Schnorr, the first singer of Tristan, in which part he was

sublime, cried, as he drew his last breath, "It is not I then who will

sing Siegfried." He regretted nothing in this life but the glory of

interpreting Wagner's works. One of the most remarkable things about

Wagner is the youthful gayety which so frequently breaks out, and the

charming good humor which his tormented life has never been able to

quench. His entertaining and profound conversation will become all

at once, without transition, full of humor and imagination. He tells

stories in the most comical manner, with a fine irony which belongs to

him alone. At Lucerne he surprised me by his skill in bodily exercises,

and by his singular agility. He climbed the highest trees in his

garden, to the terror of his wife, who besought me not to look at him,

because, she said, if he were encouraged he would commit no end of

follies.

He was then working very regularly, rising early in the morning. At

midday he was free, took long walks, or rested while reading, for

he has an insatiable thirst for literature, and is an indefatigable

student. In these hours of rest and meditation he has moments

of beautiful serenity. His features then assume an incomparable

sweetness, his face becomes enveloped with a pallor which has nothing

of ill-health, but seems to veil it with a slight cloud. At these

moments nothing troubles or agitates him. One feels that he is in

self-communion with his dreams, and one involuntarily thinks of a

magnificent lake reflecting the heavens. I have never witnessed

this peaceful reverie without emotion, without the deep desire that

nothing may trouble or dissipate it. But little is needed to bring

back agitation; the least breath suffices; happy if the tempest does

not break forth. Unfortunately for himself Wagner will never know

the feeling so wisely egotistical--polite indifference. Before my

departure from Lucerne he wished to organize an excursion of several

days to show us the country of William Tell. We were obliged to start

at dawn, and the carriage was winding its way by the lake of Lucerne,

or the Four Cantons, when the sun rose. I remember that a gleam of

light fell upon the master's lips while he was talking to us. In

speaking of Mendelssohn he said: "He is a great landscape-painter."

I confess to seeing very little of the country I was visiting. I

remember at the first halting-place a trout upon which Wagner made a

frightful pun, which I shall not translate. Then came the steamboat

which conveyed us to Zurich, where the master was welcomed by the

populace as a well-loved king; a mountain was climbed, a sail followed;

but all is confused. What has ever remained in my memory is the charm

of those days, passed in such glorious intimacy, his gentle gayety and

simplicity, the attentive cares, the art of organizing everything for

one's greatest comfort and pleasure. He was the first to rise and awake

the more slothful ones, and he hummed the Marseillaise as he tapped

upon our doors.

Once again at Lucerne Wagner confessed that he had been suffering

during the greater part of the journey, but had been careful to say

nothing lest he should spoil our pleasure. It was with sincere regret

that I finally took leave of my hosts, being, however, somewhat

consoled by the promise that I should often receive news from

Tribscheu, a promise which has been faithfully kept. I returned there

the following year, 1870, being at Lucerne when the war was declared.

It was evident with his ardent character that Wagner could not fail

to be deeply impressed by this event. The idea of a united Germany

impassioned him, and I confess that I should have loved him less had

he not experienced, like all of us, in these crises the inspirations

of patriotism. It was deemed expedient, however, not to touch upon

dangerous questions, where we could not possibly agree, but to remain

prudently in the regions of art, where we so entirely understood one

another. By this method the events which made us opponents could not

disturb our friendship. Returned to Paris, the last letter which I

received from him was dated the 5th of September. It informed me of

the baptism of his son, to whom I stood god-mother, but alas, at a

distance. "At the moment of the benediction," he wrote, "a storm

burst upon us with flashes of lightning and loud peals of thunder. It

appears that the thunder claps will play their part in the life of this

terrible child. I myself like such celestial auguries, while I hold

in aversion those terrestrial blows which have deprived us of your

presence. I keep to our silence so sensibly agreed upon. But happily

there is a region of existence where we are and always shall remain

friends. All that separates us, even in our opinions upon things which

belong to this region, can only contribute to draw us in time nearer

and more intimately together." The horrible tempest once calmed, we

met again with the same sentiments, each continuing to reserve his

own opinions. In 1872 Lucerne was abandoned for Bayreuth; the great

project so long cherished of the theatre built after Wagner's ideas

was at last to be realized. The 22d of April Madame Wagner wrote me:

"One last word from Tribscheu, my dear friend, which we leave with full

hearts and troubled minds. To-morrow Wagner goes to Bayreuth, and I am

to follow him with the children and Rus in a week. We cannot, however,

leave without sending you our tender remembrances."

The first stone of the theatre was solemnly laid at Bayreuth on

the 22d of May of the same year. On this occasion the king sent the

following despatch to Wagner:--

"From the depths of my heart, dear friend, I express to you, on this

day of such great import to all Germany, my warmest and sincerest

congratulations. Success and blessing to the great enterprise of the

coming year! To-day more than ever I am with you in spirit."

"Ludwig."

Beethoven's symphony, with choruses, directed by Wagner, was the

finest episode of the _fêtes_ which followed. The German public, who

knew it well, was enraptured by the inimitable performance. "We cannot

express in words our thanks and admiration for the manner in which

Wagner interprets the works of Beethoven," wrote the Musical Journal

of Berlin. "We have never heard an orchestra spiritualized to such

a degree. We add our share of enthusiasm to that of the transported

audience." And Mr. Richard Pohl, a well-known writer, said: "Richard

Wagner, who always directs without notes, knowing the score by heart,

exercises a marvellous and magnetic charm over his orchestra. He forces

it to accomplish his wishes, does with it what he will, sure of being

obeyed. He animates and electrifies each musician, and always remains

in sympathetic contact with the whole instrumental body. All divine,

so to speak, his thought. He handles the orchestra like a gigantic

instrument, with a certainty that never fails him, with a sovereignty

before which all joyfully bow. To form an idea of this prodigy it must

be witnessed; the revelation is as unique as is Wagner's incomparably

artistic nature." "Our fête is over," wrote Madame Wagner, several days

later, "and in spite of very bad weather it has been superb. The words

of Beethoven, 'all men become brothers,' seemed to be realized during

these few days at Bayreuth, where our friends, known and unknown, have

congregated from every quarter of the globe, having all one thought and

one faith."

In 1876 the theatre was finished, and that colossal work, the Ring of

the Nibelung, was brought forward and put upon the stage. Sovereigns,

artists, an intelligent crowd, rushed toward Bayreuth, which could

not contain it, and even the streets were put into requisition for

improvised camps. That little city, so completely obscure a few years

ago, suddenly rendered famous by the caprice of a man of genius, is

hidden behind the chilly mountains of Upper Franconia. Pine woods,

rapid streams, vast plains, bounded by blue-tinted hills against the

misty sky, long poplar-studded roads, along which harnessed oxen slowly

travel in couples under the brass yoke which forms a sort of crown over

their heads,--such is the approach to this once quiet city, which,

all at once, in honor of the theatre which rises in proud simplicity

on the hill, throws open its gates to welcome emperors, kings, and

princes from all countries, and finds itself filled with a joyous

crowd, which the innkeepers, waking from their long lethargy, swindle

to the best of their ability. While speaking of innkeepers I may recall

a characteristic incident which happened at Munich. The hotel-keepers

of the city, having previously come to a common understanding, offered

to build the projected theatre for Wagner at their own expense, but

at Munich, not in Bayreuth. They considered that it would be a great

affair for them. Even as a river is diverted from its course, so they

proposed to direct toward themselves the tide of visitors; but the

master held to Bayreuth and declined their offers.

Wahnfried! Such is the name of Wagner's villa at Bayreuth. Wahnfried, a

name full of melancholy doubt, which gives rise to many thoughts, but

is difficult to translate; its truest signification being illusions of

peace. At the height of his glory, adored almost, he whose life had

been so troubled and painful wished to persuade himself that he had at

last cremated, sheltered from all attacks, a retreat where he could

thenceforward live in peace; but he himself recognized the futility

of this scheme. Can repose exist for such a mind, always pushing

irresistibly forward and higher? Folly, illusion, thus to mark a

standing-place, to carve one's tombstone, and to dig a grave, while so

many desires are still fermenting, and while so many dreams are still

outlived, which must be formed, and then again dissipated.

Wahnfried! This word, which at first seemed to me to contain a regret,

held, perhaps, on the contrary a hope. The house, constructed upon

Wagner's own plan, appears at the end of a long avenue; it is built

of grayish red stones, almost square, and without other ornament than

the fresco upon the front, which recalls a scene from the Nibelungen.

A straight flight of steps leads to the door; that opens upon a small

anteroom, which again communicates with a large vestibule, very high,

and lighted from the top. It is surrounded, on a level with the first

story, by a gallery, decorated with paintings, representing Eastern

scenes. The floor is paved with flagstones, divans are placed in the

angles, together with marble statues of Wagner's heroes, the work of

enthusiastic sculptors, and a large American organ with brass stops.

At the right is the dining-room; on the left a little salon filled

with objects of art. Facing this is the great hall of reunion, vast

and sumptuous, at once library and working-room. It is terminated by

a glass rotunda opening into the garden, where a fountain is babbling

joyously.

The theatre, which stands outside of the city on a hill, is a

construction of simple aspect, somewhat resembling the palace of the

Trocadéro. When I saw it for the first time rising majestically on the

height, illumined by the rays of the setting sun; when I saw that

contemplative crowd slowly ascending on every side toward this temple

of art, I could not restrain tears of joy. The dream of this man's

entire life was thus at last realized. The world that had persecuted

him hastened finally to greet him with a rapture beyond precedent. He,

once so persecuted, enjoyed even in life his apotheosis. This new phase

of his life had changed nothing in his manner of being; this immense

triumph failed to intoxicate him; he did not even appear to be greatly

impressed. It seemed to me that the Nibelungen were far from his mind,

which already meditated new creations. He made me visit the theatre in

all its details, from the hidden orchestra, sunk beneath the stage, to

the mechanism which held suspended the Undines of the Rhine. We had to

climb everything that was practicable, descend to the floor under the

stage; and I perceived that the master had lost none of his agility of

Tribscheu.

Those who were present at the admirable representations of 1876,

where everything had been prepared and directed by Wagner, will never

forget them. A like solemnity has not been reproduced since the great

theatrical celebrations of ancient Greece, and will remain a great

event in the future history of art. I shall close these few pages,

written from memory, by the relation of my last visit to the master,

copied from my travelling note book.

BAYREUTH, 29th of September, 1881.

It is with quickly beating hearts that we cross once more the threshold

of this dwelling, which, in spite of the cordial reception always

awaiting us, we feel to be consecrated ground, the holy of holies,

which should not be penetrated without a sort of sacred awe. The whole

family is assembled in the drawing-room, which is brightened by a ray

of sunlight. Liszt, who has come to pass a few weeks with his dear

grandchildren, is superb, with his long white hair, his bushy eyebrows,

beneath which shine a lion's eyes. My godson is already growing large;

he has a broad forehead, and blue eyes of exquisite sweetness. The

master comes up from the garden, always the same, even younger. Truly

the immortals defy time. He receives us with that tender effusion with

which those of his followers, by whom he knows himself perfectly loved,

inspire him, for he has nothing of the impassable egotism which so

often attacks great men when they arrive at a certain height of glory.

He is rather, as we have already said, too impressionable, allows

himself to be governed by the momentary violence of his impressions;

and the only uneasiness he causes to those who surround him, who live

only for him, proceeds from this intensity in his sadness or joy, or

from his anger, which a nature less tempered than his would not be

able to resist. He can sometimes forget, even completely change, his

opinion, love that which he once detested, and always with the same

sincerity.

We pass to the dining-room. The master is now rapturously gay; he

expresses himself with some difficulty in French, which does not,

however, prevent his playing upon the words as no one else can. He

tells us of his journey to Naples and Venice, of the pleasure he has

derived from Italy, and we quickly divine in him a longing for the sun

and new horizons; he is thinking of Greece, the Bosporus, India. Oh

Wahnfried, Wahnfried! One thing evidently wearies him greatly; it is

the instrumentation of Parsifal. He complains of not being able to form

young artists capable of aiding him in his work; but this is simply

make-believe, he well knows that it is impossible. "When one is young,"

he said, "when the nerves are not yet fatigued, and one writes scores

with a certain ease, even that of Lohengrin, without knowing all

the resources of coloring and combination, the work is not comparable

to that which the new works demand, and which must be written at a

maturer age. Auber, however, wrote until his eighty-fourth year without

fatigue; but he had not changed his manner." Liszt relates a speech of

Auber's, to whom a young musician of great promise had been presented.

"Are we not enough already?" cried the master. He afterwards spoke of a

counterbass with five chords, the object of which is to descend still

further in the lower notes than the ordinary counterbass does. Wagner

said of a gentleman who came to submit a similar process to him, that

he sent him about his business. Mendelssohn, however, has already tried

something of the kind and produced a fine effect.

We were reproached for not having come a month sooner, when the house

was full of singers, to whom the parts of Parsifal were assigned, and

who began their first studies. To console us, Wagner promised to let

us hear certain passages. But he pretends to play badly, so that it

will not be the same thing. There is a project to go to-morrow to the

theatre to see the models of the scenes, provided the machinist who is

expected has arrived to show them:

30th September.

We are early to-day at Wahnfried. The gate is never shut except by a

bolt, and we can take a solitary walk in the garden without disturbing

any one. Long trellises of virgin vines, already bloodstained by the

precocious autumn, creep the length of each side of the way leading to

the house; it is almost dark under their shelter; in places, however,

the green roof becomes lighter, and the dead leaves rustle under our

feet. The space intervening between these trellises and the centre

walk is reserved for the kitchen garden; but the soil does not appear

to be fertile. We come out at the conservatory, where there is already

a fire; all the delicate flowers have been brought in-doors. A few

exotic plants destined to ornament the drawing-room, but which are

withering, are there as in an infirmary. In front of the hot-house, on

the other side of the house, cries and a flapping of wings indicate the

hen-house; it is large and gay, and might be taken for a sample from

the garden of acclimation in Paris. Peacocks, silver pheasants, rare

hens, and a scattering of pigeons fill it, defying the cook's knife,

for the place is as sacred to them as if they were taking their sports

within the enclosure of a Brahmin temple.

In front of the drawing-room, and surrounding the fountain, is the

pleasure-garden; with fine lawns, beds of Bengal roses, and flowers of

all kinds, but many of them are already frostbitten. This free space

is enclosed by a bushy wood forming a sort of wall. One must penetrate

its shadows to approach the tomb, which has been already so much talked

of, and which by a sufficiently exuberant fancy the master caused to

be built at the same time with his house. It is completely enveloped

by the thick coppice, and is without egress; it is only when autumn

strips the trees that a large, gray marble slab can be seen through

the confusion of branches, over which the briars twine themselves.

A graceful pavilion of two stories, a gymnasium for the children,

hemicycles of grass, with stone benches, are scattered in this wood,

which leads to a little gate, looking out upon the royal residence. The

stroke of the clock recalls us to the house. The master has finished

his morning task, and shows us his well-filled page lying upon the

table. His life is one of the greatest regularity, above all when, as

at this time, he is pursuing a hurried and fatiguing work. He rises at

six, but after his bath retires again and reads until ten. At eleven

he sets himself to work until two o'clock. After dinner he rests for

a short time, always in company with a book. From four until six he

drives, then goes back to his work until supper, at eight; the evening

is passed gayly with his family, and before eleven all the household is

in bed.

At table Liszt announces that Darwin declares himself a partisan of

vivisection, but that this frightful practice has just been interdicted

in England. It is well known that Richard Wagner is one of the warmest

defenders of those innocent victims of the physiologist's cruel

curiosity. Some time ago he wrote a long article full of sadness and

anger, in which he repeats the words of Faust, "The dogs themselves

will no longer wish to live in such a world." "Our campaign has already

had good results in Germany," he said; "the joiners who manufacture

the instruments of torture destined for the unfortunate dogs complain

of the diminution of their sales." He asks us if this humane cause

has defenders in France; to which we reply that there are very ardent

ones; in the first instance, all honest people: and then we cite among

the journalists Victor Meunier, who, in the Rappel, rises vehemently

against these cruelties, and very justly compares the actual position

of animals to that of the former slaves, over whom their masters were

supposed to have every right.

A visit to the theatre is again spoken of; the machinist whom we

expected, evidently cannot come; but we shall go to see the models and

scenery in M. Ioukouski's studio. "My theatre will, I think," said the

master, "become a sort of conservatory where singers will be found, and

where the method in which my works will be executed and put upon the

stage will serve as a model to directors and managers who will mount

them elsewhere." The Paris Conservatory still holds to the tradition

of the movements of Gluck's Iphigenia.... "You have there," he added,

"an orchestra of the first order--Beethoven's Symphonies were played to

perfection." Liszt tells of a very singular appreciation on Boieldieu's

part of the Beethoven Symphonies, at the time of their first hearing

in Paris. "It certainly produces an effect," he said, "but it bears a

resemblance to people chewing tobacco and swearing in a guard-house."