PART III

1850-1861

MINNA had been lucky enough to find quarters near Zurich which

corresponded very closely with the wishes I had so emphatically

expressed before leaving. The house was situated in the parish of Enge,

a good fifteen minutes' walk from the town, on a site overlooking the

lake, and was an old-fashioned hostelry called 'Zum Abendstern,'

belonging to a certain Frau Hirel, who was a pleasant old lady. The

second floor, which was quite self-contained and very quiet, offered us

humble but adequate accommodations for a modest rent.

I arrived early in the morning and found Minna still in bed. She was

anxious to know whether I had returned simply out of pity; but I

quickly succeeded in obtaining her promise that she would never again

refer to what had taken place. She was soon quite herself again when

she began to show me the progress she had made in arranging the rooms.

Our position had for some years been growing more comfortable, in spite

of the fact that at this time various difficulties again arose, and our

domestic happiness seemed tolerably secure. Yet I could never quite

master a restless inclination to deviate from anything that was

regarded as conventional.

Our two pets, Peps and Papo, largely helped to make our lodgings

homelike; both were very fond of me, and were sometimes even too

obtrusive in showing their affection. Peps would always lie behind me

in the armchair while I was working, and Papo, after repeatedly calling

out 'Richard' in vain, would often come fluttering into my study if I

stayed away from the sitting-room too long. He would then settle down

on my desk and vigorously shuffle about the papers and pens. He was so

well trained that he never uttered the ordinary cry of a bird, but

expressed his sentiments only by talking or singing. As soon as he

heard my step on the staircase he would begin whistling a tune, as, for

instance, the great march in the finale of the Symphony in C minor, the

beginning of the Eighth Symphony in F major, or even a bright bit out

of the Rienzi Overture. Peps, our little dog, on the other hand, was a

highly sensitive and nervous creature. My friends used to call him

'Peps the petulant,' and there were times when we could not speak to

him even in the friendliest way without bringing on paroxysms of howls

and sobs. These two pets of course helped very much to increase the

mutual understanding between myself and my wife.

Unfortunately, there was one perpetual source of quarrel, arising from

my wife's behaviour towards poor Nathalie. Until her death she

shamefully withheld from the girl the fact that she was her mother.

Nathalie, therefore, always believed that she was Minna's sister, and

consequently could not understand why she should not have the same

rights as my wife, who always treated her in an authoritative way, as a

strict mother would do, and seemed to think herself justified in

complaining of Nathalie's behaviour. Apparently the latter had been

much neglected and spoiled just at the critical age, and deprived of

any proper training. She was short in stature and inclined to become

stout, her manners were awkward and her opinions narrow. Minna's hasty

temper and continual jeering made the girl, who was naturally very

good-natured, stubborn and spiteful, so that the behaviour of the

'sisters' often caused the most hateful scenes in our quiet home. I

never lost my patience at these incidents, however, but remained,

completely indifferent to everything going on around me.

The arrival of my young friend Karl was a pleasant diversion in our

small household. Ho occupied a tiny attic above our rooms and shared

our meals. Sometimes he would accompany me on my walks, and for a time

seemed quite satisfied.

But I soon noticed in him a growing restlessness. He had not been slow

to recognise, by the unpleasant scenes that again became daily

occurrences in our married life, at what point the shoe pinched that I

had good-naturedly put on again at his request. However, when one day I

reminded him that in coming hack to Zurich I had other objects in view

besides the longing for a quiet domestic life, he remained silent. But

I saw that there was another peculiar reason for his uneasiness; he

took to coming in late for meals, and even then he had no appetite. At

first I was anxious at this, fearing he might have taken a dislike to

our simple fare, but I soon discovered that my young friend was so

passionately addicted to sweets that I feared he might eventually ruin

his health by trying to live on large quantities of confectionery. My

remarks seemed to annoy him, as his absences from the house became more

frequent, I thought that probably his small room did not afford him the

comfort he required, and I therefore made no objection when he left us

and took a room in town.

As his state of uneasiness still seemed to increase and he did not

appear at all happy in Zurich, I was glad to be able to suggest a

little change for him, and persuade him to go for a holiday to Weimar,

where the first performance of Lohengrin was to take place about the

end of August.

About the same time I induced Minna to go with me for our first ascent

of the Righi, a feat we both accomplished very energetically on foot. I

was very much grieved on this occasion to discover that my wife had

symptoms of heart disease, which continued to develop subsequently. We

spent the evening of the 28th of August, while the first performance of

Lohengrin was taking place at Weimar, in Lucerne, at the Schwan inn,

watching the clock as the hands went round, and marking the various

times at which the performance presumably began, developed, and came to

a close.

I always felt somewhat distressed, uncomfortable, and ill at ease

whenever I tried to pass a few pleasant hours in the society of my wife.

The reports received of that first performance gave me no clear or

reassuring impression of it. Karl Ritter soon came back to Zurich, and

told me of deficiencies in staging and of the unfortunate choice of a

singer for the leading part, but remarked that on the whole it had gone

fairly well. The reports sent me by Liszt were the most encouraging. He

did not seem to think it worth while to allude to the inadequacy of the

means at his command for such a bold undertaking, but preferred to

dwell on the sympathetic spirit that prevailed in the company and the

effect it produced on the influential personages he had invited to be

present.

Although everything in connection with this important enterprise

eventually assumed a bright aspect, the direct result on my position at

the time was very slight. I was more interested in the future of the

young friend who had been entrusted to my care than in anything else.

At the time of his visit to Weimar he had been to stay with his family

in Dresden, and after his return expressed an anxious wish to become a

musician, and possibly to secure a position as a musical director at a

theatre. I had never had an opportunity of judging of his gifts in this

line. He had always refused to play the piano in my presence, but I had

seen his setting of an alliterative poem of his own, Die Walkure,

which, though rather awkwardly put together, struck me by its precise

and skilful compliance with the rules of composition.

He proved himself to be the worthy pupil of his master, Robert

Schumann, who, long before, had told me that Karl possessed great

musical gifts, and that he could not remember ever having had any other

pupil endowed with such a keen ear and such a ready facility for

assimilation. Consequently I had no reason to discourage the young

man's confidence in his capacity for the career of a musical director.

As the winter season was approaching, I asked the manager of the

theatre for the address of Herr Kramer, who was coming for the season,

and learned that he was still engaged at Winterthur.

Sulzer, who was always ready when help or advice was needed, arranged

for a meeting with Herr Kramer at a dinner at the 'Wilden Mann' in

Winterthur. At this meeting it was decided, on my recommendation, that

Karl Ritter should be appointed musical director at the theatre for the

ensuing winter, starting from October, and the remuneration he was to

receive was really a very fair one. As my protege was admittedly a

beginner, I had to guarantee his capacity by undertaking to perform his

duties in the event of any trouble arising at the theatre on the ground

of his inefficiency. Karl seemed delighted. As October drew near and

the opening of the theatre was announced to take place 'under

exceptional artistic auspices.' I thought it advisable to see what

Karl's views were.

By way of a debut I had selected Der Freischutz, so that he might open

his career with a well-known opera. Karl did not entertain the

slightest doubt of being able to master such a simple score, but when

he had to overcome his reserve in playing the piano before me, as I

wanted to go through the whole opera with him, I was amazed at seeing

that he had no idea of accompaniment. He played the arrangement for the

pianoforte with the characteristic carelessness of an amateur who

attaches no importance to lengthening a bar by incorrect fingering. He

knew nothing whatever about rhythmic precision or tempo, the very

essentials of a conductor's career. I felt completely nonplussed and

was absolutely at a loss what to say. However, I still hoped the young

man's talent might suddenly break out, and I looked forward to an

orchestral rehearsal, for which I provided him with a pair of large

spectacles. I had never noticed before that he was so shortsighted, but

when reading he had to keep his face so close to the music that it

would have been impossible for him to control both orchestra and

singers. When I saw him, hitherto so confident, standing at the

conductor's desk staring hard at the score, in spite of his spectacles,

and making meaningless signs in the air like one in a trance, I at once

realised that the time for carrying out my guarantee had arrived.

It was, nevertheless, a somewhat difficult and trying task to make

young Ritter understand that I should be compelled to take his place;

but there was no help for it, and it was I who had to inaugurate

Kramer's winter season under such 'exceptional artistic auspices.' The

success of Der Freischulz placed me in a peculiar position as regards

both the company and the public, but it was quite out of the question

to suppose that Karl could continue to act as musical director at the

theatre by himself.

Strange to say, this trying experience coincided with an important

change in the life of another young friend of mine, Hans von Bulow,

whom I had known in Dresden. I had met his father at Zurich in the

previous year just after his second marriage. He afterwards settled

down at Lake Constance, and it was from this place that Hans wrote to

me expressing his regret that he was unable to pay his long-desired

visit to Zurich, as he had previously promised to do.

As far as I could make out, his mother, who had been divorced from his

father, did all in her power to restrain him from embracing the career

of an artist, and tried to persuade him to enter the civil or the

diplomatic service, as he had studied law. But his inclinations and

talents impelled him to a musical career. It seemed that his mother,

when giving him permission to go to visit his father, had particularly

urged him to avoid any meeting with me. When I afterwards heard that he

had been advised by his father also not to come to Zurich, I felt sure

that the latter, although he had been on friendly terms with me, was

anxious to act in accordance with his first wife's wishes in this

serious matter of his son's future, so as to avoid any further disputes

after the friction of the divorce had barely been allayed. Later on I

learned that these statements, which roused a strong feeling of

resentment in me against Eduard von Bulow, were unfounded; but the

despairing tone of Hans's letter, clearly showing that any other career

would be repugnant to him and would be a constant source of misery,

seemed to be ample reason for my interference. This was one of the

occasions when my easily excited indignation roused me to activity. I

replied very fully, and eloquently pointed out to him the vital

importance of this moment in his life. The desperate tone of his letter

justified me in telling him very plainly that this was not a case in

which he could deal hastily with his views as to the future, but that

it was a matter profoundly affecting his whole heart and soul. I told

him what I myself would do in his case, that is to say, if he really

felt an overwhelming and irresistible impulse to become an artist, and

would prefer to endure the greatest hardships and trials rather than be

forced into a course he felt was a wrong one, he ought, in defiance of

everything, to make up his mind to accept the helping hand I was

holding out to him at once. If, in spite of his father's prohibition,

he still wished to come to me, he ought not to hesitate, but should

carry out his wishes immediately on the receipt of my letter.

Karl Ritter was pleased when I entrusted him with the duty of

delivering the letter personally at Bulow's country villa. When he

arrived he asked to see his friend at the door, and went for a stroll

with him, during which he gave him my letter. Thereupon Hans, who like

Karl had no money, at once decided, in spite of storm and rain, to

accompany Karl back to Zurich on foot. So one day they turned up

absolutely tired out, and came into my room looking like a couple of

tramps, with visible signs about them of their mad expedition. Karl

beamed with joy over this feat, while young Bulow was quite overcome

with emotion.

I at once realised that I had taken a very serious responsibility on my

shoulders, yet I sympathised deeply with the overwrought youth, and my

conduct towards him was guided by all that had occurred for a long time

afterwards.

At first we had to console him, and stimulate his confidence by our

cheerfulness. His appointment was soon arranged. He was to share Karl's

contract at the theatre, and enjoy the same rights; both were to

receive a small salary, and I was to continue to act as surety for

their capabilities.

At this time they happened to be rehearsing a musical comedy, and Hans,

without any knowledge of the subject, took up his position at the

conductor's desk and handled the baton with great vigour and remarkable

skill. I felt safe as far as he was concerned, and all doubt as to his

ability as musical director vanished on the spot. But it was a somewhat

difficult task to overcome Karl's misgivings about himself, owing to

the idea ingrained in his mind that he never could become a practical

musician. A growing shyness and secret antipathy towards me soon

manifested itself and became more noticeable in this young man, in

spite of the fact that he was certainly gifted. It was impossible to

keep him any longer in his position or to ask him to conduct again.

Bulow also soon encountered unexpected difficulties. The manager and

his staff, who had been spoiled by my having conducted on the occasion

already mentioned, were always on the look-out for some fresh excuse

for requisitioning my services.

I did, in fact, conduct again a few times, partly to give the public a

favourable impression of the operatic company, which was really quite a

good one, and partly to show my young friends, especially Bulow, who

was so eminently adapted for a conductor, the most essential points

which the leader of an orchestra ought to know.

Hans was always equal to the occasion, and I could with a clear

conscience say there was no need for me to take his place whenever he

was called upon to conduct. However, one of the artistes, a very

conceited singer, who had been somewhat spoiled by my praise, annoyed

him so much by her ways that she succeeded in forcing me to take up the

baton again. When a couple of months later we realised the

impossibility of carrying on this state of things indefinitely, and

were tired of the whole affair, the management consented to free us

from our irksome duties. About this time Hans was offered the post of

musical director at St. Gall without any special conditions being

attached to his engagement, so I sent the two boys off to try their

luck in the neighbouring town, and thus gained time for further

developments.

Herr Eduard von Bulow had, after all, come to the conclusion that it

would be wiser to abide by his son's decision, though he did not do so

without evincing a good deal of ill-humour towards me. He had not

replied to a letter I had written him to explain my conduct in the

matter, but I afterwards learned that he had visited his son in Zurich

by way of patching up a reconciliation.

I went several times to St. Gall to see the young men, as they remained

there during the winter months. I found Karl lost in gloomy thought: he

had again met with an unfavourable reception when conducting Gluck's

Overture to Iphigenia, and was keeping aloof from everybody. Hans was

busily rehearsing with a very poor company and a horrible orchestra, in

a hideous theatre. Seeing all this misery, I told Hans that for the

time being he had picked up enough to pass for a practical musician or

even for an experienced conductor.

The question now was to find him a sphere which would give him a

suitable scope for his talents. He told me that his father was going to

send him to Freiherr von Poissl, the manager of the Munich Court

Theatre, with a letter of introduction. But his mother soon intervened,

and wanted him to go to Weimar to continue his musical training under

Liszt. This was all I could desire; I felt greatly relieved and

heartily recommended the young man, of whom I was very fond, to my

distinguished friend.

He left St. Gall at Easter, 1851, and during the long period of his

stay in Weimar I was released from the responsibility of looking after

him.

Meanwhile Ritter remained in melancholy retirement, and not being able

to make up his mind whether or not he should return to Zurich, where he

would be disagreeably reminded of his unlucky debut, he preferred for

the present to stay in seclusion at St. Gall.

The sojourn of my young friends at St. Gall had been pleasantly varied

during the previous winter by a visit to Zurich, when Hans made his

appearance as pianist at one of the concerts of the musical society

there. I also took an active part in it by conducting one of

Beethoven's symphonies, and it was a great pleasure to us both to give

each other mutual encouragement.

I had been asked to appear again at this society's concerts during the

winter. However, I only did so occasionally, to conduct a Beethoven

symphony, making it a condition that the orchestra, and more especially

the string instruments, should be reinforced by capable musicians from

other towns.

As I always required three rehearsals for each symphony, and many of

the musicians had to come from a great distance, our work acquired

quite an imposing and solemn character. I was able to devote the time

usually taken up by a rehearsal to the study of one symphony, and

accordingly had leisure to work out the minutest details of the

execution, particularly as the technical difficulties were not of an

insuperable character. My facility in interpreting music at that time

attained a degree of perfection I had not hitherto reached, and I

recognised this by the unexpected effect my conducting produced.

The orchestra contained some really talented and clever musicians,

among whom I may mention Fries, an oboist, who, starting from a

subordinate place, had been appointed a leading player. He had to

practice with me, just as a singer would do, the more important parts

allotted to his instrument in Beethoven's symphonies. When we first

produced the Symphony in C minor, this extraordinary man played the

small passage marked adagio at the fermata of the first movement in a

manner I have never heard equalled. After my retirement from the

directorship of these concerts he left the orchestra and went into

business as a music-seller.

The orchestra could further boast of a Herr Ott-Imhoff, a highly

cultured and well-to-do man who belonged to a noble family, and had

joined the orchestra as a patron and as an amateur musician. He played

the clarionet with a soft and charming tone which was somewhat lacking

in spirit. I must also mention the worthy Herr Bar, a cornet-player,

whom I appointed leader of the brass instruments, as he exercised a

great influence on that part of the orchestra. I cannot remember ever

having heard the long, powerful chords of the last movement of the C

minor Symphony executed with such intense power as by this player in

Zurich, and can only compare the recollection of it with the

impressions I had when, in my early Parisian days, the Conservatoire

orchestra performed Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

Our production of the Symphony in C minor made a great impression on

the audience, especially on my intimate friend Sulzer, who had

previously kept aloof from any kind of music. He became so incensed

when an attack was made on me by a newspaper that he answered the

gratuitous critic in a satirical poem composed with the skill of a

Platen.

As I have already said, Bulow was invited in the course of the winter

to give a pianoforte recital at a concert at which I promised to

produce the Sinfonia Eroica.

With his usual audacity he chose Liszt's piano arrangement of the

Tannhauser Overture, a work as brilliant as it is difficult, and

therefore a somewhat hazardous undertaking. However, he caused quite a

sensation, and I myself was astounded at his execution. Up to this time

I had not paid it the attention it deserved, and it inspired me with

the greatest confidence in his future. I frequently had occasion to

admire his masterly skill both as conductor and accompanist.

During that winter, apart from the occasions in my young friend's life

already briefly alluded to, there were frequent opportunities of

displaying his capabilities. My acquaintances used to foregather in my

house, and formed quite a little club for the purposes of mutual

enjoyment, which, however, would hardly have been successful without

Bulow's assistance.

I sang suitable passages from my opera, which Hans accompanied with an

expressiveness which delighted me very much. On an occasion like this I

also read aloud extracts from my manuscripts. For instance, during a

series of successive evenings I read the whole of my longer work, Oper

und Drama, written in the course of this winter, and was favoured by a

steadily growing and remarkably attentive audience.

Now that after my return I had secured a certain degree of peace and

tranquillity of mind, I began to think of resuming my more serious

studies. But somehow the composition of Siegfried's Death did not seem

to appeal to me. The idea of sitting down deliberately to write a score

which should never go further than the paper on which it was written,

again discouraged me; whereas I felt more and more strongly impelled to

lay a foundation on which it might some day be possible to present such

a work, even though the end had to be gained by roundabout means. To

secure this object it seemed above all necessary to approach those

friends, both at home and abroad, who interested themselves in my art,

in order to expound to them more clearly the problems that demanded

solution, which, although definite enough to my own mind, had scarcely

as yet even entered into their heads. A singularly favourable

opportunity for so doing offered itself one day when Sulzer showed me

an article on 'Opera' in Brockhaus's Modern Encyclopedia. The good man

was fully convinced that in the opinions expressed in this article I

should find a preliminary basis for my own theories. But a hasty glance

sufficed to show me at once how entirely erroneous they were, and I

tried hard to point out to Sulzer the fundamental difference between

the accepted views, even of very sensible people, and my own

conceptions of the heart of the matter. Finding it naturally

impossible, even with all the eloquence at my command, to elucidate my

ideas all at once, I set about preparing a methodical plan for detailed

treatment of the subject as soon as I got home. In this way I was lead

to write this book which was published under the title of Oper und

Drama, a task which kept me fully occupied for several months, in fact

until February, 1851.

But I had to pay heavily for the exhausting toil expended on the

conclusion of this work. According to my calculations, only a few days

of persevering industry were needed for the completion of my

manuscript, when my parrot, which usually watched me on my

writing-table, was taken seriously ill. As it had already completely

recovered from several similar attacks, I did not feel very anxious.

Although my wife begged me to fetch a veterinary surgeon who lived in a

village which was rather far off, I preferred to stick to my desk, and

I put off going from one day to the next. At last one evening the

all-important manuscript was finished, and the next morning our poor

Papo lay dead on the floor. My inconsolable grief over this melancholy

loss was fully shared by Minna, and by our mutual affection for this

treasured pet we were once more tenderly united in a way likely to

conduce to our domestic happiness.

In addition to our pets, our older Zurich friends had also remained

faithful to us, in spite of the catastrophe which had befallen my

family life. Sulzer was without a doubt the worthiest and most

important of these friends. The profound difference between us both in

intellect and temperament seemed only to favour this relationship, for

each was constantly providing surprises for the other; and as the

divergencies between us were radical, they often gave rise to most

exhilarating and instructive experiences. Sulzer was extraordinarily

excitable and very delicate in health. It was quite against his own

original desire that he had entered the service of the state, and in

doing so he had sacrificed his own wishes to a conscientious

performance of duty in the extremest sense of the word, and now,

through his acquaintance with me, he was drawn more deeply into the

sphere of aesthetic enjoyment than he regarded as justifiable. Probably

he would have indulged less freely in these excesses, had I taken my

art a little less seriously. But as I insisted upon attaching an

importance to the artistic destiny of mankind which far transcended the

mere aims of citizenship, I sometimes completely upset him. Yet, on the

other hand, it was just this intense earnestness which so strongly

attracted him to me and my speculations. This not only gave rise to

pleasant conversation and calm discussion between us, but also, owing

to a fiery temper on both sides, sometimes provoked violent explosions,

so that, with trembling lips, he would seize hat and stick and hurry

away without a word of farewell. Such, however, was the intrinsic worth

of the man, that he was sure to turn up again the next evening at the

accustomed hour, when we both felt as though nothing whatever had

passed between us. But when certain bodily ailments compelled him to

remain indoors for many days, it was difficult to gain access to him,

for he was apt to become furious when any one inquired about his

health. On these occasions there was only one way of putting him in a

good temper, and that was to say that one had called to ask a favour of

him. Thereupon he was pleasantly surprised, and would not only declare

himself ready to oblige in any way that was in his power, but would

assume a really cheerful and benevolent demeanour.

A remarkable contrast to him was presented by the musician Wilhelm

Baumgartner, a merry, jovial fellow, without any aptitude for

concentration, who had learned just enough about the piano to be able,

as teacher at so much an hour, to earn what he required for a living.

He had a taste for what was beautiful, provided it did not soar too

high, and possessed a true and loyal heart, full of a great respect for

Sulzer, which unfortunately could not cure him of a craving for the

public-house.

Besides this man, there were two others who had also from the very

first formed part of our circle. Both of them were friends of the pair

I have already mentioned; their names were Hagenbuch, a worthy and

respectable deputy cantonal secretary; and Bernhard Spyri, a lawyer,

and at that time editor of the Eidgenossische Zeitung. The latter was a

singularly good-tempered man, but not overburdened with intellect, for

which reason Sulzer always treated him with special consideration.

Alexander Muller soon disappeared from our midst, as he became more and

more engrossed by domestic calamities, bodily infirmities, and the

mechanical drudgery of giving lessons by the hour. As for the musician

Abt, I had never felt particularly drawn towards him, in spite of his

Schwalben, and he too speedily left us to carve a brilliant career for

himself in Brunswick.

In the meantime, however, our Zurich circle was enriched by all kinds

of additions from without, mainly due to the political shipwrecks. On

my return, in January, 1850, I had already found Adolph Kolatschek, a

plain, though not unprepossessing-looking man, though he was a bit of a

bore. He imagined himself born to be an editor, and had founded a

German monthly magazine, which was to open a field for those who had

been outwardly conquered in the recent movements to continue their

fight in the inner realm of the spirit. I felt almost flattered at

being picked out by him as an author, and being informed that 'a power

like mine' ought not to be absent from a union of spiritual forces such

as was to be established by his enterprise. I had previously sent him

from Paris my treatise on Kunst und Klima; and he now gladly accepted

some fairly long extracts from my still unpublished Oper und Drama, for

which he moreover paid me a handsome fee. This man made an indelible

impression on my mind as the only instance I have met of a really

tactful editor. He once handed me the manuscript of a review on my

Kunstwerk der Zukunft, written by a certain Herr Palleske, to read,

saying that he would not print it without my express consent, though he

did not press me to give it. It was a superficial article, without any

true comprehension of the subject, and couched in most arrogant terms.

I felt that if it appeared in this particular journal it would

certainly demand inconvenient and wearisome rejoinders from me, in

which I should have to restate my original thesis. As I was by no means

inclined to enter upon such a controversy, I agreed to Kolatschek's

proposal, and suggested that he had better return the manuscript to its

author for publication elsewhere.

Through Kolatschek I also learned to know Reinhold Solger, a really

excellent and interesting man. But it did not suit his restless and

adventurous spirit to remain cooped up in the small and narrow Swiss

world of Zurich, so that he soon left us and went to North America,

where I heard that he went about giving lectures and denouncing the

political situation in Europe. It was a pity that this talented man

never succeeded in making a name for himself by more important work.

His contributions to our monthly journal, during the brief term of his

stay in Zurich, were certainly among the best ever written on these

topics by a German.

In the new year, 1851, Georg Herwegh also joined us, and I was

delighted to meet him one day at Kolatschek's lodgings. The

vicissitudes which had brought him to Zurich came to my knowledge

afterwards in a somewhat offensive and aggressive manner. For the

present, Herwegh put on an aristocratic swagger and gave himself the

airs of a delicately nurtured and luxurious son of his times, to which

a fairly liberal interpolation of French expletives at least added a

certain distinction. Nevertheless, there was something about his

person, with his quick, flashing eye and kindliness of manner, which

was well calculated to exert an attractive influence. I felt almost

flattered by his ready acceptance of my invitation to my informal

evening parties, which may, perhaps, have been fairly agreeable

gatherings, as Bulow entertained us with music, though to me personally

they afforded no mental sustenance whatever. My wife used to declare

that, when I proceeded to read from my manuscript, Kolatschek promptly

fell asleep, while Herwegh gave all his attention to her punch. When,

later on, as I have already mentioned, I read my Oper und Drama for

twelve consecutive evenings to our Zurich friends, Herwegh stayed away,

because he did not wish to mix with those for whom such things had not

been written. Yet my intercourse with him became gradually more

cordial. Not only did I respect his poetical talent, which had recently

gained recognition, but I also learned to realise the delicate and

refined qualities of his richly cultivated intellect, and in course of

time learned that Herwegh, on his side, was beginning to covet my

society. My steady pursuit of those deeper and more serious interests

which so passionately engrossed me seemed to arouse him to an ennobling

sympathy, even for those topics which, since his sudden leap into

poetic fame, had been, greatly to his prejudice, smothered under mere

showy and trivial mannerisms, altogether alien to his original nature.

Possibly this process was accelerated by the growing difficulties of

his position, which he had hitherto regarded as demanding a certain

amount of outward show. In short, he was the first man in whom I met

with a sensitive and sympathetic comprehension of my most daring

schemes and opinions, and I soon felt compelled to believe his

assertion that he occupied himself solely with my ideas, into which,

certainly, no other man entered so profoundly as he did.

This familiarity with Herwegh, in which an element of affection was

certainly mingled, was further stimulated by news which reached me

respecting a new dramatic poem which I had sketched out for the coining

spring. Liszt's preparations in the late summer of the previous year

for the production in Weimar of my Lohengrin had met with more success

than, with such limited resources, had hitherto seemed possible. This

result could naturally only have been obtained by the zeal of a friend

endowed with such rich and varied gifts as Liszt. Though it was beyond

his power to attract quickly to the Weimar stage such singers as

Lohengrin demanded, and he had been compelled on many points to content

himself with merely suggesting what was intended to be represented, yet

he was now endeavouring by sundry ingenious methods to make these

suggestions clearly comprehensible. First of all, he prepared a

detailed account of the production of Lohengrin. Seldom has a written

description of a work of art won for it such attentive friends, and

commanded their enthusiastic appreciation from the outset, as did this

treatise of Liszt's, which extended even to the most insignificant

details. Karl Ritter distinguished himself by providing an excellent

German translation of the French original, which was first published in

the Illustrirte Zeitung. Shortly after this Liszt also issued

Tannhauser in French, accompanied by a similar preface on its origin,

and these pamphlets were the chief means of awakening, now and for long

after, especially in foreign countries, not only a surprisingly

sympathetic interest in these works, but also an intimate understanding

of them such as could not possibly have been attained by the mere study

of my pianoforte arrangements. But, far from being satisfied with this,

Liszt contrived to attract the attention of intellects outside Weimar

to the performances of my operas, in order, with kindly compulsion, to

force them upon the notice of all who had ears to hear and eyes to see.

Although his good intentions did not altogether succeed with Franz

Dingelstedt, who would only commit himself to a confused report on

Lohengrin in the Allgemeine Zeitung, yet his enthusiastic eloquence

completely and decisively captured Adolf Stahr for my work. His

detailed view of Lohengrin in the Berlin National-Zeitung, in which he

claimed a high importance for my opera, did not remain without

permanent influence upon the German public. Even in the narrow circle

of professional musicians its effects seem not to have been

unimportant; for Robert Franz, whom Liszt dragged almost by force to a

performance of Lohengrin, spoke of it with unmistakable enthusiasm.

This example gave the lead to many other journals, and for some time it

seemed as though the otherwise dull-witted musical press would

energetically champion my cause.

I shall shortly have occasion to describe what it was that eventually

gave quite a different direction to this movement. Meanwhile Liszt felt

emboldened by these kindly signs to encourage me to renew my creative

activity, which had now for some time been interrupted. His success

with Lohengrin gave him confidence in his ability to execute a yet more

hazardous undertaking, and he invited me to set my poem of Siegfried's

Death to music for production at Weimar. On his recommendation, the

manager of the Weimar theatre, Herr von Ziegesar, offered to make a

definite contract with me in the name of the Grand Duke. I was to

finish the work within a year, and during that period was to receive a

payment of fifteen hundred marks (L75).

It was a curious coincidence that about this time, and also through

Liszt, the Duke of Coburg invited me to arrange the instrumentation for

an opera of his own composition, for which he offered me the sum of two

thousand seven hundred marks (L135). In spite of my position as an

outlaw, my noble patron and would-be employer offered to receive me in

his castle at Coburg, where, in quiet seclusion with himself and Frau

Birchpfeiffer, the writer of the libretto, I might execute the work.

Liszt naturally expected nothing more from me than a decent excuse for

declining this offer, and suggested my pleading 'bodily and mental

depression.' My friend told me afterwards that the Duke had desired my

co-operation with him in his score on account of my skilful use of

trombones. When he inquired, through Liszt, what my rules for their

manipulation were, I replied that before I could write anything for

trombones I required first to have some ideas in my head.

On the other hand, however, I felt very much tempted to entertain the

Weimar proposal. Still weary from my exhausting labour on Oper und

Drama, and worried by many things which had a depressing effect on my

spirits, I seated myself for the first time for many months at my

Hartel grand-piano, which had been rescued from the Dresden

catastrophe, to see whether I could settle down to composing the music

for my ponderous heroic drama. In rapid outline I sketched the music

for the Song of the Norns, or Daughters of the Rhine, which in this

first draft was only roughly suggested. But when I attempted to turn

Brunhilda's first address to Siegfried into song my courage failed me

completely, for I could not help asking myself whether the singer had

yet been born who was capable of vitalising this heroic female figure.

The idea of my niece Johanna occurred to me, whom, as a matter of fact,

I had already destined for this rule when I was still in Dresden on

account of her various personal charms. She had now entered upon the

career of prima donna at Hamburg, but, judging from all the reports I

had received, and especially from the attitude towards me that she

openly adopted in her letters to her family, I could only conclude that

my modest hopes of enlisting her talents on my behalf were doomed to

disappointment. I was, moreover, confused by the fact that a second

Dresden prima donna, Mme. Gentiluomo Spatzer, who had once enraptured

Marschner with Donizetti's dithyrambics, kept hovering perpetually

before my mind as a possible substitute for Johanna. At last, in a

rage, I sprang up from the piano, and swore that I would write nothing

more for these silly fastidious schoolgirls. Whenever I saw any

likelihood of being again brought into closer contact with the theatre

I was filled with an indescribable disgust which, for the time being, I

was unable to overcome. It was some little consolation to discover that

bodily ill-health might possibly be at the bottom of this mental

disorder. During the spring of this year I had been suffering from a

curious rash, which spread over my whole body. For this my doctor

prescribed a course of sulphur-baths, to be taken regularly every

morning. Although the remedy excited my nerves so much that later on I

was obliged to adopt radical measures for the restoration of my health,

yet in the meantime the regular morning walk to the town and back,

surrounded by the fresh green and early spring flowers of May, acted as

a cheerful stimulant on my mental condition. I now conceived the idea

of the poem of Junger Siegfried, which I proposed to issue as a heroic

comedy by way of prelude and complement to the tragedy of Siegfrieds

Tod. Carried away by my conception, I tried to persuade myself that

this piece would be easier to produce than the other more serious and

terrible drama. With this idea in my mind I informed Liszt of my

purpose, and offered the Weimar management to compose a score for

Junger Siegfried, which as yet was unwritten, in return for which I

would definitely accept their proposal to grant me a year's salary of

fifteen hundred marks. This they agreed to without delay, and I took up

my quarters in the attic-room evacuated the previous year by Karl

Ritter, where, with the aid of sulphur and May-blossom, and in the

highest spirits, I proposed to complete the poem of Junger Siegfried,

as already outlined in my original design.

I must now give some account of the cordial relations which, ever since

my departure from Dresden, I had maintained with Theodor Uhlig, the

young musician of the Dresden orchestra, which I have already

described, and which by this time had developed into a genuinely

productive association. His independent and indeed somewhat

uncultivated disposition had been moulded into a warm, almost boundless

devotion to myself, inspired both by sympathy for my fate and a

thorough understanding of my works. He also had been among the number

of those who had visited Weimar to hear my Lohengrin, and had sent me a

very detailed account of the performance. As Hartel, the music-dealer

in Leipzig, had willingly agreed to my request to publish Lohengrin on

condition that I should not demand any share in the profits, I

entrusted Uhlig with the preparation of the pianoforte arrangement. But

it was more the theoretical questions discussed in my works that formed

the chief link that bound us together by a serious correspondence. The

characteristic which especially touched me about this man, whom from

his training I could regard merely as an instrumentalist, was that he

had grasped with clear understanding and perfect agreement those very

tendencies of mine which many musicians of apparently wider culture

than his own regarded with almost despairing horror, as being dangerous

to the orthodox practice of their art. He forthwith acquired the

literary facility necessary for the expression of his agreement with my

views, and gave tangible proof of this in a lengthy treatise on

'Instrumental Music,' which appeared in Kolatschek's German monthly

journal. He also sent to me another strictly theoretical work on the

'Structure of Musical Theme and Phrase.' In this he showed the

originality of his ideas about Mozart's and Beethoven's methods, to an

extent which was only equalled by the thoroughness with which he had

mastered the question, especially where he discussed their highly

characteristic differences. This clear and exhaustive treatise appeared

to me admirably adapted to form the basis for a new theory of the

higher art of musical phrasing, whereby Beethoven's most obscure

construction might be explained, and elaborated into a comprehensible

system that would allow of further application. These treatises

attracted the attention of Franz Brendel, the astute publisher of the

Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik, to their brilliant young author. He was

invited by Brendel to join the staff of his paper, and soon succeeded

in changing his chief's previous attitude of indecision. As Brendel's

aims were on the whole perfectly honourable and serious, he was quickly

and definitely led to adopt those views which from this time began to

make a stir in the musical world under the title of the 'New Tendency.'

I thereupon felt impelled to contribute an epoch-making article to his

paper on these lines. I had noticed for some time that such

ill-sounding catch-phrases as 'Jewish ornamental flourishes'

(Melismas), 'Synagogue Music,' and the like were being bandied about

without any rhyme or reason beyond that of giving expression to

meaningless irritation. The question thus raised regarding the

significance of the modern Jew in music stimulated me to make a closer

examination of Jewish influence and the characteristics peculiar to it.

This I did in a lengthy treatise on 'Judaism in Music.' Although I did

not wish to hide my identity, as its author, from all inquiries, yet I

considered it advisable to adopt a pseudonym, lest my very seriously

intended effort should be degraded to a purely personal matter, and its

real importance be thereby vitiated. The stir, nay, the genuine

consternation, created by this article defies comparison with any other

similar publication. The unparalleled animosity with which, even up to

the present day, I have been pursued by the entire press of Europe can

only be understood by those who have taken an account of this article

and of the dreadful commotion which it caused at the time of its

publication. It must also be remembered that almost all the newspapers

of Europe are in the hands of Jews. Apart from these facts, it would be

impossible to understand the unqualified bitterness of this lasting

persecution, which cannot be adequately explained on the mere ground of

a theoretical or practical dislike for my opinions or artistic works.

The first outcome of the article was a storm which broke over poor

Brendel, who was entirely innocent, and, indeed, hardly conscious of

his offence. This erelong developed into a savage persecution which

aimed at nothing less than his ruin. Another immediate result was that

the few friends whom Liszt had induced to declare themselves in my

favour forthwith took refuge in a discreet silence. As it soon seemed

advisable, in the interests of their own productions, to give direct

evidence of their estrangement from me, most of them passed over to the

ranks of my enemies. But Uhlig clung to me all the more closely on this

account. He strengthened Brendel's weaker will to endurance, and kept

helping him with contributions for his paper, some of them profound and

others witty and very much to the point. He fixed his eye more

particularly on one of my chief antagonists, a man named Bischoff, whom

Hiller had discovered in Cologne, and who first invented for me and my

friends the title of Zukunftsmusiker ('Musicians of the Future'). With

him he entered into a prolonged and somewhat diverting controversy. The

foundation had now been laid for the problem of the so-called

Zukunftsmusik ('Music of the Future'), which was to become a European

scandal, in spite of the fact that Liszt quickly adopted the title

himself with good-humoured pride. It is true that I had to some extent

suggested this name in the title of my book, Kunstwerk der Zukunft; but

it only developed into a battle-cry when 'Judaism in Music' unbarred

the sluices of wrath upon me and my friends.

My book, Oper und Drama, was published in the second half of this year,

and, so far as it was noticed at all by the leading musicians of the

day, naturally only helped to add fuel to the wrath which blazed

against me. This fury, however, assumed more the character of slander

and malice, for our movement had meantime been reduced by a great

connoisseur in such things, Meyerbeer, to a clearly defined system,

which he maintained and practised with a sure hand until his lamented

death.

Uhlig had come across my book, Oper und Drama, during the early stages

of the furious uproar against me. I had presented him with the original

manuscript, and as it was nicely bound in red, I hit upon the idea of

writing in it, by way of dedication, the words, 'RED, my friend, is MY

theory,' in contradistinction to the Gothic saying, 'Grey, my friend,

is all theory.' This gift elicited an exhilarating and most delightful

correspondence with my lively and keen-sighted young friend, who, after

two long years of separation, I felt sincerely desirous of seeing

again. It was not an easy matter for the poor fiddler, whose pay was

barely that of a chamber musician, to comply with my invitation. But he

gladly tried to overcome all difficulties, and said he would come early

in July. I decided to go as far as Rorschach, on the Lake of Constance,

to meet him, so that we might make an excursion through the Alps as far

as Zurich. I went by a pleasant detour through the Toggenburg,

travelling on foot as usual. In this way, cheerful and refreshed, I

reached St. Gall, where I sought out Karl Ritter, who, since Bulow's

departure, had remained there alone in curious seclusion. I could guess

the reason of his retirement, although he said that he had enjoyed very

agreeable intercourse with a St. Gall musician named Greitel, of whom I

never heard anything further. Though very tired after my long walking

tour, I could not refrain from submitting the manuscript of my Jungcr

Siegfried, which I had just finished, to the quick and critical

judgment of this intelligent young man, who was thus the first person

to hear it. I was more than gratified by its effect upon him, and, in

high spirits, persuaded him to forsake his strange retreat and go with

me to meet Uhlig, so that we might all three proceed over the Santis

for a long and pleasant stay in Zurich. My first glance at my guest, as

he landed at the familiar harbour of Rorschach, filled me at once with

anxiety for his health, for it revealed but too plainly his tendency to

consumption. In order to spare him, I wished to give up the proposed

mountain climb, but he eagerly protested that exercise of this kind in

the fresh air could only do him good after the drudgery of his wretched

fiddling. After crossing the little canton of Appenzell, we had to face

the by no means easy crossing of the Santis. It was my first experience

also of travelling over an extensive snow-field in summer. After

reaching our guide's hut, which was perched on a rugged slope, where we

regaled ourselves with exceedingly frugal fare, we had to climb the

towering and precipitous pinnacle of rock which forms the summit of the

mountain, a few hundred feet above us. Here Karl suddenly refused to

allow us, and to shake him out of his effeminacy I had to send back the

guide for him, who, at our request, succeeded in bringing him along,

half by force. But now that we had to clamber from stone to stone along

the precipitous cliff, I soon began to realise how foolish I had been

in compelling Karl to share our perilous adventure. His dizziness

evidently stupefied him, for he stared in front of him as though he

could not see, and we had to hold him fast between our alpenstocks,

every moment expecting to see him collapse, and tumble into the abyss.

When we at last attained the summit, he sank senseless on the ground,

and I now fully understood what a terrible responsibility I had

undertaken, as the yet more dangerous descent had still to be made. In

an agony of fear, which, while it made me forget my own danger

altogether, filled me with a vision of my young friend lying shattered

on the rocks below, we at last reached the guide's cottage in safety.

As Uhlig and myself were still determined to descend the precipitous

further side of the mountain, a feat which the guide informed us was

not without danger, I resolved to leave young Ritter behind in the hut,

as the indescribable anguish I had just endured on his behalf had been

a warning to me. Here he was to await the return of our guide, and in

his company take the not very dangerous path by which we had come. We

accordingly parted, as he was to return in the direction of Gall, while

we two roamed through the lovely Toggenburg valley, and the next day by

Rappersweil to the Lake of Zurich, and so home. Not until many days

later did Karl relieve our anxiety concerning him by arriving at

Zurich. He remained with us a short time, and then departed, probably

wishing to escape being tempted into more mountain climbing, which we

had certainly planned. I heard from him afterwards when he had settled

for some time in Stuttgart, where he seemed to be doing well. He soon

made great friends with a young actor, and lived on terms of great

intimacy with him.

I was sincerely delighted by the close intercourse I now had with the

gentle young Dresden chamber musician, whose manly strength of

character and extraordinary mental endowments greatly endeared him to

me. My wife said that his curly golden hair and bright blue eyes made

her think an angel had come to stay with us. For me his features had a

peculiar and, considering his fate, pathetic interest, on account of

his striking resemblance to King Friedrich August of Saxony, my former

patron, who was still alive at that time, and seemed to confirm a

rumour which had reached me that Uhlig was his natural son. It was

entertaining to hear his news of Dresden, and all about the theatre,

and the condition of musical affairs in that city. My operas, which had

once been its glory, had now quite vanished from the repertoire. He

gave me a choice example of my late colleagues' opinion of me by

relating the following incident. When Kunst und Revolution and

Kunstwerk der Zukunft appeared, and were being discussed among them,

one of them remarked: 'Ha! he may worry a long time before he will be

able to write conductor before his name again.' By way of illustrating

the advance made in music, he related the manner in which Reissiger,

having on one occasion to conduct Beethoven's Symphony in A major,

which had been previously executed by me, had helped himself out of a

sudden dilemma. Beethoven, as is well known, marks the great finale of

the last movement with a prolonged forte, which he merely heightens by

a sempre piu forte. At this point Reissiger, who had conducted the

Symphony before me, thinking the opportunity a favourable one, had

introduced a piano, in order at least to secure an effective crescendo.

This I had naturally ignored, and had instructed the orchestra to play

with their full strength throughout. Now, therefore, that the

conducting of this work had once more fallen into my predecessor's

hands, he found it difficult to restore his unlucky piano; but, feeling

that he must save his authority, which had been compromised, he made a

rule that mezzo forte should be played instead of forte.

But the most painful news he gave me was about the state of utter

neglect into which my unhappy operatic publications had fallen in the

hands of the court music-dealer Meser, who, seeing that money had to be

continually paid out, while nothing came in, regarded himself as a

sacrificial lamb whom I had lured to the slaughter. Yet he steadily

refused all inspection of his books, maintaining that he thereby

protected my property, as all I possessed having been confiscated, it

would otherwise be seized at once. A pleasanter topic than this was

Lohengrin. My friend had completed the pianoforte arrangement, and was

already busy correcting the engraver's proofs.

By his enthusiastic advocacy of the water cure, Uhlig gained an

influence over me in another direction, and one which was of long

duration. He brought me a book on the subject by a certain Rausse,

which pleased me greatly, especially by its radical principles, which

had something of Feuerbach about them. Its bold repudiation of the

entire science of medicine, with all its quackeries, combined with its

advocacy of the simplest natural processes by means of a methodical use

of strengthening and refreshing water, quickly won my fervent

adherence. He maintained, for instance, that every genuine medicine can

only act upon our organism in so far as it is a poison, and is

therefore not assimilated by our system; and proved, moreover, that men

who had become weak owing to a continuous absorption of medicine, had

been cured by the famous Priesnitz, who had effectually driven out the

poison contained in their bodies by expelling it through the skin. I

naturally thought of the disagreeable sulphur baths I had taken during

the spring, and to which I attributed my chronic and severe state of

irritability. In so doing I was probably not far wrong. For a long

while after this I did my best to expel this and all other poisons

which I might have absorbed in the course of time, and by an exclusive

water regimen restore my original healthy condition. Uhlig asserted

that by persevering conscientiously in a water cure, he was perfectly

confident of being able to renew his own bodily health entirely, and my

own faith in it also grew daily.

At the end of July we started on an excursion through the centre of

Switzerland. From Brunnen, on the Lake of Lucerne, we proceeded via

Beckenried to Engelberg, from which place we crossed the wild

Surenen-Eck, and on this occasion learned how to glide over the snow

fairly easily. But in crossing a swollen mountain torrent Uhlig had the

misfortune to fall into the water. By way of quieting my uneasiness

about him, he at once exclaimed that this was a very good way of

carrying out the water cure. He made no fuss about the drying of his

clothes, but simply spread them out in the sun, and in the meanwhile

calmly promenaded about in a state of nature in the open air,

protesting that this novel form of exercise would do him good. We

occupied the interval in discussing the important problem of

Beethoven's theme construction, until, by way of a joke, I told him

that I could see Councillor Carns of Dresden coming up behind him with

a party, which for a moment quite frightened him. Thus with light

hearts we reached the Reuss valley near Attinghausen, and in the

evening wandered on as far as Amsteg, and the next morning, in spite of

our great fatigue, at once visited the Madran valley. There we climbed

the Hufi glacier, whence we enjoyed a splendid view over an impressive

panorama of mountains, bounded at this point by the Tody range. We

returned the same day to Amsteg, and as we were both thoroughly tired

out, I dissuaded my companion from attempting the ascent of the Klausen

Pass to the Schachen valley, which we had planned for the following

day, and induced him to take the easier way home via Fluelen. When,

early in August, my young friend, who was always calm and very

deliberate in his manner, set out on his return journey to Dresden, I

could detect no signs of exhaustion about him. He was hoping on his

arrival to lighten the heavy burden of life a little by undertaking the

conductorship of the entr'acte music at the theatre, which he proposed

to organise artistically, and thus set himself free from the oppressive

and demoralising service of the opera. It was with sincere grief that I

accompanied him to the mail-coach, and he too seemed to be seized with

sudden foreboding. As a matter of fact, this was the last time we ever

met.

But for the present we carried on an active correspondence, and as his

communications were always pleasant and entertaining, and for a long

time constituted almost my sole link with the outside world, I begged

him to write me long letters as often as possible. As postage was

expensive at that time, and voluminous letters touched our pockets

severely, Uhlig conceived the ingenious idea of using the parcel post

for our correspondence. As only packets of a certain weight might be

sent in this way, a German translation of Beaumarchais' Figaro, of

which Uhlig possessed an ancient copy, enjoyed the singular destiny of

acting as ballast for our letters to and fro. Every time, therefore,

that our epistles had swelled, to the requisite length, we announced

them with the words: 'Figaro brings tidings to-day.'

Uhlig meanwhile found much pleasure in the Mittheilung an meine Freunde

('A Communication to my Friends'), which, immediately after our

separation, I wrote as a preface to an edition of my three operas, the

Fliegender Hollander, Tannhauser, and Lohengrin. He was also amused to

hear that Hartel, who had accepted the book for publication on payment

of ten louis d'or, protested so vigorously against certain passages in

this preface, which wounded his orthodoxy and political feelings, that

I thought seriously of giving the book to another firm. However, he

finally persuaded me to give way, and I pacified his tender conscience

by a few trifling alterations.

With this comprehensive preface, which had occupied me during the whole

of the month of August, I hoped that my excursion into the realms of

literature would be ended once and for all. However, as soon as I began

to think seriously about taking up the composition of Junger Siegfried,

which I had promised for Weimar, I was seized with depressing doubts

which almost amounted to a positive reluctance to attempt this work. As

I could not clearly discern the reason of this dejection, I concluded

that its source lay in the state of my health, so I determined one day

to carry out my theories about the advantages of a water cure, which I

had always propounded with great enthusiasm. I made due inquiries about

a neighbouring hydropathic establishment, and informed my wife that I

was going off to Albisbrunnen, which was situated about three miles

from our abode. It was then about the middle of September, and I had

made up my mind not to come back until I was completely restored to

health.

Minna was quite frightened when I announced my intention, and looked

upon it as another attempt on my part to abandon my home. I begged of

her, however, to devote herself during my absence to the task of

furnishing and arranging our new flat as comfortably as possible. This,

although small, was conveniently situated on the ground floor of the

Vordern Escher Hauser im Zeltweg. We had determined to move back to the

town, on account of the great inconvenience of the situation of our

present quarters, especially during winter time. Everybody, of course,

was astonished at the idea of my undertaking a water cure so late in

the season. Nevertheless, I soon succeeded in securing a

fellow-patient. I was not fortunate enough to get Herwegh, but Fate was

kind in sending me Hermann Muller, an ex-lieutenant in the Saxon

Guards, and a former lover of Schroder-Devrient, who proved a most

cheerful and pleasant companion. It had become impossible for him to

maintain his position in the Saxon army, and although he was not

exactly a political refugee, every career was closed to him in Germany,

and yet he met with all the consideration of an exiled patriot when he

came to Switzerland to try and make a fresh start in life. We had seen

a good deal of each other in my early Dresden days, and he soon felt at

home in my house, where my wife always gave him a warm welcome. I

easily persuaded him to follow me shortly to Albisbrunnen to undergo a

thorough treatment for an infirmity from which he was suffering. I

established myself there as comfortably as I could, and I looked

forward to excellent results. The cure itself was superintended in the

usual superficial way by a Dr. Brunner, whom my wife, on one of her

visits to this place, promptly christened the 'Water Jew,' and whom she

heartily detested. Early at five o'clock in the morning I was wrapped

up and kept in a state of perspiration for several hours; after that I

was plunged into an icy cold bath at a temperature of only four

degrees; then I was made to take a brisk walk to restore my circulation

in the chilly air of late autumn. In addition I was kept on a water

diet; no wine, coffee, or tea was allowed; and this regime, in the

dismal company of nothing but incurables, with dull evenings only

enlivened by desperate attempts at games of whist, and the prohibition

of all intellectual occupation, resulted in irritability and

overwrought nerves. I led this life for nine weeks, but I was

determined not to give in until I felt that every kind of drug or

poison I had ever absorbed into my system had been brought to the

surface. As I considered that wine was most dangerous, I presumed that

my system still contained many unassimilated substances which I had

absorbed at various dinner-parties at Sulzer's, and which must

evaporate in profuse perspiration. This life, so full of privations,

which I led in rooms miserably furnished with common deal and the usual

rustic appointments of a Swiss pension, awoke in me by way of contrast

an insuperable longing for a cosy and comfortable home; indeed, as the

year went on, this longing became a passionate desire. My imagination

was for ever picturing to itself the manner and style in which a house

or a dwelling ought to be appointed and arranged, in order to keep my

mind pleasantly free for artistic creation.

At this time symptoms of a possible improvement in my position

appeared. Karl Ritter, unfortunately for himself, wrote to me from

Stuttgart while I was at the hydro, describing his own private attempts

to secure the benefits of a water cure--not by means of baths, but by

drinking quantities of water. I had found out that it was most

dangerous to drink large quantities of water without undergoing the

rest of the treatment, so I implored Karl to submit to the regular

course, and not to have an effeminate fear of privations, and to come

at once to Albisbrunnen. He took me at my word, and to my great delight

arrived in a few days' time at Albisbrunnen. Theoretically he was

filled with enthusiasm for hydropathy, but he soon objected to it in

practice; and he denounced the use of cold milk as indigestible and

against the dictates of Nature, as mother's milk was always warm. He

found the cold packs and the cold baths too exciting, and preferred

treating himself in a comfortable and pleasant way behind the doctor's

back. He soon discovered a wretched confectioner's shop in the

neighbouring village, and when he was caught buying cheap pastry on the

sly, he was very angry. He soon grew perfectly miserable, and would

fain have escaped, had not a certain feeling of honour prevented him

from doing so. The news reached him here of the sudden death of a rich

uncle, who had left a considerable fortune to every member of Karl's

family. His mother, in telling him and me of the improvement in her

position, declared that she was now able to assure me the income which

the two families of Laussot and Ritter had offered me some time ago.

Thus I stepped into an annual income of two thousand four hundred marks

for as long as I required it, and into partnership with the Ritter

family.

This happy and encouraging turn of events made me decide to complete my

original sketch of the Nibelungen, and to bring it out in our theatres

without paying any regard to the practicability of its various parts.

In order to do this I felt that I must free myself from all obligations

to the management of the Weimar theatre. I had already drawn six

hundred marks salary from this source, but Karl was enchanted to place

this sum at my disposal in order that I might return it. I sent the

money back to Weimar with a letter expressing my most grateful

acknowledgments to the management for their conduct towards me, and at

the same time I wrote to Liszt, giving him the fullest particulars of

my great plan, and explaining how I felt absolutely compelled to carry

it out.

Liszt, in his reply, told me how delighted he was to know that I was

now in a position to undertake such a remarkable work, which he

considered in every respect worthy of me if only on account of its

surprising originality. I began to breathe freely at last, because I

had always felt that it was merely self-deception on my part to

maintain that it would be possible to produce Junger Siegfried with the

limited means at the disposal of even the best German theatre.

My water cure and the hydropathic establishment became more and more

distasteful to me; I longed for my work, and the desire to get back to

it made me quite ill. I tried obstinately to conceal from myself that

the object of my cure had entirely failed; indeed, it had really done

me more harm than good, for although the evil secretions had not

returned, my whole body seemed terribly emaciated. I considered that I

had had quite enough of the cure, and comforted myself with the hope

that I should derive benefit from it in the future. I accordingly left

the hydropathic establishment at the end of November. Muller was to

follow me in a few days, but Karl, wishing to be consistent, was

determined to remain until he perceived a similar result in himself to

the one I had experienced or pretended I had experienced. I was much

pleased with the way in which Minna had arranged our new little flat in

Zurich. She had bought a large and luxurious divan, several carpets for

the floor and various dainty little luxuries, and in the back room my

writing-table of common deal was covered with a green tablecloth and

draped with soft green silk curtains, all of which my friends admired

immensely. This table, at which I worked continually, travelled with me

to Paris, and when I left that city I presented it to Blandine

Ollivier, Liszt's elder daughter, who had it conveyed to the little

country house at St. Tropez, belonging to her husband, where, I

believe, it stands to this day. I was very glad to receive my Zurich

friends in my new home, which was so much more conveniently situated

than my former one; only I quite spoilt all my hospitality for a long

time by my fanatical agitation for a water diet and my polemics against

the evils of wine and other intoxicating drinks. I adopted what seemed

almost a new kind of religion: when I was driven into a corner by

Sulzer and Herwegh, the latter of whom prided himself on his knowledge

of chemistry and physiology, about the absurdity of Rausse's theory of

the poisonous qualities contained in wine, I found refuge in the moral

and aesthetic motive which made me regard the enjoyment of wine as an

evil and barbarous substitute for the ecstatic state of mind which love

alone should produce. I maintained that wine, even if not taken in

excess, contained qualities producing a state of intoxication which a

man sought in order to raise his spirits, but that only he who

experienced the intoxication of love could raise his spirits in the

noblest sense of the word. This led to a discussion on the modern

relations of the sexes, whereupon I commented on the almost brutal

manner in which men kept aloof from women in Switzerland. Sulzer said

he would not at all object to the intoxication resulting from

intercourse with women, but in his opinion the difficulty lay in

procuring this by fair means. Herwegh was inclined to agree with my

paradox, but remarked that wine had nothing whatever to do with it,

that it was simply an excellent and strengthening food, which,

according to Anacreon, agreed very well with the ecstasy of love. As my

friends studied me and my condition more closely, they felt they had

reason to be very anxious about my foolish and obstinate extravagances.

I looked terribly pale and thin; I hardly slept at all, and in

everything I did I betrayed a strange excitement. Although eventually

sleep almost entirely forsook me, I still pretended that I had never

been so well or so cheerful in my life, and I continued on the coldest

winter mornings to take my cold baths, and plagued my wife to death by

making her show me my way out with a lantern for the prescribed early

morning walk.

I was in this state when the printed copies of Oper und Drama reached

me, and I devoured rather than read them with an eccentric joy. I think

that the delightful consciousness of now being able to say to myself,

and prove to the satisfaction of everybody, and even of Minna, that I

had at last completely freed myself from my hateful career as conductor

and opera composer, brought about this immoderate excitement. Nobody

had a right to make the demands upon me which two years ago had made me

so miserable. The income which the Ritters had assured me for life, and

the object of which was to give me an absolutely free hand, also

contributed to my present state of mind, and made me feel confidence in

everything I undertook. Although my plans for the present seemed to

exclude all possibility of being realised, thanks to the indifference

of an inartistic public, still I could not help inwardly cherishing the

idea that I should not be for ever addressing only the paper on which I

wrote. I anticipated that before long a great reaction would set in

with regard to the public and everything connected with our social

life, and I believed that in my boldly planned work there lay just the

right material to supply the changed conditions and real needs of the

new public whose relation to art would be completely altered with what

was required. As these bold expectations had arisen in my mind in

consequence of my observations of the state of society in general, I

naturally could not say much about them to my friends. I had not

mistaken the significance of the general collapse of the political

movements, but felt that their real weakness lay in the inadequate

though sincere expression of their cause, and that the social movement,

so far from losing ground by its political defeat, had, on the

contrary, gained in energy and expansion. I based my opinion upon the

experience I had had during my last visit to Paris, when I had

attended, among other things, a political meeting of the so-called

social democratic party. Their general behaviour made a great

impression upon me; the meeting took place in a temporary hall called

Salle de la Fraternite in the Faubourg St. Denis; six thousand men were

present, and their conduct, far from being noisy and tumultuous, filled

me with a sense of the concentrated energy and hope of this new party.

The speeches of the principal orators of the extreme left of the

Assemblee Nationale astonished me by their oratorical flights as well

as by their evident confidence in the future. As this extreme party was

gradually strengthening itself against everything that was being done

by the reactionary party then in power, and all the old liberals had

joined these social democrats publicly and had adopted their

electioneering programme, it was easy to see that in Paris, at all

events, they would have a decided majority at the impending elections

for the year 1852, and especially in the nomination of the President of

the Republic. My own opinions about this were shared by the whole of

France, and it seemed that the year 1852 was destined to witness a very

important reaction which was naturally dreaded by the other party, who

looked forward with great apprehension to the approaching catastrophe.

The condition of the other European states, who suppressed every

laudable impulse with brutal stupidity, convinced me that elsewhere too

this state of affairs would not continue long, and every one seemed to

look forward with great expectations to the decision of the following

year.

I had discussed the general situation with my friend Uhlig, as well as

the efficacy of the water-cure system; he had just come home fresh from

orchestral rehearsals at the Dresden theatre, and found it very

difficult to agree to a drastic change in human affairs or to have any

faith in it. He assured me that I could not conceive how miserable and

mean people were in general, but I managed to delude him into the

belief that the year 1852 would be pregnant with great and important

events. Our opinions on this subject were expressed in the

correspondence which was once more diligently forwarded by Figaro.

Whenever we had to complain of any meanness or untoward circumstance, I

always reminded him of this year, so great with fate and hope, and at

the same time I hinted that we had better look forward quite calmly to

the time when the great 'upheaval' should take place, as only then,

when no one else knew what to do, could we step in and make a start.

I can hardly express how deeply and firmly this hope had taken

possession of me, and I can only attribute all my confident opinions

and declarations to the increased excitement of my nerves. The news of

the coup d'etat of the 2nd of December in Paris seemed to me absolutely

incredible, and I thought the world was surely coming to an end. When

the news was confirmed, and events which no one believed could ever

happen had apparently occurred and seemed likely to be permanent, I

gave the whole thing up like a riddle which it was beneath me to

unravel, and turned away in disgust from the contemplation of this

puzzling world. As a playful reminiscence of our hopes of the year

1852, I suggested to Uhlig that in our correspondence during that year

we should ignore its existence and should date our letters December

'51, in consequence of which this said month of December seemed of

eternal duration.

Soon afterwards I was overpowered by an extraordinary depression in

which, somehow, the disappointment about the turn of political events

and the reaction created by my exaggerated water cure, almost ruined my

health. I perceived the triumphant return of all the disappointing

signs of reaction which excluded every high ideal from intellectual

life, and from which I had hoped the shocks and fermentations of the

past few years had freed us for ever. I prophesied that the time was

approaching when intellectually we should be such paupers that the

appearance of a new book from the pen of Heinrich Heine would create

quite a sensation. When, a short time afterwards, the Romancero

appeared from the pen of this poet who had fallen into almost complete

neglect, and was very well reviewed by the newspaper critics, I laughed

aloud; as a matter of fact, I suppose I am among the very few Germans

who have never even looked at this book, which, by the way, is said to

possess great merit.

I was now compelled to pay a great deal of attention to my physical

condition, as it gave me much cause for anxiety and necessitated a

complete change in my methods. I introduced this change very gradually

and with the co-operation of my friends. My circle of acquaintances had

widened considerably this winter, although Karl Ritter, who had escaped

from Albisbrunnen a week after my own departure and had tried to settle

in our neighbourhood, ran off to Dresden, as he found Zurich much too

slow for his youthful spirits. A certain family of the name of

Wesendonck, who had settled in Zurich a short time before, sought my

acquaintance, and took up their abode in the same quarters in the

Hintern Escherhauser where I had lived when I first came to Zurich.

They had taken the flat there on the recommendation of the famous

Marschall von Bieberstein, who moved in after me in consequence of the

revolution in Dresden. I remember, on the evening of a party there,

that I displayed uncontrolled excitement in a discussion with Professor

Osenbruck. I tormented him with my persistent paradoxes all through

supper to such an extent that he positively loathed me, and ever

afterwards carefully avoided coming into contact with me.

The acquaintance with the Wesendoncks was the means of giving me the

entree to a delightful home, which in point of comfort was a great

contrast to the usual run of houses in Zurich. Herr Otto Wesendonck,

who was a few years younger than I was, had amassed a considerable

fortune through a partnership in a silk business in New York, and

seemed to make all his plans subservient to the wishes of the young

wife whom he had married a few years before. They both came from the

Lower Rhine country, and, like all the inhabitants of those parts, were

fair haired. As he was obliged to take up his abode in some part of

Europe which was convenient for the furtherance of his business in New

York, he chose Zurich, presumably because of its German character, in

preference to Lyons. During the previous winter they had both attended

the performance of a symphony of Beethoven under my conductorship, and

knowing what a sensation this performance had aroused in Zurich, they

thought it would be desirable to include me in their circle of friends.

About this time I was persuaded to undertake the directorship of the

augmented orchestra in view of the performance of some musical

masterpieces at three concerts to be given early in the new year under

the auspices of the Societe Musicale on conditions arranged in advance.

It gave me infinite pleasure on one of these occasions to conduct an

excellent performance of Beethoven's music to Egmont. As Herwegh was so

anxious to hear some of my own music I gave the Tannhauser Overture, as

I told him, entirely to please him, and I prepared a descriptive

programme as a guide. I also succeeded in giving an excellent rendering

of the Coriolanus Overture, to which I had also written an explanatory

programme. All this was taken up with so much sympathy and enthusiasm

by my friends that I was induced to accede to the request of Lowe, who

was at that time manager of the theatre, and implored me to give a

performance of the Fliegender Hollander. For the sake of my friends I

agreed to enter into negotiations with the opera company, an

undertaking which, though it only lasted a very short time, was

exceedingly objectionable. It is true that humane considerations

animated me as well, as the performance was for the benefit of

Schoneck, a young conductor, whose real talent for his art had

completely won me over to him.

The efforts which this unaccustomed excursion into the regions of opera

rehearsals, etc., cost me, greatly contributed to the overwrought state

of my nerves, and I was obliged, in spite of all my rooted prejudices

against doctors, to break faith with myself and, in accordance with the

Wesendonck's special recommendation, to place myself in the hands of

Dr. Rahn-Escher, who, by his gentle manner and soothing ways, succeeded

after a time in bringing me into a healthier condition.

I longed to get well enough to be able to take in hand the completion

of my combined Nibelungen poem. Before I could summon up the courage to

begin, I thought I would wait for the spring, and in the meanwhile I

occupied myself with a few trifles, amongst other things a letter to

Liszt on the founding of a Goethe Institution (Goethe Stiftung),

stating my ideas on the necessity of founding a German National

Theatre, as also a second letter to Franz Brendel about the line of

thought which in my opinion should be taken up in founding a new

musical journal.

I recollect a visit from Henri Vieuxtemps at this time, who came to

Zurich with Belloni to give an evening concert, and he again delighted

me and my friends with his violin playing.

With the approach of spring I was agreeably surprised by a visit from

Hermann Franck, with whom I had an interesting conversation about the

general course of events since I had lost sight of him.

In his quiet way he expressed his astonishment at the enthusiastic

manner in which I had got mixed up in the Dresden revolution. As I

quite misunderstood his remark, he explained that he thought me capable

of enthusiasm in everything, but he could hardly credit me with having

taken a serious part in anything so foolish as trivial matters of that

kind. I now learned for the first time what the prevalent opinion was

about these much-maligned occurrences in Germany, and I was in a

position to defend my poor friend Rockel, who had been branded as a

coward, and to put not only his conduct but also my own in a different

light to that in which it had been regarded hitherto even by Hermann

Franck, who afterwards expressed his sincere regret that he had so

misunderstood us.

With Rockel himself, whose sentence had by royal mercy been commuted to

lifelong imprisonment, I carried on at this time a correspondence, the

character of which soon showed that his life was more cheerful and

happy in his enforced captivity than mine with its hopelessness, in

spite of the freedom I enjoyed.

At last the month of May arrived, and I felt I needed change of air in

the country in order to strengthen my weakened nerves and carry out my

plans in regard to poetry. We found a fairly comfortable pied-a-terre

on the Rinderknecht estate. This was situated halfway up the Zurich

Berg, and we were able to enjoy an alfresco meal on the 22nd of May--my

thirty-ninth birthday--with a lovely view of the lake and the distant

Alps. Unfortunately a period of incessant rain set in which scarcely

stopped throughout the whole summer, so that I had the greatest

struggle to resist its depressing influence. However, I soon got to

work, and as I had begun to carry out my great plan by beginning at the

end and going backwards, I continued on the same lines with the

beginning as my goal. Consequently, after I had completed the

Siegfrieds Tod and Junger Siegfried, I next attacked one of the

principal subjects, the Walkure, which was to follow the introductory

prelude of the Rheingold. In this way I completed the poem of the

Walkure by the end of June. At the same time I wrote the dedication of

the score of my Lohengrin to Liszt, as well as a rhymed snub to an

unprovoked attack on my Fliegender Hollander in a Swiss newspaper. A

very disagreeable incident in connection with Herwegh pursued me to my

retreat in the country. One day a certain Herr Haug, who described

himself as an ex-Roman general of Mazzini's time, introduced himself to

me with a view of forming a sort of conspiracy against him, on behalf,

as he said, of the deeply offended family of the 'unfortunate lyric

poet'; however, he did not succeed in getting any assistance from me. A

much pleasanter incident was a long visit from Julia, the eldest

daughter of my revered friend Frau Ritter, who had married Kummer, the

young Dresden chamber musician, whose health seemed so entirely

undermined that they were going to consult a celebrated hydropathic

doctor who practised only a few miles from Zurich. I now had a good

opportunity of abusing this water cure about which my young friends

were so eager, and had always believed that I was perfectly mad on it

also. But we left the chamber musician to his fate, and rejoiced at the

long and pleasant visit of our amiable and charming young friend.

As I was quite satisfied with the success of my work, and the weather

was exceptionally cold and rainy, we made up our minds to return to our

cosy winter residence in Zurich at the end of June. I was resolved to

stay there until the appearance of some real summer weather, when I

intended to take a walking tour over the Alps, which I felt would be of

great advantage to my health. Herwegh had promised to accompany me, but

as he was apparently prevented from doing so, I started alone in the

middle of July, after arranging with my travelling companion to meet me

in Valais. I began my walking tour at Alpnach, on the Lake of Lucerne,

and my plan was to wander by unfrequented paths to the principal points

of the Bernese Oberland. I worked pretty hard, paying a visit, for

instance, to the Faulhorn, which at that time was considered a very

difficult mountain to climb. When I reached the hospice on the Grimsel

by the Hasli Thal, I asked the host, a fine, stately-looking man, about

the ascent of the Siedelhorn. He recommended me one of his servants as

a guide, a rough, sinister-looking man, who, instead of taking the

usual zig-zag paths up the mountain, led me up in a bee line, and I

rather suspected he intended to tire me out. At the top of the

Siedelhorn I was delighted to catch a glimpse, on one side, of the

centre of the Alps, whose giant backs alone were turned to us; and on

the other side, a sudden panorama of the Italian Alps, with Mont Blanc

and Monte Rosa. I had been careful to take a small bottle of champagne

with me, following the example of Prince Puckler when he made the

ascent of Snowdon; unfortunately, I could not think of anybody whose

health I could drink. We now descended vast snow-fields, over which my

guide slid with mad haste on his alpenstock; I contented myself with

leaning carefully on the iron point of mine, and coming down at a

moderate pace.

I arrived at Obergestelen dead tired, and stayed there two days, to

rest and await the arrival of Herwegh. Instead of coming himself,

however, a letter arrived from him which dragged me down from my lofty

communings with the Alps to the humdrum consideration of the unpleasant

situation in which my unhappy friend found himself as a result of the

incident I have already described. He feared that I had allowed myself

to be taken in by his adversary, and had consequently formed an

unfavourable opinion of him. I told him to make his mind easy on that

score, and to meet me again, if possible, in Italian Switzerland. So I

set out for the ascent of the Gries glacier, and the climb across the

pass to the southern side of the Alps, in the company of my sinister

guide alone. During the ascent an extremely sad sight kept meeting my

eyes; an epidemic of foot-rot had broken out among cows in the Upper

Alps, and several herds passed me in single file on their way to the

valley, where they were going to be doctored. The cows had become so

lean that they looked like skeletons, and dragged themselves pitiably

down the slopes, and the smiling country with the fat meadow-land

seemed to take a savage delight in gazing on this sad pilgrimage. At

the foot of the glacier, which stood out sheer and steep before me, I

felt so depressed, and my nerves were so overwrought, that I said I

wished to turn back. I was thereupon met by the coarse sarcasm of my

guide, who seemed to scoff at my weakness. My consequent anger braced

up my nerves, and I prepared myself at once to climb the steep walls of

ice as quickly as possible, so that this time it was he who found

difficulty in keeping up with me. We accomplished the walk over the

back of the glacier, which lasted nearly two hours, under difficulties

which caused even this native of Grimsel anxiety, at least on his own

account. Fresh snow had fallen, which partially concealed the

crevasses, and prevented one from recognising the dangerous spots. The

guide, of course, had to precede me here, to examine the path. We

arrived at last at the opening of the upper valley which gives on to

the Formazza valley, to which a steep cutting, covered with snow and

ice, led. Here my guide again began his dangerous game of conducting me

straight over the steepest slopes instead of going in a safe zig-zag;

in this way we reached a precipitous moraine, where I saw such

unavoidable danger ahead, that I insisted upon my guide going back with

me some distance, until we struck a path that I had noticed which was

not so steep. He was obliged to give in, much against the grain. I was

deeply impressed by the first signs of cultivation that we saw in our

descent from the desolate wilds. The first scanty meadow-land

accessible to cattle was called the Bettel-Matt, and the first person

we met was a marmot hunter. The wild scenery was soon enlivened by the

marvellous swirl and headlong rush of a mountain river called the Tosa,

which at one spot breaks into a superb waterfall with three distinct

branches. After the moss and reeds had, in the course of our continuous

descent, given place to grass and meadows, and the shrubs had been

replaced by pine trees, we at last arrived at the goal of our day's

journey, the village of Pommath, called Formazza by the Italian

population, which is situated in a charming valley. Here, for the first

time in my life, I had to eat roast marmot. After having paid my guide,

and sent him on his homeward journey, I started alone on the following

morning on my further descent of the valley, although I had only

partially recovered from my fatigue, owing to lack of sleep. It was not

until the November of this year, when the whole of Switzerland was

thrown into a state of consternation by the news that the Grimsel inn

had been set fire to by the host himself, who hoped by this means to

obtain the renewal of the lease from the authorities, that I learned my

life had been in danger under the guidance of this man. As soon as his

crime was discovered, the host drowned himself in the little lake, on

the borders of which the inn is situated. The serving-man, however,

whom he had bribed to arrange the fire, was caught and punished. I knew

by the name that he was the same man that the worthy innkeeper had

given me as companion on my solitary journey across the glacier pass,

and I heard at the same time that two travellers from Frankfort had

perished on the same pass a short time before my own journey. I

consequently realised that I had in a really remarkable manner escaped

a fatal danger which had threatened me.

I shall never forget my impressions of my journey through the

continually descending valley. I was particularly astonished at the

southern vegetation which suddenly spreads out before one on climbing

down from a steep and narrow rocky pass by which the Tosa is confined.

I arrived at Domodossola in the afternoon in a blaze of sunshine, and I

was reminded here of a charming comedy by an author whose name I have

forgotten, which I had once seen performed with a refinement worthy of

Platen, and to which my attention had been drawn by Eduard Devrient in

Dresden. The scene of the play was laid in Domodossola, and described

exactly the impressions I myself received on coming down from the

Northern Alps into Italy, which suddenly burst upon one's gaze. I shall

also never forget my first simple, but extremely well-served, Italian

dinner. Although I was too tired to walk any further that day, I was

very impatient to get to the borders of Lake Maggiore, and I

accordingly arranged to drive in a one-horse chaise, which was to take

me on the same evening as far as Baveno. I felt so contented while

bowling along in my little vehicle that I reproached myself for want of

consideration in having rudely declined the offer of company which an

officer passing through the Vetturino made me by means of the driver. I

admired the daintiness of the house decorations and the pleasant faces

of the people in the pretty villages I passed through. A young mother,

strolling along and singing as she spun the flax, with her baby in her

arms, also made a never-to-be-forgotten impression on me. Soon after

sunset I caught sight of the Borromean Islands rising gracefully out of

Lake Maggiore, and again I could not sleep for excitement at the

thought of what I might see on the following day. The next morning the

visit to the islands themselves delighted me so much that I could not

understand how I had managed to come upon anything so charming, and

wondered what would result from it. After stopping only one day, I left

the place with the feeling that I had now to flee from something to

which I did not belong, and went round Lake Maggiore, up past Socarno,

to Bellinzona, where I was once again on Swiss soil; from there I

proceeded to Lugano, intending, if I followed out my original plan of

travel, to stay there some time. But I soon suffered from the intense

heat; even bathing in the sun-scorched lake was not refreshing. Apart

from the dirty furniture, which included the Denksopha ('thinking

sofa') from the Clouds by Aristophanes, I was sumptuously lodged in a

palatial building, which in the winter served as the government house

of the canton of Tessin, but in the summer was used as a hotel.

However, I soon fell again into the condition that had troubled me so

long, and prevented me from taking any rest, owing to my extreme

nervous strain and excitement, whenever I felt disposed to idle

pleasantly. I had taken a good many books with me, and proposed to

entertain myself with Byron. Unfortunately it required a great effort

on my part to take any pleasure in his works, and the difficulty of

doing so increased when I began to read his Don Juan. After a few days'

time I began to wonder why I had come, and what I wanted to do here,

when suddenly Herwegh wrote saying that he and several friends intended

to join me at this place. A mysterious instinct made me telegraph to my

wife to come also. She obeyed my call with surprising alacrity, and

arrived unexpectedly in the middle of the night, after travelling by

post-chaise across the St. Gotthard Pass. She was so fatigued that she

at once fell into a sound sleep on the Denksopha, from which the

fiercest storm that I ever remember failed to awaken her. On the

following day my Zurich friends arrived.

Herwegh's chief companion was Dr. Francois Wille. I had learned to know

him some time before at Herwegh's house: his chief characteristics were

a face much scarred in students' duels, and a great tendency to witty

and outspoken remarks. He had recently been staying near Meilen on the

Lake of Zurich, and he often asked me to visit him there with Herwegh.

Here we saw something of the habits and customs of a Hamburg household,

which was kept up in a fairly prosperous style by his wife, the

daughter of Herr Sloman, a wealthy shipowner. Although in reality he

remained a student all his life, he had made himself a position and

formed a large circle of acquaintances by editing a Hamburg political

newspaper. He was a brilliant conversationalist, and was considered

good company. He seemed to have taken up with Herwegh with the object

of overcoming the latter's antipathy to Alpine climbing, and his

consequent reluctance to undertake it. He himself had made preparations

to walk over the Gotthard Pass with a Professor Eichelberger, and this

had made Herwegh furious, as he declared that walking tours were only

permissible where it was impossible to drive, and not on these broad

highways. After making an excursion into the neighbourhood of Lugano,

during which I got heartily sick of the childish sound of the church

bells, so common in Italy, I persuaded my friends to go with me to the

Borromean Islands, which I was longing to see again. During the steamer

trip on Lake Maggiore, we met a delicate-looking man with a long

cavalry moustache, whom in private was humourously dubbed General

Haynau, and the distrust with which we affected to treat him was a

source of some amusement to us.

We soon found that he was an extremely good-natured Hanoverian

nobleman, who had been travelling about Italy for some time for

pleasure, and who was able to give us very useful information

concerning intercourse with the Italians. His advice was of great

service when we were visiting the Borromean Islands, where my

acquaintances parted from my wife and myself to travel back by the

nearest route, whereas we intended proceeding further across the

Simplon and through Le Valais to Chamounix.

From the fatigue my tour had so far occasioned me, I felt that it would

be some time before I started on a similar one again. I was therefore

eager to see what was best worth seeing in Switzerland as thoroughly as

possible now that I had the chance. Moreover, I was just then, and

indeed had been for some time, in that impressionable humour from which

I might anticipate important results to myself from novel scenery, and

I did not like to miss Mont Blanc. A view of it was attended with great

difficulties, amongst which may be mentioned our arrival by night at

Martigny, where, owing to the crowded state of the hotels, we were

everywhere refused accommodation, and it was only on account of a

little intrigue between a postillion and a maidservant that we found

clandestine shelter for the night in a private house from which the

owners were absent.

We dutifully visited the so-called Mer de Glace in the Val de Chamounix

and the Flegere, from which I obtained a most impressive view of Mont

Blanc. However, my imagination was less busied with the ascent of that

peak than with the spectacle I beheld when crossing the Col des Geants,

as the great elevation that we attained did not appeal to me so much as

the unbroken and sublime wildness of the latter. For some time I

cherished the intention of undertaking just one more venture of the

kind. While descending the Flegere, Minna had a fall and sprained her

ankle; the consequence of this was so painful as to deter us from any

further adventures. We therefore saw ourselves forced to hasten on our

journey home via Geneva. But even from this more important and grander

expedition, and almost the only one I had ever undertaken purely for

recreation, I returned with a strangely unsatisfied feeling, and I

could not resist the longing for something decisive in the distance,

that would give a fresh direction to my life.

On reaching home I found announcements of a new and quite different

turn in my destiny. These consisted of inquiries and commissions from

various German theatres anxious to produce Tannhauser. The first to

apply was the Schwerin Court Theatre. Rockel's youngest sister, who

afterwards married the actor Moritz (whom I had known from my earliest

youth), had now come to Germany as a youthful singer from England,

where she had been educated. She had given such an enthusiastic account

of the impression produced upon her by Tannhauser at Weimar, to an

official at the theatre there named Stocks, who held the position of

treasurer, that he had studied the opera most assiduously, and had now

induced the management to undertake to produce it. The theatres at

Breslau, Prague, and Wiesbaden soon followed; at the last of these my

old friend Louis Schindelmeisser was acting as conductor. In a short

time other theatres followed suit; but I was most astonished when the

Berlin Court Theatre made inquiries through its new manager, Herr von

Hulsen. From this last incident I felt justified in assuming that the

Crown Princess of Prussia, who had always had a friendly feeling

towards me, fostered by my faithful friend Alwine Frommann, had again

been intensely interested by the performance of Tannhauser at Weimar,

and had given the impetus to these unexpected developments.

Whilst I was rejoicing over commissions from the smaller theatres,

those of the largest German stage were a source of anxiety. I knew that

at the former there were zealous conductors, devoted to me, who had

certainly been roused by the desire of having the opera performed; in

Berlin, on the other hand, matters were quite different. The only other

conductor besides Taubert, whom I had known previously as a man devoid

of talent, and at the same time very conceited, was Heinrich Dorn, of

whom I retained most unpleasant recollections from my earliest years

and from our joint stay in Riga. I felt little drawn towards either of

these, nor did I perceive any possibility of undertaking the direction

of my own work; and from my knowledge of their capabilities as well as

of their ill-will, I had every reason to question any successful

rendering of my opera under their conductorship. Being an exile, I was

unable to go to Berlin in person in order to supervise my work, so I

immediately begged Listz's permission to nominate him as my

representative and alter ego, to which he willingly agreed. When I

afterwards made Liszt's appointment one of my conditions, objection was

raised on the part of the general manager at Berlin on the score that

the nomination of a Weimar conductor would be regarded as a gross

insult to the Prussian court conductors, and I must consequently desist

from demanding it. Thereupon prolonged negotiations ensued with a view

to compromising the matter, which resulted in the production of

Tannhauser at Berlin being considerably delayed.

However, while Tannhauser was now rapidly spreading to the middle-class

German theatres, I became a prey to great uneasiness as to the quality

of these performances, and could never get a very clear idea of them.

As my presence was prohibited everywhere, I had recourse to a very

detailed pamphlet which was to serve as a guide to the production of my

work, and convey a correct idea of my purpose. I had this somewhat

voluminous work printed at my own expense and tastefully bound, and to

every theatre that had given an order for the operatic score I sent a

number of copies of it, with the understanding that they were to be

given to the conductor, stage manager, and principal performers for

perusal and guidance. But from that time I have never heard of a single

person who had either read this pamphlet or taken any notice of it. In

the year 1864, when all my own copies had been exhausted, owing to my

painstaking distribution of them, I found to my great delight, among

the theatrical archives, several copies that had been sent to the

Munich Court Theatre, quite intact and uncut. I was therefore in the

agreeable position of being able to procure copies of the missing

pamphlet for the King of Bavaria, who wished to see it, as well as for

myself and some friends.

It was a singular coincidence that the news of the diffusion of my

opera through the German theatres should synchronise with my resolve to

compose a work in the conception of which I had been so decidedly

influenced by the necessity of being absolutely indifferent to our own

theatres; yet this unexpected turn of events in no wise affected my

treatment of my design. On the contrary, by keeping to my plan, I

gained confidence and let things take their own course, without

attempting in any way to promote the performances of my operas. I just

let people do as they liked, and looked on surprised, while continual

accounts reached my ears of remarkable successes; none of them,

however, induced me to alter my verdict on our theatres in general or

on the opera in particular. I remained unshaken in my resolve to

produce my Nibelungen dramas just as though the present operatic stage

did not exist, since the ideal theatre of my dreams must of necessity

come sooner or later. I therefore composed the libretto of the

Rheingold in the October and November of that year, and with that I

brought the whole cycle of the Nibelungen myth as I had evolved it to a

conclusion. At the same time I was rewriting Junger Siegfried and

Siegfrieds Tod, especially the latter, in such a way as to bring them

into proper relation with the whole; and by so doing, important

amplifications were made in Siegfrieds Tod which were in harmony with

the now recognised and obvious purpose of the whole work. I was

accordingly obliged to find for this last piece a new title suited to

the part it plays in the complete cycle. I entitled it Gotterdammerung,

and I changed the name Junger Siegfried to Siegfried, as it no longer

dealt with an isolated episode in the life of the hero, but had assumed

its proper place among the other prominent figures in the framework of

the whole. The prospect of having to leave this lengthy poem for some

time entirely unknown to those whom I might expect to be interested in

it was a source of great grief to me. As the theatres now and then

surprised me by sending me the usual royalties on Tannhauser, I devoted

a part of my profits to having a number of copies of my poem neatly

printed for my own use. I arranged that only fifty copies of this

edition de luxe should be struck off. But a great sorrow overtook me

before I had completed this agreeable task. It is true, I met on all

sides with indications of sympathetic interest in the completion of my

great lyric work, although most of my acquaintances regarded the whole

thing as a chimera, or possibly a bold caprice. The only one who

entered into it with any heartiness or real enthusiasm was Herwegh,

with whom I frequently discussed it, and to whom I generally read aloud

such portions as were completed. Sulzer was much annoyed at the

remodelling of Siegfrieds Tod, as he regarded it as a fine and original

work, and thought it would be deprived of that quality if I decided to

alter it to any extent. He therefore begged me to let him have the

manuscript of the earlier version to keep as a remembrance; otherwise

it would have been entirely lost. In order to get an idea of the effect

of the whole poem when rendered in complete sequence, I decided, only a

few days after the work was completed in the middle of December, to pay

a short visit to the Wille family at their country seat, so as to read

it aloud to the little company there. Besides Herwegh, who accompanied

me, the party there consisted of Frau Wille and her sister, Frau von

Bissing. I had often entertained these ladies with music in my own

peculiar fashion during my pleasant visits to Mariafeld, about two

hours' walk from Zurich. In them I had secured a devoted and

enthusiastic audience, somewhat to Herr Wille's annoyance, as he often

admitted that he had a horror of music; nevertheless, he ended in his

jovial way by taking the matter good humouredly.