I arrived towards evening, and we attacked Rheingold at once, and as it

did not seem very late, and I was supposed to be capable of any amount

of exertion, I went on with the Walkure until midnight. The next

morning after breakfast it was Siegfried's turn, and in the evening I

finished off with Gotterdammerung. I thought I had every reason to be

satisfied with the result, and the ladies in particular were so much

moved that they ventured no comment. Unfortunately the effort left me

in a state of almost painful excitement; I could not sleep, and the

next morning I was so disinclined for conversation that I left my

hurried departure unexplained. Herwegh, who accompanied me back alone,

appeared to divine my state of mind, and shared it by maintaining a

similar silence.

However, I now wished to have the pleasure of confiding the whole

completed work to my friend Uhlig at Dresden. I carried on a regular

correspondence with him, and he had followed the development of my

plan, and was thoroughly acquainted with every phase of it. I did not

want to send him the Walkure before the Rheingold was ready, as the

latter should come first, and even then I did not want him to see the

whole thing until I could send him a handsomely printed copy. But at

the beginning of the autumn I discerned in Uhlig's letters grounds for

feeling a growing anxiety as to the state of his health. He complained

of the increase in his serious paroxysms of coughing, and eventually of

complete hoarseness. He thought all this was merely weakness, which he

hoped to overcome by invigorating his system with the cold-water

treatment and long walks. He found the violin work at the theatre very

exhausting, but if he took a sharp seven hours' walk into the country

he invariably felt much better. However, he could not rid himself of

his chest attacks or of his hoarseness, and had a difficulty in making

himself heard even when speaking to a person quite near him. Up to that

time I had been unwilling to alarm the poor fellow, and always hoped

that his condition would necessitate his consulting a doctor, who would

naturally prescribe rational treatment. Now, however, as I was

continually hearing nothing from him but assurances of his confidence

in the principles of the water cure, I could contain myself no longer,

and I entreated him to give up this madness and place himself in the

hands of a sensible doctor, for in his condition what he most needed

was, not strength, but very careful attention. The poor man was

extremely alarmed at this, as he gathered from my remarks that I feared

he was already in an advanced stage of consumption. 'What is to become

of my poor wife and children,' he wrote, 'if that is really the case?'

Unhappily, it was too late; with the last strength that was left him he

tried to write to me again, and finally my old friend Fischer, the

chorus-master, carried out Uhlig's instructions, and when these were no

longer audible he had to bend down close to his lips. The news of his

death followed with frightful rapidity. It took place on the 3rd of

January, 1853. Thus, in addition to Lehrs, another of my really devoted

friends was carried off by consumption. The handsome copy of the Ring

des Nibelungen I had intended for him lay uncut before me, and I sent

it to his youngest boy, whom he had christened Siegfried. I asked his

widow to let me have any pamphlets of a theoretical nature he might

have left behind, and I came into possession of several important ones,

among them the longer essay on 'Theme-Structure.' Although the

publication of these works would involve a great deal of trouble, owing

to the necessity of revising them, I asked Hartel of Leipzig if he

would pay the widow a fair sum for a volume of Uhlig's writings. The

publisher declared he could not undertake to bring it out without

payment, as works of that nature were quite unremunerative. It was

obvious to me, even at that time, how thoroughly every musician who had

taken a keen interest in me had made himself disliked in certain

circles.

Uhlig's melancholy death gave my home-circle the whip-hand over me with

regard to my theories on the subject of water cures. Herwegh impressed

upon my wife that she must insist upon my taking a glass of good wine

after all the exertion I underwent at the rehearsals and concerts which

I was attending throughout that winter. By degrees, also, I again

accustomed myself to enjoy such mild stimulants as tea and coffee, my

friends meanwhile perceiving to their joy that I was once more becoming

a man amongst men. Dr. Rahn-Escher now became a welcome and comforting

friend and visitor, who for many years thoroughly understood the

management of my health, and especially the misgivings arising from the

over-wrought state of my nerves. He soon verified the wisdom of his

treatment, when in the middle of February I had undertaken to read my

tetralogy aloud on four consecutive evenings before a larger audience.

I had caught a severe cold after the first evening, and on the morning

of the day for the second reading I awoke suffering from severe

hoarseness. I at once informed the doctor that my failure to give the

reading would be a serious matter to me, and asked him what he advised

me to do to get rid of the hoarseness as speedily as possible. He

recommended me to keep quiet all day, and in the evening to be taken

well wrapped up to the place where the readings were to be held. When I

got there I was to take two or three cups of weak tea, and I should be

all right; whereas if I worried over the failure to keep my engagement

I might become seriously worse. And, indeed, the reading of this

stirring work went off capitally, and I was, moreover, able to continue

the readings on the third and fourth evenings, and felt perfectly well.

I had secured a large and handsome room for these meetings in the Hotel

Baur au lac, and had the gratifying experience of seeing it fuller and

fuller each evening, in spite of having invited only a small number of

acquaintances, giving them the option of bringing any friends who they

thought would take a genuine interest in the subject and not come out

of mere curiosity. Here, too, the verdict seemed altogether favourable,

and it was from the most serious university men and government

officials that I received assurances of the greatest appreciation as

well as kindly remarks, showing that my poem and the artistic ideas

connected with it had been fully understood. From the peculiar

earnestness with which they gave vent to their opinions, which in this

case were so confidently unanimous, the idea occurred to me to try how

far this favourable impression might be utilized to serve the higher

aims of art. In accordance with the superficial views generally

prevailing on the subject, every one seemed to think I might be induced

to make terms with the theatre. I tried to think out how it would be

possible to convert the ill-equipped Zurich theatre into a highly

developed one by adopting sound principles, and I laid my views before

the public in a pamphlet entitled 'A Theatre in Zurich.' The edition,

consisting of about a hundred copies, was sold, yet I never noticed the

least indication of any result from the publication; the only outcome

was, that at a banquet of the Musical Society my excellent friend, Herr

Ott-Imhoff, expressed his entire disagreement with the statements

uttered by various people, that these ideas of mine were all very

grand, but unfortunately quite impracticable. Nevertheless, my

propositions lacked the one thing that would have made them valuable in

his eyes, namely my consent to take over the management of the theatre

in person, as he would not entrust the carrying out of my ideas to

anyone but myself. However, as I was obliged to declare then and there

that I would not have anything to do with such a scheme, the matter

dropped, and in my inmost heart I could not help thinking that the good

people were quite right.

Meanwhile, the sympathetic interest in my works was increasing. As I

now had to refuse firmly to yield to my friends' wishes for a

performance of my principal works at the theatre, I begged to be

allowed to arrange a selection of characteristic pieces, which could

easily be produced at concerts, so soon as I could obtain the requisite

support. A subscription list was accordingly circulated, and it had the

satisfactory result of inducing several well-known art patrons to put

their names down to guarantee expenses. I had to undertake to engage an

orchestra to suit my requirements. Skilled musicians from far and near

were summoned, and after interminable efforts I began to feel that

something really satisfactory would be achieved.

I had made arrangements that the performers should stay at Zurich a

whole week from Sunday to Sunday. Half of this time was allotted

exclusively to rehearsals. The performance was to take place on

Wednesday evening, and on Friday and Sunday evenings there were to be

repetitions of it. The dates were the 18th, 20th, and 22nd of May, my

fortieth birthday falling on the last-named date. I had the joy of

seeing all my directions accurately carried out. From Mayence,

Wiesbaden, Frankfort, and Stuttgart, and on the other side, from

Geneva, Lausanne, Bale, Berne, and the chief towns in Switzerland,

picked musicians arrived punctually on Sunday afternoon. They were at

once directed to the theatre, where they had to arrange their exact

places in the orchestral stand I had previously designed at

Dresden--and which proved excellent here too--so as to begin rehearsing

the first thing next morning without delay or interruption. As these

people were at my disposal in the early morning and in the evening, I

made them learn a selection of pieces from the Fliegender Hollander,

Tannhauser, and Lohengrin. I had greater trouble in trying to train

them for a chorus, but this too turned out very satisfactorily. There

was nothing in the way of solo-singing, except the Ballad of Senta from

the Hollander, which was sung by the wife of the conductor Heim in a

good though untrained voice, and with an amount of spirit that left

nothing to be desired. As a matter of fact, the performances could

hardly be called public concerts, but were rather of the nature of

family entertainments. I felt I was fulfilling a sincere desire on the

part of a larger circle of acquaintances by introducing them to the

true nature of my music, rendered as intelligibly as circumstances

permitted. As, at the same time, it was desirable that they should have

some knowledge of the poetical basis of it, I invited those who

intended to be present at my concerts to come for three evenings to the

Musical Society's concert-hall to hear me read aloud the libretto of

the three operas, portions of which they were about to hear. This

invitation met with an enthusiastic response, and I was now able to

hope that my audience would come better prepared to listen to the

selections from my operas than had ever been the case before. The fact

that pleased me most in the performances on these three evenings was

that I was able for the first time to produce something from Lohengrin

myself, and could thus get an idea of the effect of my combination of

the instrumental parts in the overture to that work.

Between the performances there was a banquet which, with the exception

of a subsequent one at Pesth, was the only function of the sort ever

held in my honour. I was sincerely and deeply affected by the speech of

the aged President of the Musical Society, Herr Ott-Usteri. He drew the

attention of all those musicians who had come together from so many

places to the significance of their meeting, and its objects and

results, and recommended as a trustworthy guide to them on their

homeward journey the conviction they had all doubtless arrived at, that

they had come into close and genuine touch with, a wonderful new

creation in the realm of art.

The sensation produced by these evening concerts spread through the

whole of Switzerland in ever-widening circles. Invitations and requests

for further repetitions of them poured in from distant towns. I was

assured that I might well repeat the three performances in the

following week without any fear of seeing a diminution in the audience.

When this project was discussed, and I pleaded my own fatigue, and also

expressed the desire to retain for these concerts their unique

character by not allowing them to become commonplace, I was very glad

to have the powerful and intelligent support of my friend Hagenbuch,

who on this occasion was indefatigable. The festival was concluded, and

the guests were dismissed at the appointed time.

I had hoped to be able to welcome Liszt among the visitors, as he had

celebrated a 'Wagner week' at Weimar in the previous March by

performing three operas of which I had only given portions here.

Unfortunately he was unable to leave just then, but by way of amends he

promised me a visit at the beginning of July. Of my German friends,

only the faithful Mme. Julie Kummer and Mme. Emilie Ritter arrived in

time. As these two ladies had gone on to Interlaken at the beginning of

June, and I also began to feel in great need of a change, I started

with my wife, towards the end of the month, for a short holiday. The

visit was spoilt in the most dismal fashion by continuous rain; and on

the 1st of July, as we were starting in desperation on our homeward

journey to Zurich with our lady friends, magnificent summer weather set

in, which lasted a considerable time. With affectionate enthusiasm we

at once attributed this change to Liszt, as he arrived in Switzerland

in the best of spirits immediately after we had returned to Zurich.

Thereupon followed one of those delightful weeks, during which every

hour of the day becomes a treasured memory. I had already taken more

roomy apartments on the second floor in the so-called Vorderen Escher

Hausern, in which I had before occupied a flat that was much too small

on the ground floor. Frau Stockar-Escher, who was part owner of the

house, was enthusiastically devoted to me. She was full of artistic

talent herself, being an excellent amateur painter in water-colours,

and had taken great pains to rearrange the new dwelling as luxuriously

as possible. The unexpected improvement in my circumstances brought

about by the continued demands for my operas, allowed me to indulge my

desire for comfortable domestic arrangements, which had been reawakened

since my stay at the hydropathic establishment, and which, after being

repressed, had become quite a passionate longing.

I had the flat so charmingly furnished with carpets and decorative

furniture that Liszt himself was surprised into admiration as he

entered my 'petite elegance', as he called it. Now for the first time I

enjoyed the delight of getting to know my friend better as a

fellow-composer. In addition to many of his celebrated pianoforte

pieces, which he had only recently written, we went through several new

symphonies with great ardour, and especially his Faust Symphony. Later

on, I had the opportunity of describing in detail the impressions I

received at this time in a letter which I wrote to Marie von

Wittgenstein, which was afterwards published. My delight over

everything I heard by Liszt was as deep as it was sincere, and, above

all, extraordinarily stimulating. I even thought of beginning to

compose again after the long interval that had elapsed. What could be

more full of promise and more momentous to me than this long-desired

meeting with the friend who had been engaged all his life in his

masterly practice of music, and had also devoted himself so absolutely

to my own works, and to diffusing the proper comprehension of them.

Those almost bewilderingly delightful days, with the inevitable rush of

friends and acquaintances, were interrupted by an excursion to the Lake

of Lucerne, accompanied only by Herwegh, to whom Liszt had the charming

idea of offering a 'draught of fellowship' with himself and me from the

three springs of the Grutli.

After this my friend took leave of us, after having arranged for

another meeting with me in the autumn.

Although I felt quite disconsolate after Liszt's departure, the

officials of Zurich took good care that I should soon have some

diversion, of a kind to which I had hitherto been a stranger. It took

the form of the presentation of a masterpiece of calligraphy in the

shape of a 'Diploma of Honour,' awarded me by the Zurich Choral

Society, which was ready at last. This was to be awarded to me with the

accompaniment of an imposing torchlight procession, in which the

various elements of the Zurich population, who, either as individuals

or members of societies, were favourably disposed to me, were to take

part. So it came to pass that one fine summer evening a large company

of torchbearers approached the Zeltweg, to the accompaniment of loud

music. They presented a spectacle such as I had never seen before, and

made a unique impression on my mind. After the singing, the voice of

the President of the Choral Society could be heard rising from the

street. I was so much affected by the incident that my unconquerable

optimism quickly overpowered every other sensation. In my speech of

acknowledgment I indicated plainly that I saw no reason why Zurich

itself should not be the chosen place to give an impetus to the

fulfilment of the aspirations I cherished for my artistic ideals, and

that it might do so on proper civic lines. I believe this was taken to

refer to a special development of the men's choral societies, and they

were quite gratified at my bold forecasts. Apart from this confusion,

for which I was responsible, that evening's ceremony and its effects on

me were very cheerful and beneficial.

But I still felt the peculiar disinclination and fear of taking up

composing again that I had previously experienced after protracted

pauses in musical production. I also felt very much exhausted by all I

had done and gone through, and the ever-recurring longing to break

completely with everything in the past, that had unfortunately haunted

me since my departure from Dresden, as well as the desire and yearning

for new and untried surroundings, fostered by that anxiety, now

acquired fresh and tormenting vigour. I felt that before entering on

such a gigantic task as the music to my drama of the Nibelungen, I must

positively make one final effort to see whether I could not, in some

new environment, attain an existence more in harmony with my feelings

than I could possibly aspire to after so many compromises. I planned a

journey to Italy, or such parts of it as were open to me as a political

refugee. The means for carrying out my wish were readily placed at my

disposal through the kindness of my friend Wesendonck, who has ever

since that time been devoted to me. However, I knew it was inadvisable

to take that journey before the autumn, and as my doctor had

recommended some special treatment for strengthening my nerves--even if

only to enjoy Italy--I decided first of all to go to St. Moritz Bad in

the Engadine. I started in the latter half of July, accompanied by

Herwegh. Strangely enough, I have often found that what other people

could note in their diaries merely as an ordinary visit or a trivial

expedition, assumed for me the character of an adventure. This occurred

on our journey to the Bad, when, owing to the coaches being crowded, we

were detained at Chur in an incessant downpour of rain. We were obliged

to pass the time in reading at a most uncomfortable inn. I got hold of

Goethe's West-ostlichen Divan, for the reading of which I had been

prepared by Daumer's adaptation of Hafiz. To this day I never think of

Goethe's words in elucidating these poems without recalling that

wretched delay in our journey to the Engadine. We did not get on much

better at St. Moritz; the present convenient Kurhaus was not then in

existence, and we had to put up with the roughest accommodation; this

was particularly annoying to me on Herwegh's account, as he had not

gone there for health, but simply for enjoyment. However, we were soon

cheered by the lovely views of the grand valleys, which were quite bare

but for the Alpine pastures, that met our eyes on our way down the

steep slopes into the Italian valleys. After we had secured the

schoolmaster at Samaden as a guide to the Rosetch glacier, we embarked

on more serious expeditions. We had confidently looked forward to

exceptional enjoyment in thus penetrating beyond the precipices of the

great Mont Bernina, to which we gave the palm for beauty above Mont

Blanc itself. Unfortunately the effect was lost on my friend, owing to

the tremendous exertions by which the ascent and crossing of the

glacier were attended. Once again, but this time to an even greater

degree, I felt the sublime impression of the sacredness of that

desolate spot, and the almost benumbing calm which the disappearance of

all vegetation produces on the pulsating life of the human organism.

After we had been wandering for two hours, deep in the glacier path, we

partook of a meal we had brought with us, and champagne, iced in the

fissures, to strengthen us for our wearisome return. I had to cover the

distance nearly twice over, as, to my astonishment, Herwegh was in such

a nervous condition that I had repeatedly to go backwards and forwards,

showing him the way up and down before he would decide to follow. I

then realised the peculiarly exhausting nature of the air in those

regions, as on our way back we stopped at the first herdsman's cottage,

and were refreshed with some delicious milk. I swallowed such

quantities of it that we were both perfectly amazed, but I experienced

no discomfort whatever in consequence.

The waters, whether for internal or external use, are known to be

powerfully impregnated with iron, and in taking them I had the same

experience as on previous occasions. With my extremely excitable

nervous system, they were a source of more trouble than relief to me.

The leisure hours were filled up by reading Goethe's

Wahlverwandtschaften, which I had not read since I was quite young.

This time I absolutely devoured the book from beginning to end, and it

also became a source of heated discussions between Herwegh and myself.

As Herwegh possessed an extensive knowledge of the characteristics of

our great poetic literature, he felt it incumbent on him to defend the

character of Charlotte against my attacks. My vehemence on the subject

showed what a strange creature I still was at over forty, and in my

heart of hearts I had to admit that Herwegh judged Gothe's poem

objectively more correctly than I did, as I always felt depressed by a

kind of moral bondage, to which Herwegh, if he had ever experienced it

at all, submitted placidly, owing to his peculiar relations with his

strong-minded wife. When the time came to an end, and I realised that I

had not much to hope for from the treatment, we returned to Zurich.

This was about the middle of August, and I now began to look forward

impatiently to my tour in Italy. At last, in the month of September,

which I had been told was quite suitable for visiting Italy, I set off

on the journey via Geneva, full of indescribable ideas of what was

before me, and of what I might see as the outcome of my search. Once

again amid all sorts of strange adventures, I reached Turin by special

mail-coach over Mont Cenis. Finding nothing to detain me there more

than a couple of days, I hurried on to Genoa. There, at any rate, the

longed-for marvels seemed to be within reach. The grand impression

produced on me by that, city overcomes, even to this day, any longing

to visit the rest of Italy. For a few days I was in a dream of delight;

but my extreme loneliness amidst these impressions soon made me feel

that I was a stranger in that world, and that I should never be at home

in it. Absolutely inexperienced as I was in searching out the treasures

of art on a systematic plan, I gave myself up in this new world to a

peculiar state of mind that might be described as a musical one, and my

main idea was to find some turning-point that might induce me to remain

there in quiet enjoyment. My only object still was to find a refuge

where I might enjoy the congenial peace suited to some new artistic

creation. In consequence, however, of thoughtlessly indulging in ices,

I soon got an attack of dysentery, which produced the most depressing

lassitude after my previous exaltation. I wanted to flee from the

tremendous noise of the harbour, near which I was staying, and seek for

the most absolute calm; and thinking a trip to Spezia would benefit me,

I went there by steamer a week later. Even this excursion, which lasted

only one night, was turned into a trying adventure, thanks to a violent

head-wind. The dysentery became worse, owing to sea-sickness, and in

the most utterly exhausted condition, scarcely able to drag myself

another step, I made for the best hotel in Spezia, which, to my horror,

was situated in a noisy, narrow street.

After a night spent in fever and sleeplessness, I forced myself to take

a long tramp the next day through the hilly country, which was covered

with pine woods. It all looked dreary and desolate, and I could not

think what I should do there. Returning in the afternoon, I stretched

myself, dead tired, on a hard couch, awaiting the long-desired hour of

sleep. It did not come; but I fell into a kind of somnolent state, in

which I suddenly felt as though I were sinking in swiftly flowing

water. The rushing sound formed itself in my brain into a musical

sound, the chord of E flat major, which continually re-echoed in broken

forms; these broken chords seemed to be melodic passages of increasing

motion, yet the pure triad of E flat major never changed, but seemed by

its continuance to impart infinite significance to the element in which

I was sinking. I awoke in sudden terror from my doze, feeling as though

the waves were rushing high above my head. I at once recognised that

the orchestral overture to the Rheingold, which must long have lain

latent within me, though it had been unable to find definite form, had

at last been revealed to me. I then quickly realised my own nature; the

stream of life was not to flow to me from without, but from within. I

decided to return to Zurich immediately, and begin the composition of

my great poem. I telegraphed to my wife to let her know my decision,

and to have my study in readiness.

The same evening I took my place on the coach going to Genoa along the

Riviera di Levante. I again had the opportunity of getting exquisite

impressions of the country during this journey, which lasted over the

whole of the following day. It was, above all, the colouring of the

wonders that presented themselves to my eyes which gave me such

delight--the redness of the rocks, the blue of the sky and the sea, the

pale green of the pines; even the dazzling white of a herd of cattle

worked upon me so powerfully that I murmured to myself with a sigh,

'How sad it is that I cannot remain to enjoy all this, and thus gratify

my sensuous nature.'

At Genoa I again felt so agreeably stimulated that I suddenly thought I

had only yielded to some foolish weakness, and resolved to carry out my

original plan. I was already making arrangements for travelling to Nice

along the celebrated Riviera di Ponente, of which I had heard so much,

but I had scarcely decided on my former plans, when I realised that the

fact which refreshed and invigorated me was not the renewal of my

delight over Italy, but the resolve to take up my work again. And

indeed, as soon as I made up my mind to alter this plan, the old

condition set in once more, with all the symptoms of dysentery. I

thereupon understood myself, and giving up the journey to Nice, I

returned direct by the nearest route via Alessandria and Novara.

This time I passed the Borromean Islands with supreme indifference, and

got back to Zurich over the St. Gotthard.

When I had once returned, the only thing that could have made me happy

would have been to start at once on my great work. For the present,

however, I saw that it would be seriously interrupted by my appointment

with Liszt, who was to be in Bale at the beginning of October. I was

restless and annoyed at being so unsettled, and spent the time in

visiting my wife, who, thinking that I would be away longer, was taking

the waters at Baden am Stein. As I was easily prevailed upon to try any

experiment of this kind if only the person who recommended it were

sufficiently sanguine, I allowed myself to be persuaded into taking a

course of hot baths, and the process heightened my excitment

considerably.

At last the time for the meeting in Bale arrived. At the invitation of

the Grand Duke of Baden, Liszt had arranged and conducted a musical

festival in Karlsruhe, the aim of which was to give the public an

adequate interpretation of our respective works. As I was not yet

allowed to enter the territory of the German confederation, Liszt had

chosen Bale as the place nearest to the Baden frontier, and had brought

with him some young men who had been his devoted admirers in Karlsruhe,

to give me a hearty welcome.

I was the first to arrive, and in the evening, while sitting alone in

the dining-room of the hotel, 'Zu den drei Konigen,' the air of the

trumpet fanfare (from Lohengrin) announcing the King's arrival, sung by

a strong though not numerous chorus of men's voices, reached me from

the adjacent vestibule. The door opened and Liszt entered at the head

of his joyful little band, whom he introduced to me. I also saw Bulow

again, for the first time since his adventurous winter visit to Zurich

and St. Gall, and with him Joachim, Peter Cornelius, Richard Pohl, and

Dionys Pruckner.

Liszt told me that he was expecting a visit from his friend Caroline

von Wittgenstein and her young daughter Marie the next day. The bright

and merry spirit which prevailed at that gathering (which, like

everything that Liszt promoted, in spite of its intimate nature, was

characterised by magnificent unconventionality) grew to a pitch of

almost eccentric hilarity as the night wore on. In the midst of our

wild mood I suddenly missed Pohl. I knew him to be a champion of our

cause through having read his articles under the pseudonym of 'Hoplit.'

I stole away and found him in bed suffering from a splitting headache.

My sympathy had such an effect upon him that he declared himself

suddenly cured. Jumping out of bed, he allowed me to help him dress

hurriedly, and again joining our friends we sat up till the night was

far advanced and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. On the following day our

happiness was complete when the ladies arrived, who for the next few

days formed the centre of our little party. In those days it was

impossible for any one coming into contact with Princess Caroline not

to be fascinated by her bright manner and the charming way in which she

entered into all our little plans.

She was as much interested in the more important questions that

affected us as in the accidental details of our life in relation to

society, and she had the magnetic power of extracting the very best out

of those with whom she associated. Her daughter gave one quite a

different impression. She was barely fifteen and had a rather dreamy

look on her young face, and was at the stage 'in which womanhood and

childhood meet,' thus allowing me to pay her the compliment of calling

her 'the child.' During our lively discussions and outbursts of

merriment, her dark pensive eyes would gaze at us so calmly that we

unconsciously felt that in her innocence she unwittingly understood the

cause of our gaiety. In those days I suffered from the vanity of

wishing to recite my poems aloud (a proceeding which, by the bye,

annoyed Herwegh very much), and consequently it was no difficult task

to induce me to read out my Nibelungen drama. As the time of our

parting was drawing near, I decided I would read Siegfried only.

When Liszt was obliged to leave for Paris on a visit to his children,

we all accompanied him as far as Strasburg. I had decided to follow him

to Paris, but the Princess intended going on from Strasburg to Weimar

with her daughter.

During the few spare hours of our short stay in Strasburg I was asked

to read some of my work to the ladies, but could not find a suitable

opportunity. However, on the morning of our intended parting, Liszt

came to my room to tell me that the ladies had, after all, decided to

accompany us to Paris, and added, laughing, that Marie had induced her

mother to change her plans, as she wished to hear the rest of the

Nibelungen poems. The prolonging of our journey, with all its

delightful incidents, was quite in accordance with my taste.

We were very sorry to part from our younger friends. Bulow told me that

Joachim, who had been holding himself rather aloof, could not forget my

tremendous article on 'Judaism,' and that he consequently felt shy and

awkward in my presence. He also said that when Joachim had asked him

(Bulow) to read one of his compositions, he had inquired with a certain

gentle diffidence, whether I should be able to trace 'anything Jewish'

in it.

This touching trait in Joachim's character induced me to say a few

particularly friendly words to him at parting and to embrace him

warmly. I never saw him again, [Footnote: This was written in 1869.]

and heard to my astonishment that he had taken up a hostile attitude to

both Liszt and myself, almost immediately after we had left. The other

young men were the victims, on their return to Germany, of a very funny

although unpleasant experience, that of coming into contact with the

police at Baden. They had entered the town singing the same bright tune

of the fanfare from Lohengrin, and they had a good deal of difficulty

in giving a satisfactory account of themselves to the inhabitants.

Our journey to Paris and our stay there were full of important

incidents, and left indelible traces of our exceptionally devoted

friendship. After great difficulty we found rooms for the ladies in the

Hotel des Princes, and Liszt then suggested that we should go for a

stroll on the boulevards, which at that hour were deserted. I presume

that our feelings on this occasion must have differed as much as our

reminiscences. When I entered the sitting-room the next morning, Liszt

remarked, with his characteristic little smile, that the Princess Marie

was already in a great state of excitement at the thought of further

readings. Paris did not offer much attraction to me, and as Princess

Caroline desired to arouse as little attention as possible, and Liszt

was frequently called away on private business, we took up our reading,

where we had left it off in Bale, on the very first morning of our stay

in Paris, even before we had been outside the hotel. I was not allowed

to stop reading on the following days until the Ring des Nibelungen was

quite finished. Finally Paris claimed our attention, but while the

ladies were visiting the museums I was unfortunately obliged to stay in

my room, tortured by continually recurring nervous headaches. Liszt,

however, induced me occasionally to join them in their excursions. At

the beginning of our stay he had engaged a box for a performance of

Robert le Diable, because he wanted the ladies to see the great opera

house under the most favourable conditions. I believe that my friends

shared the terrible depression from which I was suffering on this

occasion. Liszt, however, must have had other motives for going. He had

asked me to wear evening dress, and seemed very pleased I had done so

when at the interval he invited me to go for a stroll with him through

the foyer. I could see he was under the influence of certain

reminiscences of delightful evenings spent in this selfsame foyer, and

that the dismal performance of this night must have cast a gloom over

him. We stole quietly back to our friends, hardly knowing why we had

started on this monotonous expedition. One of the artistic pleasures I

enjoyed most was a concert given by the Morin-Chevillard Quartette

Society, at which they played Beethoven's Quartettes in E flat major

and C sharp minor; the excellent rendering of this work impressed me in

very much the same way as the performance of the Ninth Symphony by the

Conservatoire orchestra had once done. I had again the opportunity of

admiring the great artistic zeal with which the French master these

treasures of music, which even to this day are so coarsely handled by

the Germans.

This was the first time that I really became intimately acquainted with

the C sharp minor quartette, because I had never before grasped its

melody. If, therefore, I had nothing else to remind me of my stay in

Paris, this would have been an unfading memory. I also carried away

with me other equally significant impressions. One day Liszt invited me

to spend an evening with him and his children, who were living very

quietly in the care of a governess in Paris.

It was quite a novelty to me to see Liszt with these young girls, and

to watch him in his intercourse with his son, then a growing lad. Liszt

himself seemed to feel strange in his fatherly position, which for

several years had only brought him cares, without any of the attendant

pleasures.

On this occasion we again resumed our reading of the last act of

Gotterdammerung, which brought us to the longed-for end of the

tetralogy. Berlioz, who looked us up during that time, endured these

readings with quite admirable patience. We had lunch with him one

morning before his departure, and he had already packed his music for

his concert tour through Germany. Liszt played different selections

from his Benvenuto Cellini, while Berlioz sang to them in his

peculiarly monotonous style. I also met the journalist, Jules Janin,

who was quite a celebrity in Paris, although it took me a long time to

realise this; the only thing that impressed me about him was his

colloquial Parisian French, which was quite unintelligible to me.

A dinner, followed by a musical evening at the house of the celebrated

pianoforte manufacturer, Erard, also remains in my memory. At this

house, as well as at a dinner-party given by Liszt at the Palais Royal,

I again met his children. Daniel, the youngest of them, particularly

attracted me by his brightness and his striking resemblance to his

father, but the girls were very shy. I must not forget to mention an

evening spent at the house of Mme. Kalergis, a woman of exceptional

individuality, whom I met here for the first time since the early

performance of Tannhauser in Dresden. When at dinner she asked me a

question about Louis Napoleon, I forgot myself so far in my excitement

and resentment as to put an end to all further conversation by saying

that I could not understand how anybody could possibly expect great

things from a man whom no woman could really love. After dinner, when

Liszt sat down at the piano, young Marie Wittgenstein noticed that I

had withdrawn silently and rather sadly from the rest of the company;

this was due partly to my headache, and partly to the feeling of

isolation that came over me in these surroundings. I was touched by her

sympathy and evident wish to divert me.

After a very fatiguing week my friends left Paris. As I had again been

prevented from starting on my work, I now decided not to leave Paris

until I had restored my nerves to that state of calm which was

indispensable to the fulfilment of my great project. I had invited my

wife to meet me on our way back to Zurich, to give her the opportunity

of seeing Paris again, where we had both suffered so much. After her

arrival, Kietz and Anders turned up regularly for dinner, and a young

Pole, the son of my old and beloved friend, Count Vincenz Tyszkiewicz,

also came to see us very often.

This young man (who had been born since the early days of my friendship

with his father) had devoted himself passionately to music, as so many

do nowadays. He had made quite a stir in Paris after a performance of

Freischutz at the Grand Opera, by declaring that the many cuts and

alterations which had been made were a fraud on the initiated public,

and he had sued the management of the theatre for the return of the

entrance money, which he regretted ever having paid. He also had an

idea of publishing a paper with the view of drawing attention to the

slovenly conduct of musical affairs in Paris, which in his opinion was

an insult to public taste.

Prince Eugen von Wittgenstein-Sayn, a young amateur painter who had

belonged to Liszt's circle of intimate friends, painted a miniature of

me, for which I had to give him several sittings; it was done under

Kietz's guidance, and turned out pretty well.

I had an important consultation with a young doctor named Lindemann, a

friend of Kietz's; he strongly advised me to give up the water cure,

and tried to convert me to the toxic theory. He had attracted the

attention of Parisian society by inoculating himself with various

poisons in the hospital before witnesses, in order to show their

effects upon the system, an experiment which he carried out in an

accurate and thoroughly effective manner. With regard to my own case,

he stated that it could be easily remedied if we ascertained by careful

experiments what metallic substance would specifically influence my

nervous system. He unhesitatingly recommended me, in case of very

violent attacks, to take laudanum, and in default of that poison he

seemed to consider valerian an excellent remedy.

Tired out, restless and exceedingly unstrung, I left Paris with Minna

towards the end of October, without in the least understanding why I

had spent so much money there. Hoping to counterbalance this by pushing

my operas in Germany, I calmly retired to the seclusion of my Zurich

lodgings, fully decided not to leave them again until some parts, at

least, of my Nibelungen dramas were set to music.

In the beginning of November I started on this long-postponed work. For

five and a half years (since the end of March, 1848) I had held aloof

from all musical composition, and as I very soon found myself in the

right mood for composing, this return to my work can best be compared

to a reincarnation of my soul after it had been wandering in other

spheres. As far as the technique was concerned, I soon found myself in

a difficulty when I started to write down the orchestral overture,

conceived in Spezia in a kind of half-dream, in my usual way of

sketching it out on two lines. I was compelled to resort to the

complete score-formula; this tempted me to try a new way of sketching,

which was a very hasty and superficial one, from which I immediately

wrote out the complete score.

This process often led to difficulties, as the slightest interruption

in my work made me lose the thread of my rough draft, and I had to

start from the beginning before I could recall it to my memory.

I did not let this occur in regard to Rheingold. The whole of this

composition had been finished in outline on the 16th of January, 1854,

and consequently the plan for the musical structure of this work in

four parts had been drawn in all its thematic proportions, as it was in

this great prelude that these thematic foundations of the whole had to

be laid.

I remember how much my health improved during the writing of this work;

and my surroundings during that time consequently left very little

impression on my mind.

During the first months of the new year I also conducted a few

orchestral concerts. To please my friend Sulzer, I produced, amongst

other works, the overture to Gluck's Iphigenia in Aulis, after having

written a new finale to it. The necessity for altering the finale by

Mozart induced me to write an article for the Brendel musical journal

on this artistic problem. These occupations did not, however, prevent

me from working at the Rheingold score, which I quickly dotted down in

pencil on a few single sheets. On the 28th May I finished the

instrumentation of the Rheingold. There had been very little change in

my life at home; things had remained the same during the last few

years, and everything went smoothly. Only my financial position was

rather precarious, owing to the past year's expenses for furniture,

etc., and also to the more luxurious mode of living I had adopted, on

the strength of my belief that my operas, which were now better known,

would bring me in a larger income.

The most important theatres, however, still held back, and to my

mortification all my efforts at negotiation with Berlin and Vienna

proved fruitless. In consequence of these disappointments I suffered

great worries and cares during the greater part of that year. I tried

to counteract these by new work, and instead of writing out the score

of Rheingold I began the composition of the Walkure. Towards the end of

July I had finished the first scene, but had to interrupt my work on

account of a journey to the south of Switzerland.

I had received an invitation from the 'Eidgenossische

Musikgesellschaft' to conduct their musical festival at Sion that year.

I had refused, but at the same time promised that if possible I would

conduct Beethoven's Symphony in A major at one of the gala concerts. I

intended on the way to call on Karl Ritter, who had gone to live with

his young wife at Montreux on the Lake of Geneva. The week I spent with

this young couple gave me ample opportunities for doubting whether

their happiness would be of long duration.

Karl and I left shortly afterwards for the musical festival in Valais.

On our way we were joined at Martigny by an extraordinary young man,

Robert von Hornstein, who had been introduced to me on the occasion of

my great musical festival the year before as an enthusiast and a

musician. This quaint mortal was regarded as a very welcome addition to

our party, particularly by young Ritter, and both young people looked

forward with great enthusiasm to the treat in store for them; Hornstein

had come all the way from Swabia to hear me conduct the festival in the

canton of Valais. We arrived in the midst of the musical festivities,

and I was terribly disappointed to find how very badly and

inartistically the preliminary arrangements had been made. I was so

taken aback, after having received the worst possible impression of the

sound of the very scanty orchestra in a small church, which served as

church and concert-hall combined, and was so furious at the thought of

having been dragged into such an affair, that I merely wrote a few

lines to Methfessel, the organising director of the festival, who had

come from Berne, and took my leave, without further ceremony. I escaped

by the next post-chaise that was just on the point of leaving, and I

did this so expeditiously that even my young friends were unaware of my

departure. I purposely kept the fact of my sudden flight from them; I

had my own reasons for doing so, and as they were rather interesting

from a psychological point of view, I have never forgotten them.

On coming back to dinner that day feeling miserable and depressed after

the disappointing impression I had just received, my annoyance was

treated with foolish and almost insulting roars of laughter by my young

friends. I presumed that their merriment was the result of remarks made

at my expense before I came in, as neither my admonitions nor even my

anger could induce them to behave differently. I quitted the

dining-room in disgust, paid my bill and left, without giving them any

opportunity of noticing my departure. I spent a few days in Geneva and

Lausanne, and decided to call on Frau Ritter on my way back; and there

I again met the two young people. Evidently they also had given up the

wretched festival, and been completely taken aback at my sudden

departure, had almost immediately left for Montreux, in the hope of

hearing news of me.

I made no mention of their rude conduct, and as Karl cordially invited

me to stay with them a few days longer I accepted, principally because

I was very much interested in a poetical work he had only just

finished. This poem was a comedy called Alkibiades, which he had really

treated with exceptional refinement and freedom of form. He had already

told me at Albisbrunnen about the sketch of this work, and had shown me

an elegant dagger into the blade of which the syllables Alki had been

burnt.

He explained that his friend, a young actor whom he had left in

Stuttgart, possessed a similar weapon, the blade of which bore the

syllables Biades. It seemed that Karl, even without the symbolic help

of the daggers, had again found the complement of his own

'Alkibiadesian' individuality, this time in the young booby Hornstein,

and it is very probable that the two, whilst in Sion, had imagined they

were acting an 'Alkibiadesian' scene before Socrates. His comedy showed

me that his artistic talent was fortunately far better than his society

manners. To this day I regret that this decidedly difficult play has

never been produced.

Hornstein now behaved properly and desired to go to Lausanne via Vevey.

We did part of the journey together on foot, and his quaint appearance

with his knapsack on his back was most amusing, continued my journey

alone from Berne to Lucerne, taking the shortest possible route to

Selisberg on the Lake of Lucerne, where my wife was staying for a

sour-milk cure.

The symptoms of heart disease, which I had already noticed some time

previously, had increased, and this place had been recommended to her

as specially invigorating and beneficial. With great patience I endured

several weeks of life at a Swiss pension, but my wife, who had quite

adapted herself to the ways of the house and seemed very comfortable,

looked upon me as a disturbing element.

I found this a great trial, although the beautiful air and my daily

excursions into the mountains did me a great deal of good. I even went

so far as to choose a very wild spot, where, in imagination, I ordered

a little house to be built in which I should be able to work in

absolute peace.

Towards the end of July we went back to Zurich. I returned to my

Walkure and finished the first act in the month of August. I was

terribly depressed by my worries just at this time, and as it was more

than ever necessary for me to have absolute quiet for my work, I at

once agreed to my wife's departure, when she told me of her intended

visit to her relations and friends in Dresden and Zwickau. She left me

at the beginning of September, and wrote to me about her stay in

Weimar, where the Princess Wittgenstein had received her with the

greatest hospitality at Altenburg Castle. There she met Rockel's wife,

who was being cared for in the most self-sacrificing way by her

husband's brother. It showed a spirited and original trait in Minna's

character that she decided to visit Rockel in his prison at Waldheim,

solely that she might give his wife news of him, although she disliked

the man intensely.

She told me of this visit, saying sarcastically that Rockel looked

quite happy and bright, and that life in prison did not seem to suit

him badly.

Meanwhile I plunged with renewed zeal into my work, and had finished a

fair copy of the Rheingold score by the 26th of September. In the

peaceful quietness of my house at this time I first came across a book

which was destined to be of great importance to me. This was Arthur

Schopenhauer's Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung. Herwegh recommended

this work to me, and told me that strangely enough it had only been

recently discovered, although it had been published over thirty years.

In a pamphlet on this subject a certain Herr Frauenstadt had drawn the

attention of the public to the book, to which I immediately felt

attracted, and I at once began to study it. For a long time I had

wanted to understand the real value of philosophy. My conversations

with Lehrs in Paris in my very young days had awakened my longing for

this branch of knowledge, upon which I had first launched when I

attended the lectures of several Leipzig professors and in later years

by reading Schelling and Hegel. I seemed to understand the reason of

their failure to satisfy me from the writings of Feuerbach, which I

studied at the same time. What fascinated me so enormously about

Schopenhauer's work was not only its extraordinary fate, but the

clearness and manly precision with which the most difficult

metaphysical problems were treated from the very beginning.

I had been greatly drawn towards the work on learning the opinion of an

English critic, who candidly confessed that he respected German

philosophy because of its complete incomprehensibility, as instanced by

Hegel's doctrines, until the study of Schopenhauer had made it clear to

him that Hegel's lack of lucidity was due not so much to his own

incapacity as to the intentionally bombastic style in which this

philosopher had clothed his problems. Like every man who is

passionately thrilled with life, I too sought first for the conclusions

of Schopenhauer's system. With its aesthetic side I was perfectly

content, and was especially astonished at his noble conception of

music. But, on the other hand, the final summing-up regarding morals

alarmed me, as, indeed, it would have startled any one in my mood; for

here the annihilation of the will and complete abnegation are

represented as the sole true and final deliverance from those bonds of

individual limitation in estimating and facing the world, which are now

clearly felt for the first time. For those who hoped to find some

philosophical justification for political and social agitation on

behalf of so-called 'individual freedom' there was certainly no support

to be found here, where all that was demanded was absolute renunciation

of all such methods of satisfying the claims of personality. At first I

naturally found his ideas by no means palatable, and felt I could not

readily abandon that so-called 'cheerful' Greek aspect of the world,

with which I had looked out upon life in my Kunstwerk der Zukunft. As a

matter of fact, it was Herwegh who at last, by a well-timed

explanation, brought me to a calmer frame of mind about my own

sensitive feelings. It is from this perception of the nullity of the

visible world--so he said--that all tragedy is derived, and such a

perception must necessarily have dwelt as an intuition in every great

poet, and even in every great man. On looking afresh into my Nibelungen

poem I recognised with surprise that the very things that now so

embarrassed me theoretically had long been familiar to me in my own

poetical conception. Now at last I could understand my Wotan, and I

returned with chastened mind to the renewed study of Schopenhauer's

book. I had learned to recognise that my first essential task was to

understand the first part, namely, the exposition and enlarging of

Kant's doctrine of the ideality of that world which has hitherto seemed

to us so solidly founded in time and space, and I believed I had taken

the first step towards such an understanding by recognising its

enormous difficulty. For many years afterwards that book never left me,

and by the summer of the following year I had already studied the whole

of it for the fourth time. The effect thus gradually wrought upon me

was extraordinary, and certainly exerted a decisive influence on the

whole course of my life. In forming my judgment upon all those matters

which I had hitherto acquired solely through the senses, I had gained

pretty much the same power as I had formerly won in music--after

abandoning the teaching of my old master Weinlich--by an exhaustive

study of counterpoint. If, therefore, in later years I again expressed

opinions in my casual writings on matters pertaining to that art which

so particularly interested me, it is certain that traces of what I

learned from my study of Schopenhauer's philosophy were clearly

perceptible.

Just then I was prompted to send the venerated philosopher a copy of my

Nibelungen poem. To its title I merely added by hand the words, 'With

Reverence,' but without writing a single word to Schopenhauer himself.

This I did partly from a feeling of great shyness in addressing him,

and partly because I felt that if the perusal of my poem did not

enlighten Schopenhauer about the man with whom he was dealing, a letter

from me, no matter how explicit, would not help him much. I also

renounced by this means the vain wish to be honoured by an autograph

letter from his hand. I learned later, however, from Karl Ritter, and

also from Dr. Wille, both of whom visited Schopenhauer in Frankfort,

that he spoke impressively and favourably of my poetry. In addition to

these studies, I continued writing the music to the Walkure. I was

living in great retirement at this time, my sole relaxation being to

take long walks in the neighbourhood, and, as usual with me when hard

at work at my music, I felt the longing to express myself in poetry.

This must have been partly due to the serious mood created by

Schopenhauer, which was trying to find ecstatic expression. It was some

such mood that inspired the conception of a Tristan und Isolde.

Karl Ritter had just laid before me a sketch for the dramatic treatment

of this subject (with which I was thoroughly acquainted through my

Dresden studies), and had thereby drawn my attention to the material

for this poem. I had already expressed my views to my young friend

about the faultiness of his sketch. He had, in fact, made a point of

giving prominence to the lighter phases of the romance, whereas it was

its all-pervading tragedy that impressed me so deeply that I felt

convinced it should stand out in bold relief, regardless of minor

details. On my return from one of my walks I jotted down the incidents

of the three acts in a concise form, with the intention of working them

out more elaborately later on. In the last act I introduced an episode,

which, however, I did not develop eventually, namely, the visit to

Tristan's deathbed by Parsifal during his search for the Holy Grail.

The picture of Tristan languishing, yet unable to die of his wound,

identified itself in my mind with Amfortas in the Romance of the Grail.

For the moment I forced myself to leave this poem on one side, and to

allow nothing to interrupt my great musical work. Meanwhile, through

the help of friends, I succeeded in bringing about a satisfactory

change in my financial position. My prospects with regard to the German

theatres also seemed brighter. Minna had been in Berlin, and through

the influence of our old friend, Alwine Frommann, had had an interview

with Herr von Hulsen, the manager of the court theatre. After losing

two years in fruitless efforts, I at last felt more certain of seeing

Tannhauser produced there without further obstacle, as it had become so

popular with all the theatres that its failure in Berlin could not

injure its reputation; it could only reflect disadvantageously on the

Berlin management.

In the beginning of November Minna returned from her journey, and

acting on the news she gave me about the production of Tannhauser in

Berlin, I allowed matters to take their course, a decision which

afterwards caused me great annoyance, as the rendering of my work was

simply wretched. I got some compensation, however, in the royalties,

which were an important and continuous source of income to me.

The Zurich Musical Society now again enlisted my interest for their

winter concerts. I promised to conduct, but only on condition that they

would give serious consideration to improving the orchestra. I had

already twice proposed the formation of a decent orchestra, and I now

sent in a third plan to the committee, in which I described in detail

how they might achieve this object at a comparatively slight outlay by

cooperation with the theatre. I told them that this winter would be the

last time that I should interest myself in their concerts unless they

entertained this very reasonable proposition. Apart from this work, I

took in hand a quartette society, made up of the soloists of the

orchestra, who were anxious to study the right interpretation of the

various quartettes I had recommended.

It was a great pleasure to me to see how soon the public patronised the

efforts of these artists, who, by the way, thus added a little extra to

their incomes for a considerable time. As far as their artistic

achievements went, the work was rather slow; the mere fact of their

being able to play their respective instruments well did not make them

at once understand the art of playing together, for which so much more

is needed than mere dynamic proportions and accents, attainable only by

the individual development of a higher artistic taste in the treatment

of the instrument by its exponent.

I was too ambitious about them, and actually taught them Beethoven's

Quartette in C sharp minor, which meant endless trouble and rehearsing.

I wrote some analytical annotations for the better appreciation of this

extraordinary work, and had them printed on the programme. Whether I

made any impression on the audience, or whether they liked the

performance, I was never able to find out. When I say that I completed

the sketch of the whole of the music to the Walkure by the 30th of

December of that year, it will suffice to prove my strenuous and active

life at that time, as well as to show that I did not allow any outside

distraction to disturb my rigorous plan of work.

In January, 1855, I began the instrumentation of the Walkure, but I was

compelled to interrupt it, owing to a promise I made to some of my

friends to give them a chance of hearing the overture to Faust, which I

had written in Paris fifteen years before. I had another look at this

composition, which had been the means of so important a change in my

musical ideas. Liszt had produced the work in Weimar a little while

before, and had written to me in very favourable terms about it, at the

same time expressing his wish that I should rewrite more elaborately

some parts that were only faintly indicated. So I immediately set to

work to rewrite the overture, conscientiously adopting my clear

friend's delicate suggestions, and I finished it as it was afterwards

published by Hartel. I taught our orchestra this overture, and did not

think the performance at all bad. My wife, however, did not like it;

she said it seemed to her 'as if nothing good could be made out of it,'

and she begged me not to have it produced in London when I went there

that year. At this time I had an extraordinary application, such as I

have never received again. In January the London Philharmonic Society

wrote asking me if I would be willing to conduct their concerts for the

season. I did not answer immediately, as I wanted to obtain some

particulars first, and was very much surprised one day to receive a

visit from a certain Mr. Anderson, a member of the committee of the

celebrated society, who had come to Zurich on purpose to ensure my

acceptance.

I was expected to go to London for four months to give eight concerts

for the Philharmonic Society, for which I was to receive in all L200. I

did not quite know what to do, as, from a business point of view, it

was of no advantage to me, and, as far as the conducting went, it was

not much in my line, unless I could rely on at least a few high-class

artistic productions.

One thing only struck me as favourable, and that was the prospect of

again handling a large and excellent orchestra, after having been

denied one for so long, while the fact that I had attracted the

attention of that remote world of music fascinated me exceedingly. I

felt as if fate were calling me, and at last I accepted the invitation

of this simple and amiable-looking Englishman, Mr. Anderson, who, fully

satisfied with the result of his mission, immediately left for England

wrapped in a big fur coat, whose real owner I only got to know later

on. Before following him to England, I had to free myself from a

calamity which I had brought upon myself through being too

kind-hearted. The managing director of the Zurich theatre for that

year, an obtrusive and over-zealous person, had at last made me accede

to his wish to produce Tannhauser, on the plea that as this work was

now performed at every opera house, it would be a very bad thing for

the Zurich theatre if it were the only one to be deprived of the

privilege, merely because I happened to live in the town. Besides this,

my wife interfered in the matter, and the singers who played Tannhauser

and Wolfram at once put themselves under her wing. She really

succeeded, too, in working on my humanitarian feelings with regard to

one of her proteges, a poor tenor who had been badly bullied by the

conductor till then. I took these people through their parts a few

times, and in consequence found myself obliged to attend the stage

rehearsals to superintend their performances. What it all came to in

the end was that I was driven to interfere again and again, until I

found myself at the conductor's desk, and eventually conducted the

first performance myself. I have a particularly vivid recollection of

the singer who played Elizabeth on that occasion. She had originally

taken soubrette parts, and went through her role in white kid gloves,

dangling a fan. This time I had really had enough of such concessions,

and when at the close the audience called me before the curtain, I

stood there and told my friends with great frankness that this was the

last time they would get me to do anything of the sort. I advised them

in future to look to the state of their theatre, as they had just had a

most convincing proof of its faulty construction--at which they were

all much astonished. I made a similar announcement to the

'Musikgesellschaft,' where I also conducted once more--really for the

last time--before my departure. Unfortunately, they put down my

protests to my sense of humour, and were not in the least spurred to

exert themselves, with the result that I had to be very stern and

almost rude the following winter, to deter them, once and for all, from

making further demands upon me. I thus left my former patrons in Zurich

somewhat nonplussed when I started for London on 26th February.

I travelled through Paris and spent some days there, during which time

I saw only Kietz and his friend Lindemann (whom he regarded as a quack

doctor). Arriving in London on 2nd March I first went to see Ferdinand

Prager. In his youth he had been a friend of the Rockel brothers, who

had given me a very favourable account of him. He proved to be an

unusually good-natured fellow, though of an excitability insufficiently

balanced by his standard of culture. After spending the first night at

his home, I installed myself the following day with his help in a house

in Portland Terrace, in the neighbourhood of Regent's Park, of which I

had agreeable recollections from former visits. I promised myself a

pleasant stay there in the coming spring, if only on account of its

close proximity to that part of the park where beautiful copper beeches

over-shadowed the path. But though I spent four months in London, it

seemed to me that spring never came, the foggy climate so overclouded

all the impressions I received. Prager was only too eager to escort me

when I went to pay the customary visits, including one to Costa. I was

thus introduced to the director of the Italian Opera, who was at the

same time the real leader of music in London; for he was also director

of the Sacred-Music Society, which gave almost regular weekly

performances of Handel and Mendelssohn.

Prager also took me to see his friend Sainton, the leader of the London

orchestra. After giving me a very hearty reception he told me the

remarkable history of my invitation to London. Sainton, a southern

Frenchman from Toulouse, of naive and fiery temperament, was living

with a full-blooded German musician from Hamburg, named Luders, the son

of a bandsman, of a brusque but friendly disposition. I was much

affected when I heard, later on, of the incident which had made these

two men inseparable friends. Sainton had been making a concert tour by

way of St. Petersburg, and found himself stranded at Helsingfors in

Finland, unable to get any further, pursued as he was by the demon of

ill-luck. At this moment the curious figure of the modest Hamburg

bandsman's son had accosted him on the staircase of the hotel, asking

whether he would be inclined to accept his offer of friendship and take

half of his available cash, as he (Luders) had of course noticed the

awkwardness of the other's position. From that moment the two became

inseparable friends, made concert tours in Sweden and Denmark, found

their way back in the strangest fashion to Havre, Paris, and Toulouse,

by way of Hamburg, and finally settled down in London--Sainton to take

an important post in the orchestra, while Luders got along as best he

could by the drudgery of giving lessons. Now I found them living

together in a pretty house like a married couple, each tenderly

concerned for his friend's welfare. Luders had read my essays on art,

and my Oper und Drama in particular moved him to exclaim,

'Donnerwetter, there's something in that!' Sainton pricked up his ears

at this, and when the conductor of the Philharmonic concerts (the great

Mr. Costa himself), for some unknown reason, quarrelled with the

society before the season began and refused to conduct their concerts

any longer, Sainton, to whom Mr. Anderson, the treasurer, had gone for

advice in this awkward predicament, recommended them, at Luders'

instigation, to engage me. I now heard that they had not acted upon

this suggestion at once. Only when Sainton happened to remark casually

that he had seen me conduct in Dresden did Mr. Anderson decide to make

the journey to Zurich to see me (in the fur coat lent by Sainton for

the purpose), as a result of which visit I was now here. I soon

discovered, too, that Sainton had in this case acted with the rashness

characteristic of his nation. It had never occurred to Costa that he

would be taken seriously in his statement to the Philharmonic Society,

and he was thoroughly disgusted at my appointment. As he was at the

head of the same orchestra which was at my disposal for the

Philharmonic concerts, he was able to foster an attitude of hostility

to the undertakings for which I was responsible, and even my friend

Sainton had to suffer from his animosity without actually realising the

source of the annoyance.

As time went on I saw this more plainly, while there was abundant

material for unpleasantness of every description in other quarters. In

the first place Mr. Davison, the musical critic of the Times, adopted a

most hostile attitude, and it was from this that I first realised,

clearly and definitely, the effect of my essay entitled 'Judaism in

Music.' Prager had further informed me that Davison's extremely

powerful position on the Times had accustomed him to expect every one

who came to England on business connected with music to propitiate him

by all sorts of delicate attentions. Jenny Lind was one whose

submission to these pretensions did much to ensure her popular success;

whereas Sontag considered that her rank as Countess Rossi elevated her

above such considerations. As I had been completely absorbed in the

delight of handling a good, full orchestra, with which I hoped to give

some fine performances, it was a great blow to learn that I had no

control whatever over the number of rehearsals I thought necessary for

the concerts. For each concert, which included two symphonies and

several minor pieces as well, the society's economical arrangements

allowed me only one rehearsal. Still I went on hoping that the

impression produced by the performances I conducted might even here

justify the demand for a special effort. It proved absolutely

impossible, however, to depart in any way from the beaten track, and,

realising this, I at once felt that the fulfilment of the task I had

undertaken was a terrible burden. At the first concert we played

Beethoven's Eroica, and my success as a conductor seemed so marked that

the committee of the society were evidently prepared to make a special

effort for the second. They demanded selections from my own

compositions as well as Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, and conceded me two

rehearsals as an exceptional favour. This concert went off quite

passably. I had drawn up an explanatory programme for my Lohengrin

Overture, but the words 'Holy Grail' and 'God' were struck out with

great solemnity, as that sort of thing was not allowed at secular

concerts. I had to content myself with the chorus from the Italian

Opera for the symphony, besides putting up with a baritone whose

English phlegm and Italian training drove me to despair at the

rehearsal. All I understood of the English version of the text was,

'Hail thee joy' for Freudeschoner Gotterfunken. The Philharmonic

Society appeared to have staked everything on the success of this

concert, which, in fact, left nothing to be desired. They were

accordingly horrified when the Times reporter fell on this performance,

too, with furious contempt and disparagement. They appealed to Prager

to persuade me to offer Mr. Davison some attentions, or at least to

agree to meet that gentleman and be properly introduced to him at a

banquet to be arranged by Mr. Anderson. But Prager now knew me well

enough to dash their hopes of obtaining any concession of that sort

from me. The banquet fell through, and, as I saw later, the society

began from that time forward to regret my appointment, realising that

they had an entirely intractable and pig-headed person to deal with.

As the Easter holidays began after the second concert, thereby

involving a long pause, I asked my friend's advice as to whether it

would not be more sensible to give up the whole thing--this

conductorship of the Philharmonic concerts which I had so soon

discovered to be a foolish and fruitless undertaking--and go quietly

back to Zurich. Prager assured me that the execution of this resolve

would in no wise be regarded as a reflection on the situation, but

simply as a deplorable piece of rudeness on my part, and that the

principal sufferers would be my friends. This decided me, and I

stayed--without, it is true, any hope of giving a fresh impetus to

musical life in London. The only stimulating incident occurred on the

occasion of the seventh concert, which was the evening chosen by the

Queen for her annual visit to these functions. She expressed a wish

through her husband, Prince Albert, to hear the Tannhauser Overture.

The presence of the court certainly lent a pleasing air of ceremony to

the evening, and I had, too, the pleasure of a fairly animated

conversation with Queen Victoria and her Consort in response to their

command. The question arose of putting my operas on the stage, and

Prince Albert objected that Italian singers would never be able to

interpret my music. I was amused when the Queen met this objection by

saying that, after all, a great many Italian singers were really

Germans. All this made a good impression and, it was obvious, served as

a demonstration in my favour, without, however, influencing the real

situation to any appreciable extent. The leading papers still

announced, as before, that every concert I conducted was a fiasco.

Ferdinand Hiller actually thought himself justified in proclaiming, for

the consolation of his friends, that my day in London was coming to an

end, and that my banishment was practically a certainty. This was on

the occasion of the Rhenish Musical Festival, which was held at that

time. As a set-off against this I reaped great satisfaction from a

scene which took place at the close of the eighth and last concert

which I conducted--one of those strange scenes which now and again

result from the long-suppressed emotion of those concerned. The members

of the orchestra had at once realised, after my successes, the

advisability of avoiding any expression of sympathy with me if they

wished to keep in good odour with their real though unacknowledged

chief, Mr. Costa, and save themselves from a possible speedy dismissal

at his hands. This was the explanation given me when the signs of

appreciation, which I had become accustomed to receive from the players

in the course of our work together, suddenly ceased. Now, however, at

the end of the series their suppressed feelings burst forth, and they

crowded round me on all sides with deafening cheers, while the

audience, who usually left the hall noisily before the end, likewise

formed up in enthusiastic groups and surrounded me, cheering warmly and

pressing my hand. Thus both players and listeners combined to make my

farewell a scene of cordiality which could hardly be surpassed.

But it was the personal relations which grew out of my stay in London

that provided the strangest aspect of my life there.

Immediately after my arrival, Karl Klindworth, a young pupil of Liszt,

who had been recommended to me as particularly gifted, came to see me.

He became a faithful and intimate friend, not only during my stay in

London, but ever after. Young as he was, the short time he had spent in

London had sufficed to give him an opinion of English musical life, the

justice of which I was soon compelled to admit, terrible though it was.

Incapable of adapting himself to the curiously organised English

musical cliques, he at once lost all reasonable prospect or hope of

meeting with the recognition due to his talent. He resigned himself to

making his way through the dreary wastes of English musical life solely

by giving lessons like a day-labourer, being too proud to pay the

smallest attentions to the ruling critics, who had fallen on him

immediately as a pupil of Liszt. He was really an excellent musician,

and in addition a distinguished pianist. He immediately approached me

with the request to be allowed to make a pianoforte arrangement of the

score of Rheingold, for the use only of virtuosi of the first rank.

Unfortunately, he was overtaken by a tedious illness, which robbed me

for a long time of the desired intercourse with him.

Although Prager and his wife stood by me with great constancy, my real

centre of intimacy was the original Sainton-Luders' household. I had a

standing invitation to dine with them, and I found occasion, with few

exceptions, to take my meals with these friends, whose devotion

surpassed that of all the others. It was here that I generally found

relaxation from the unpleasantness of my business relations in London.

Prager was often present, and we frequently took an evening stroll

through the foggy streets. On such occasions Ludors would fortify us

against the inclemency of the London climate by an excellent punch

which he could prepare under any conditions. Only once did we get

separated, and that was in the terrific crowd that accompanied the

Emperor Napoleon from St. James's Palace to Covent Garden Theatre one

evening. He had come over to London with his Consort, on a visit to

Queen Victoria, during the critical stage of the Crimean War, and the

Londoners gaped at him as he passed no less greedily than other nations

are apt to do under similar circumstances. It so befell that I was

taken for a pushing sightseer, and proportionately punished by blows in

the ribs when I was crossing the road to try and get into Regent Street

from the Haymarket. This caused me much amusement, on account of the

obvious misunderstanding.

The grave annoyances which arose, partly from the peculiarly momentous

quarrel between Sainton and Mr. Anderson (instigated by Costa), and

which deprived me of every possibility of obtaining any influence over

the society, were productive, on the other hand, of some amusing

experiences. Anderson had, it seemed, succeeded in elevating himself to

the post of conductor of the Queen's band, through the influence of the

Queen's private coachman. As he possessed absolutely no knowledge of

music, the annual court concert which he had to conduct became a very

feast of absurdity to the unruly Sainton, and I heard some very funny

stories about it. Another thing brought to light in the course of these

imbroglios was that Mrs. Anderson, whom I had christened Charlemagne on

account of her great corpulency, had appropriated to herself, among

other things, the office and salary of a court trumpeter. I soon

arrived at the conviction, from these and other similar reports, that

my lively friend would be beaten by this snug little clique in the war

of disclosures, and was able subsequently to see the decision go

against him at the point when either he or Anderson had to give way.

This confirmed my idea that in this free country of England, things

were managed in much the same way as elsewhere.

The arrival of Berlioz made a very important addition to our little

company. He, too, had been brought over to London, to conduct two of

the New Philharmonic Society's concerts. The society had appointed as

ordinary conductor, by whose recommendation I could never discover, a

certain Dr. Wilde, a typical chubby-faced Englishman, remarkably

good-natured, but ludicrously incompetent. He had taken some special

lessons in conducting from the Stuttgart conductor, Lindpaintner, who

had trained him up to the point of at least attempting to catch up the

orchestra with his beat, the orchestra itself going its own way

entirely. I heard a Beethoven symphony performed in this fashion, and

was surprised to hear the audience break into precisely the same

applause with which it greeted one of my own strictly accurate and

really fiery performances. To lend distinction to these concerts,

however, they had, as I said, invited Berlioz over for some of them. I

thus heard him conduct some classical works, such as a Mozart symphony,

and was amazed to find a conductor, who was so energetic in the

interpretation of his own compositions, sink into the commonest rut of

the vulgar time-beater. Certain of his own compositions, such as the

more effective fragments from the Romeo and Juliet Symphony, again made

a particular impression on me, it is true; but I was now more

consciously awake to the curious weaknesses which disfigure even the

finest conceptions of this extraordinary musician than on those earlier

occasions, when I only had a sense of general discomfort adequate to

the magnitude of the impression.

I felt much stimulated, however, on the two or three occasions when

Sainton invited me to dine with Berlioz. I was now brought face to face

with this strangely gifted person, tormented and even blunted in some

respects as he then was. When I saw him, a man considerably my senior,

coming here merely in the hope of earning a few guineas, I could deem

myself perfectly happy, and almost floating on air, by contrast; for my

own coming had been brought about rather by a desire for distraction, a

craving for outward inspiration. His whole being expressed weariness

and despair, and I was suddenly seized with deep sympathy for this man

whose talent so far surpassed that of his rivals--for this was clear as

daylight to me. Berlioz seemed to be pleasantly affected by the

attitude of gay spontaneity I adopted with him. His usual short, almost

reserved, manner thawed visibly during the friendly hours we passed

together. He told me many comical things about Meyerbeer, and the

impossibility of escaping from his flattery, which was dictated by his

insatiable thirst for laudatory articles. The first performance of his

Prophet had been preceded by the customary diner de la veille, and when

Berlioz excused himself for staying away, Meyerbeer first reproached

him tenderly, then challenged him to make good the great injustice he

had done him, by writing 'a real nice article' about his opera. Berlioz

declared it was impossible to get anything detrimental to Meyerbeer

inserted in a Paris paper.

I found it less easy to discuss with him matters of a more profound

artistic nature, as I invariably came up against the real Frenchman

then, who, fluent and glib of tongue, was so sure of himself that it

never occurred to him to doubt whether he had understood his companions

aright. Once, in a pleasant glow of inspiration (having suddenly

mastered the French language, to my own great surprise), I tried to

express to him my idea of the 'artistic conception.' I endeavoured to

describe the powerful effect of vital impressions on the temperament,

how they hold us captive, as it were, until we rid ourselves of them by

the unique development of our inmost spiritual visions, which are not

called forth by these impressions, but only roused by them from their

deep slumber. The artistic structure, therefore, appears to us as in no

wise a result of, but, on the contrary, a liberation from, the vital

impressions. At this point Berlioz smiled in a patronising,

comprehensive way, and said: 'Nous appelons cela: digerer.' My

amazement at this prompt summing-up of my laboured communications was

further justified by my new friend's outward behaviour. I invited him

to be present at my last concert, and also at a small farewell feast

which I was giving at home to my few friends after it. He soon left the

table, saying that he felt unwell, but the friends who were left made

no secret to me of their belief that Berlioz had been put out of humour

by the exceedingly enthusiastic farewell with which the audience had

parted from me.

The total harvest, however, of acquaintances I made in London was not

particularly profitable. I took pleasure in the society of Mr.

Ellerton, a dignified, agreeable man, the brother-in-law of Lord

Brougham--a poet, a music-lover, and, alas! a composer. He asked to be

introduced to me at one of the Philharmonic concerts, and did not

hesitate to tell me that he welcomed me to London because it seemed

likely that I was destined to check the exaggerated Mendelssohn

worship. He was also the only Englishman who honoured me by any

hospitality, and by entertaining myself and my friends at the

University Club, gave me an opportunity of realising the munificence of

such an establishment in London. After we had spent a very agreeable

time there, I had a glimpse of the weaker side of English hospitalities

of this order, though the incident was friendly enough. My host had to

be taken home by two men, one holding each arm, quite as a matter of

course, as it was obvious that he would not have got far across the

road without this help.

I made the acquaintance, too, of a curious man, an old-fashioned but

very friendly composer named Potter. I had to play a symphony of his,

which entertained me by its modest dimensions and its neat development

of counterpoint, the more so as the composer, a friendly elderly

recluse, clung to me with almost distressing humility. I had positively

to force him into accepting the right tempo for the Andante in his

symphony, thus proving to him that it was really pretty and

interesting. He had so little faith in his work, that he considered the

only way to avoid the danger of boring people with it was to rattle

through it at a disgraceful speed. He really beamed with delight and

gratitude when I secured him great applause by taking this very Andante

at my own time.

I got on less well with a Mr. MacFarrine, a pompous, melancholy

Scotsman, whose compositions, I was assured, were held in high esteem

by the committee of the Philharmonic Society. He seemed too proud to

discuss the interpretation of any of his works with me, and I was

therefore relieved when a symphony of his, which did not appeal to me,

was laid aside, the substitute chosen being an overture entitled the

Steeple-chase, which I enjoyed playing, on account of its peculiarly

wild, passionate character.

My acquaintance with Beneke (a merchant) and his family was attended by

much awkwardness. Wesendonck had given me a letter of recommendation to

them, so that I should at least have one 'house' to go to in London. I

had to travel a full German mile to Camberwell in response to their

invitations, only to discover that I had dropped into the very family

whose house Mendelssohn had made his home when in London. The good

people did not know what to do with me, apart from congratulating me on

the excellence of my Mendelssohn performances, and rewarding me with

descriptions of the generous character of the deceased.

Howard, the secretary of the Philharmonic Society, a worthy and

agreeable old man, was another person (the only one, he believed) in

the circle of my English acquaintances who took the trouble to

entertain me. I had to go once or twice to the Italian Opera at Covent

Garden with his daughter. There I heard Fidelio, given in rather

grotesque fashion by unclean Germans and voiceless Italians, and with

recitatives. I consequently managed to evade paying frequent visits to

this theatre. When I went to say good-bye to Mr. Howard on leaving

London, I was surprised to meet Meyerbeer at his house. He had just

arrived in London to conduct his Nordstern. As I saw him come in it

occurred to me immediately that Howard, whom I had only known as the

secretary of the Philharmonic Society, was also the musical critic of

the Illustrated London News; it was in the latter capacity that the

great operatic composer had called upon him. Meyerbeer was absolutely

paralysed when he saw me, and this put me into such a frame of mind

that we found it impossible to exchange a word. Mr. Howard, who had

felt sure that we were acquainted, was much surprised at this, and

asked me as I was leaving whether I did not know Meyerbeer. I answered

that he had better ask Meyerbeer. On meeting Howard again that evening,

I was assured that Meyerbeer had spoken of me in terms of the highest

praise. I then suggested his reading certain numbers of the Paris

Gazette musicale, in which Fetis had, some time before, given a less

favourable interpretation of Meyerbeer's views about me. Howard shook

his head, and could not understand how two such GREAT COMPOSERS could

meet in so strange a manner.

A visit from my old friend Hermann Franck was a pleasant surprise. He

was then staying at Brighton, and had come up to London for a few days.

We conversed a great deal, and I had to make a considerable effort to

put him right in his ideas about me, as he had heard the most wonderful

reports from German musicians during the last few years in which our

intercourse had been broken off. He was astonished, in the first place,

to find me in London, where he considered it impossible for me ever to

find a suitable field for my musical tendencies. I did not understand

what he meant by my 'tendencies,' but I told him quite simply how I

came to accept the invitation of the Philharmonic Society, and that I

proposed to fulfil my contract for this year's concerts, and then to go

back to my work at Zurich without further ceremony. This sounded quite

different to the state of things he had imagined, for he had felt bound

to conclude that I proposed to create a stronghold in London from which

to conduct a war of extermination against the whole race of German

musicians. This was the unanimous explanation of my intentions which he

had heard in Germany. Nothing could be more astounding, he said, than

the surprising incongruity between the fictitious form in which I

appeared to these people, and my real nature, which he had recognised

at once on seeing me again. We joked about this, and came to a closer

understanding. I was glad to see that he valued as much as I did the

works of Schopenhauer, which had become known in the last few years. He

expressed his opinion of them with singular decision; he considered

that German intellect was destined, either to complete deterioration,

in conjunction with the national political situation, or else to an

equally complete regeneration, in which Schopenhauer would play his

part. He left me--soon to meet his terrible and not less inexplicable

fate. Only a few months later, after my return home, I heard of his

mysterious death. He was staying, as I said, at Brighton, for the

purpose of putting his son, a boy of about sixteen, into the English

navy. I had noticed that the son's obstinate determination to serve in

this force was repugnant to his father. On the morning of the day on

which the ship was to sail, the father's body was found shattered in

the street, as the result of a fall from the window, while the son was

found lifeless--apparently strangled--on his bed. The mother had died

some years previously, and there was no one left to give information as

to the terrible occurrence, which, so far as I know, has never to this

day been cleared up. Franck had, out of forgetfulness, left a map of

London behind on his visit to me; this I kept, as I did not know his

address, and it is still in my possession.

I have pleasanter, though not entirely unclouded, recollections of my

relations with Semper, whom I also met in London, where he had been

settled for some time with his family. He had always seemed to me so

violent and morose when in Dresden that I was surprised and moved to

admiration by the comparatively calm and resigned spirit with which he

bore the terrible interruption to his professional career, and by his

readiness to adapt his talent (which was of an unusually productive

order) to the circumstances in which he was placed. Commissions for

large buildings were out of the question for him in England, but he set

his hopes, to a certain extent, on the patronage accorded him by Prince

Albert, as this gave him some prospects for the future. For the time

being he contented himself with commissions to design decorations for

interiors and luxurious furniture, for which he was well paid. He took

to this work as seriously, from an artistic point of view, as if it had

been a large building. We often met, and I also spent a few evenings at

his house in Kensington, when we invariably dropped into the old vein

of strange, serious humour that helped us to forget the seamy side of

life. The report I was able to give of Semper after my return home did

much to influence Sulzer in his successful attempt to get him over to

Zurich to build the new Polytechnic.

On various occasions I also visited some not uninteresting theatres in

London, strictly avoiding opera-houses, of course. I was most attracted

by the little Adelphi Theatre in the Strand, and I frequently made

Prager and Luders go with me. They acted some dramatised fairy-tales

there under the title of Christmas. One of the performances interested

me particularly because it consisted of a subtly connected

conglomeration of the most familiar tales, played straight through,

with no break at the end of the acts. It began with 'The Goose that

laid the Golden Eggs,' and was transformed into 'The Three Wishes';

this passed into 'Red Riding Hood' (with the wolf changed into a

cannibal who sang a very comical little couplet), and finished as

'Cinderella,' varied with other ingredients. These pieces were in every

respect excellently mounted and played, and I gained a very good notion

there of the imaginative fare in which the English people can find

amusement. I found the performances at the Olympic Theatre less simple

and innocent. Besides witty drawing-room pieces in the French style,

which were very well played there, they acted fairy-tales such as the

Yellow Dwarf, in which Hobson, an uncommonly popular actor, took the

grotesque title-role. I saw the same actor again in a little comedy

called Garrick Fever, in which he ends by representing a drunken man

who, when people insisted on taking him for Garrick, undertook the part

of Hamlet in this condition. I was greatly astonished by many

audacities in his acting on this occasion.

A small out-of-the-way theatre in Marylebone was just then trying to

attract the public by Shakespeare's plays. I attended a performance of

the Merry Wives there, which really amazed me by its correctness and

precision. Even a performance of Romeo and Juliet at the Haymarket

Theatre impressed me favourably, in spite of the great inferiority of

the company, on account of its accuracy and of the scenic arrangements,

which were no doubt an inheritance from the Garrick tradition. But I

still remember a curious illusion in connection with this: after the

first act I told Luders, who was with me, how surprised I was at their

giving the part of Romeo to an old man, whose age must at least be

sixty, and who seemed anxious to retrieve his long-lost youth by

laboriously adopting a sickly-sweet, feminine air. Luders looked at the

programme again, and cried, 'Donnerwetter, it's a woman!' It was the

once famous American, Miss Cushman.

In spite of every effort, I found it impossible to obtain a seat for

Henry VIII at the Princess's Theatre. This play had been organised

according to the new stage realism, and enjoyed an incredible vogue as

a gorgeous spectacular piece, mounted with unusual care.

In the province of music, with which I was more concerned, I have still

to mention several of the Sacred-Music Society's concerts, which I

attended in the large room at Exeter Hall. The oratorios given there

nearly every week have, it must be admitted, the advantage of the great

confidence which arises from frequent repetition. Neither could I

refuse to recognise the great precision of the chorus of seven hundred

voices, which reached quite a respectable standard on a few occasions,

particularly in Handel's Messiah. It was here that I came to understand

the true spirit of English musical culture, which is bound up with the

spirit of English Protestantism. This accounts for the fact that an

oratorio attracts the public far more than an opera. A further

advantage is secured by the feeling among the audience that an evening

spent in listening to an oratorio may be regarded as a sort of service,

and is almost as good as going to church. Every one in the audience

holds a Handel piano score in the same way as one holds a prayer-book

in church. These scores are sold at the box-office in shilling

editions, and are followed most diligently--out of anxiety, it seemed

to me, not to miss certain points solemnly enjoyed by the whole

audience. For instance, at the beginning of the 'Hallelujah Chorus' it

is considered proper for every one to rise from his seat. This

movement, which probably originated in an expression of enthusiasm, is

now carried out at each performance of the Messiah with painful

precision.

All these recollections, however, are merged in the all-absorbing

memory of almost uninterrupted ill-health, caused primarily, no doubt,

by the state of the London climate at that season of the year, which is

notorious all over the world. I had a perpetual cold, and I therefore

followed the advice of my friends to take a heavy English diet by way

of resisting the effect of the air, but this did not improve matters in

the least. For one thing, I could not get my home sufficiently warmed

through, and the work that I had brought with me was the first thing to

suffer. The instrumentation of the Walkure, which I had hoped to finish

off here, only advanced a paltry hundred pages. I was hindered in this

principally by the circumstance that the sketches from which I had to

work on the instrumentation had been written down without considering

the extent to which a prolonged interruption of my working humour might

affect the coherence of the sketch. How often did I sit before those

pencilled pages as if they had been unfamiliar hieroglyphics which I

was incapable of deciphering! In absolute despair I plunged into Dante,

making for the first time a serious effort to read him. The Inferno,

indeed, became a never-to-be-forgotten reality in that London

atmosphere.

But at last came the hour of deliverance from even those evils which I

had brought upon myself by my last assumption that I might be accepted,

not to say wanted, in the great world. The sole consolation I had was

in the deep emotion of my new friends when I took leave of them. I

hurried home by way of Paris, which was clothed in its summer glory,

and saw people really promenading again, instead of pushing through the

streets on business. And so I returned to Zurich, full of cheerful

impressions, on the 30th of June, my net profits being exactly one

thousand francs.

My wife had an idea of taking up her sour-milk cure again on the

Selisberg by Lake Lucerne, and as I thought mountain air would be good

for my impaired health also, we decided to move there at once. Our

project suffered a brief delay through the fatal illness of my dog

Peps. As the result of old age in his thirteenth year, he suddenly

exhibited such weakness that we became apprehensive of taking him up

the Selisberg, for he could not have borne the fatigue of the ascent.

In a few days his agony became alarmingly acute. He grew stupid, and

had frequent convulsions, his only conscious act being to get up often

from his bed (which was in my wife's room, as he was usually under her

care) and stumble as far as my writing-table, where he sank down again

in exhaustion. The veterinary surgeon said he could do no more, and as

the convulsions gradually became terribly acute, I was advised to

shorten the poor animal's cruel agony and free him from his pain by a

little prussic acid. We delayed our departure on his account until I at

last convinced myself that a quick death would be charity to the poor

suffering creature, who was quite past all hope. I hired a boat, and

took an hour's row across the lake to visit a young doctor of my

acquaintance named Obrist, who had, I knew, come into possession of a

village apothecary's stock, which included various poisons. From him I

obtained a deadly dose, which I carried home across the lake in my

solitary skiff on an exquisite summer evening. I was determined only to

resort to this last expedient in case the poor brute were in extremity.

He slept that last night as usual in his basket by my bedside, his

invariable habit being to wake me with his paws in the morning. I was

suddenly roused by his groans, caused by a particularly violent attack

of convulsions; he then sank back without a sound; and I was so

strangely moved by the significance of the moment that I immediately

looked at my watch to impress on my memory the hour at which my

extraordinarily devoted little friend died; it was ten minutes past one

on the 10th of July. We devoted the next day to his burial, and shed

bitter tears over him. Frau Stockar-Escher, our landlady, made over to

us a pretty little plot in her garden, and there we buried him, with

his basket and cushions. His grave was shown me many years after, but

the last time I went to look at the little garden I found that

everything had undergone an elegant transformation, and there were no

longer any signs of Pep's grave.

At last we really started for the Selisberg, accompanied this time only

by the new parrot--a substitute for good old Papo--from the Kreutzberg

menagerie, which I had bought for my wife the year before. This one was

a very good and intelligent bird also, but I left him entirely to

Minna, treating him with invariable kindness, but never making a friend

of him. Fortunately for us, our stay in the glorious air of this summer

resort, of which we had grown very fond, was favoured by continuous

fine weather. I devoted all my leisure, apart from my lonely walks, to

making a fair copy of that part of the Walkure which was fully scored,

and also took up my favourite reading again--the study of Schopenhauer.

I had the pleasure of receiving a charming letter from Berlioz,

together with Les Soirees de l'Orchestre, his new book, which I found

inspiriting to read, although the author's taste for the grotesque was

as foreign to me here as in his compositions. Here, too, I met young

Robert von Hornstein again, who proved himself a pleasant and

intelligent companion. I was particularly interested in his quick and

evidently successful plunge into the study of Schopenhauer. He informed

me that he proposed to settle for some time in Zurich, where Karl

Ritter, too, had decided to take permanent winter quarters for his

young wife and himself.

In the middle of August we returned to Zurich ourselves, and I was able

to devote myself steadily to completing the instrumentation of the

Walkure, while my relations with former acquaintances remained much the

same. From outside I received news of the steady persistence with which

my Tannhauser was, little by little, being propagated in German

theatres. Lohengrin, too, followed in its steps, though without a first

meeting with an entirely favourable reception. Franz Dingelstedt, who

was at the time manager of the court theatre at Munich, undertook to

introduce Tannhauser there, although, thanks to Lachner, the place was

not prepossessed in my favour. He seemed to have managed it fairly

well; its success, however, according to him, was not so great as to

allow of my promised fee being punctually paid. But my income, owing to

the conscientious stewardship of my friend Sulzer, was now sufficient

to permit me to work without anxiety on that account. But I met with a

new vexation when colder weather set in. I suffered from innumerable

attacks of erysipelas during the whole winter, each fresh attack (in

consequence of some tiny error of diet, or of the least cold) being

attended by violent pain. It was obviously the result of the ill

effects of the London climate. What pained me most was the frequent

interruption of my work on this account. The most I could do was to

read when the illness was taking its course. Burnouff's Introduction a

l'Histoire du Bouddhisme interested me most among my books, and I found

material in it for a dramatic poem, which has stayed in my mind ever

since, though only vaguely sketched. I may still perhaps work it out. I

gave it the title of Die Sieger. It was founded on the simple legend of

a Tschantala girl, who is received into the dignified order of beggars

known as Clakyamouni, and, through her exceedingly passionate and

purified love for Ananda, the chief disciple of Buddha, herself gains

merit. Besides the underlying beauty of this simple material, a curious

relation between it and the subsequent development of my musical

experience influenced my selection. For to the mind of Buddha the past

life (in a former incarnation) of every being who appears before him

stands revealed as plainly as the present; and this simple story has

its significance, as showing that the past life of the suffering hero

and heroine is bound up with the immediate present in this life. I saw

at once that the continuous reminiscence in the music of this double

existence might perfectly well be presented to the emotions, and I

decided accordingly to keep in prospect the working out of this poem as

a particularly congenial task.

I had thus two new subjects stamped on my imagination, Tristan and Die

Sieger; with these I was constantly occupied from this time onwards,

together with my great work, the Nibelungen, the unfinished portion of

which was still of gigantic dimensions. The more these projects

absorbed me, the more did I writhe with impatience at the perpetual

interruptions of my work by these loathsome attacks of illness. About

this time Liszt proposed to pay me a visit that had been postponed in

the summer, but I had to ask him not to come, as I could not be

certain, after my late experiences, of not being tied to a sick-bed

during the few days he would be able to give me. Thus I spent the

winter, calm and resigned in my productive moments, but moody and

irritable towards the outside world, and consequently a source of some

anxiety to my friends. I was glad, however, when Karl Ritter's arrival

in Zurich allowed him to become more intimate with me again. By his

selecting Zurich as a settled home, for the winter months, at any rate,

he showed his devotion to me in a way that did me good, and wiped out

more than one bad impression. Hornstein had actually managed to come

too, but could not stay. He declared he was so nervous that he could

not touch a note of the piano, and made no attempt to deny that the

fact of his mother's having died insane made him very much afraid of

going mad himself. Although this in a way made him interesting, his

intellectual gifts were marred by such weakness of character, that we

were soon reduced to thinking him fairly hopeless, and we were not

inconsolable when he suddenly left Zurich.

My circle had gained considerably of late by the addition of a new

acquaintance, Gottfried Keller, a native of Zurich, who had just

returned to the welcoming arms of his affectionate fellow-townsmen from

Germany, where his writings had brought him some fame. Several of his

works--in particular, a longish novel, Der Grune Heinrich--had been

recommended to me in favourable though not exaggerated terms by Sulzer.

I was therefore surprised to find him a person of extraordinarily shy

and awkward demeanour. Every one felt anxious about his prospects on

first becoming acquainted with him, and it was indeed this question of

his future that was the difficulty. Although everything he wrote showed

great original talent, it was obvious at once that they were merely

efforts in the direction of artistic development, and the inevitable

inquiry arose as to what was to follow and really establish his fame. I

kept continually asking him what he was going to do next. In reply he

would mention all sorts of fully matured schemes, which would none of

them hold water on closer acquaintance. Luckily a government post was

eventually found for him (from patriotic considerations, it

seemed),--where he no doubt did good service, although his literary

activity seemed to lie fallow after his early efforts.