On the 17th August, the day after the departure of the Bulows (whose

stay had been the only reason for detaining me), I got up at early dawn

after a sleepless night, and went down into the dining-room, where

Minna was already expecting me to breakfast, as I intended to start by

the five o'clock train. She was calm; it was only when accompanying me

in the carriage to the station that she was overpowered by her emotion

under the trying circumstances. It was the most brilliant summer day

with a bright, cloudless sky; I remember that I never once looked back,

or shed a tear on taking leave of her, and this almost terrified me. As

I travelled along in the train I could not conceal from myself an

increasing feeling of comfort; it was obvious that the absolutely

useless worries of the past weeks could not have been endured any

longer, and that my life's ambition demanded a complete severance from

them. On the evening of the same day I arrived in Geneva; here I wished

to rest a little and pull myself together, so as to arrange my plan of

life calmly. As I had an idea of making another attempt to settle in

Italy, I proposed, after my former experience, to wait till the cooler

autumn weather, so as not to expose myself again to the malignant

influence of the sudden change of climate. I arranged to stay for a

month at the Maison Fazy, deluding myself into the idea that a lengthy

stay there would be very pleasant. I told Karl Ritter, who was at

Lausanne, of my intention of going to Italy, and to my surprise he

wrote saying that he also intended to give up his home and go to Italy

alone, as his wife was going to Saxony for the winter on account of

family affairs. He offered himself as my travelling companion. This

suited me excellently, and as Ritter also assured me that he knew, from

a previous visit, that the climate of Venice was quite agreeable at

this season, I was induced to make a hasty departure. I had, however,

to arrange about my passport. I expected that the embassies in Berne

would corroborate the fact that as a political refugee I should have

nothing to fear in Venice, which, although belonging to Austria, did

not form part of the German Confederation. Liszt, to whom I also

applied for information on this point, advised me on no account to go

to Venice; on the other hand, the report that some of my friends in

Berne obtained from the Austrian ambassador pronounced it as quite

safe; so, after barely a week's stay in Geneva, I informed Karl Ritter

of my readiness to start, and called for him at his villa in Lausanne,

so that we might begin the journey together.

We did not talk much on the way, but gave ourselves up silently to our

impressions. The route was over the Simplon to Lake Maggiore, where I

again visited the Borromean Islands from Baveno. There, on the terrace

garden of Isola Bella, I spent a wonderful late summer morning in the

company of my young friend, who was never obtrusive, but, on the

contrary, inclined to be too silent. For the first time I felt my mind

entirely at rest, and filled with the hope of a new and harmonious

future. We continued our journey by coach through Sesto Calende to

Milan; and Karl was filled with such a longing for his beloved Venice,

that he could barely grant me time to admire the famous Duomo; but I

had no objection to being hurried with this object in view. As we were

looking from the railway dike at Venice rising before us from the

mirror of water, Karl lost his hat out of the carriage owing to an

enthusiastic movement of delight; I thought that I must follow suit, so

I too threw my hat out; consequently we arrived in Venice bareheaded,

and immediately got into a gondola to go down the Grand Canal as far as

the Piazzetta near San Marco. The weather had suddenly become gloomy,

and the aspect of the gondolas quite shocked me; for, in spite of what

I had heard about these peculiar vessels draped in black, the sight of

one was an unpleasant surprise: when I had to go under the black

awning, I could not help remembering the cholera-scare some time

earlier. I certainly felt I was taking part in a funeral procession

during a pestilence. Karl assured me that every one felt the same at

first, but that one soon got accustomed to it. Next came the long sail

through the twists and turns of the Grand Canal. The impression that

everything made on me here did not tend to dispel my melancholy frame

of mind. Where Karl, on looking at the ruined walls, only saw the Ca

d'Oro of Fanny Elser or some other famous palace, my doleful glances

were completely absorbed by the crumbling ruins between these

interesting buildings. At last I became silent, and allowed myself to

be put down at the world-famous Piazzetta, and to be shown the palace

of the Doges, though I reserved to myself the right of admiring it

until I had freed myself from the extremely melancholy mood into which

my arrival in Venice had thrown me.

Starting on the following morning from the Hotel Danieli, where we had

found only a gloomy lodging, I began by looking for a residence that

would suit me for my prolonged stay. I heard that one of the three

Giustiniani palaces, situated not far from the Palazzo Foscari, was at

present very little patronised by visitors, on account of its

situation, which in the winter is somewhat unfavourable. I found some

very spacious and imposing apartments there, all of which they told me

would remain uninhabited. I here engaged a large stately room with a

spacious bedroom adjoining. I had my luggage quickly transferred there,

and on the evening of 30th August I said to myself, 'At last I am

living in Venice.' My leading idea was that I could work here

undisturbed. I immediately wrote to Zurich asking for my Erard 'Grand'

and my bed to be sent on to me, as, with regard to the latter, I felt

that I should find out what cold meant in Venice. In addition to this,

the grey-washed walls of my large room soon annoyed me, as they were so

little suited to the ceiling, which was covered with a fresco which I

thought was rather tasteful. I decided to have the walls of the large

room covered with hangings of a dark-red shade, even if they were of

quite common quality. This immediately caused much trouble; but it

seemed to me that it was well worth surmounting, when I gazed down from

my balcony with growing satisfaction on the wonderful canal, and said

to myself that here I would complete Tristan. I also had a little more

decorating done; I arranged to have dark-red portieres, even if they

were of the cheapest material, to cover the common doors which the

Hungarian landlord had had put into the ruined palace in place of the

original valuable ones, which had probably been sold. In addition, the

host had contrived to get some showy furniture, such as a few gilded

chairs, covered with common cotton plush; but the most prominent

article was a finely carved gilded table-pedestal, on which was placed

a vulgar pinewood top which I had to cover with a plain red cloth.

Finally the Erard arrived; it was placed in the middle of the large

room, and now wonderful Venice was to be attacked by music.

However, the dysentery I had previously suffered from in Genoa laid

hold of me again, and rendered me incapable of any intellectual

activity for weeks. I had already learned to appreciate the matchless

beauty of Venice, and I was full of hope that my joy in it would give

me back my power to satisfy my reviving artistic yearnings. On one of

my first promenades on the Riva I was accosted by two strangers, one of

whom introduced himself as Count Edmund Zichy, the other as Prince

Dolgoroukow. They had both left Vienna barely a week before, where they

had been present at the first performances of my Lohengrin; they gave

me the most satisfactory reports about the result of it, and by their

enthusiasm I could see that their impressions were very favourable.

Count Zichy left Venice soon afterwards, but Prince Dolgoroukow decided

to stay on for the winter. Although I certainly intended to avoid

company, this Russian, who was about fifty years of age, soon managed

to make me yield to his persuasions. He had an earnest and extremely

expressive face (he prided himself on being of direct Caucasian

descent), and showed remarkable culture in every respect, a wide

knowledge of the world, and above all a taste for music, in the

literature of which he was also so well versed that it amounted to a

passion. I had at first explained to him that owing to the state of my

health I was bound to renounce all society, and that I needed quiet

more than anything. Apart from the difficulty of avoiding him

altogether on the limited walks in Venice, the restaurant at Albergo

San Marco where I joined Ritter every day for meals led to inevitable

meetings with this stranger, to whom I eventually became sincerely

attached. He had taken up his abode in that hotel, and I could not

prevent him from taking his meals there. During my stay in Venice we

met almost daily, and continued to be on very friendly terms. On the

other hand I had a great surprise, on returning to my apartments one

evening, to be informed that Liszt had just arrived. I rushed eagerly

to the room pointed out to me as his, and there, to my horror, saw

Winterberger the pianist, who had introduced himself to my host as a

mutual friend of myself and of Liszt, and in the confusion of the

moment the host had concluded that the new arrival was Liszt himself.

As a matter of fact I had recently got to know this young man as a

follower of Liszt during his comparatively long stay in Zurich; he was

considered an excellent organist, and was also called into requisition

as second at the piano when there were arrangements for two

pianofortes. Except for some foolish behaviour on his part I had not

noticed anything particular about him. I was surprised, however, that

he should have selected my address as his lodging in Venice. He told me

that he was merely the precursor of a certain Princess Galitzin, for

whom he had to arrange winter quarters in Venice; that he knew nobody

there, but having heard in Vienna that I was staying here, it was very

natural he should apply first at my hotel. I argued with him that this

was not an hotel, and announced that if his Russian Princess thought of

taking up her abode next to me, I should move out at once. He then

reassured me, by telling me that he had only wanted to make a good

impression on the host by mentioning the Princess, as he thought she

had already engaged rooms elsewhere. As I again asked what he thought

of doing in this palace, and drew his attention to the fact that it was

very expensive, and that I put up with the large outlay simply because

it was most essential that I should be undisturbed, and have no

neighbours, and hear no piano, he tried to pacify me by the assurance

that he would certainly not be a burden to me, and that I could make my

mind easy about his presence in the same house until he could arrange

to move elsewhere. His next attempt was to work his way into the good

graces of Karl Ritter; they both discovered a living-room in the palace

at a sufficient distance from mine to be out of earshot. In this way I

consented to put up with his proximity, although it was a long time

before I allowed Ritter to bring him to me of an evening.

A Venetian piano-teacher, Tessarin by name, was more successful than

Winterberger in winning favour with me. He was a typical handsome

Venetian, with a curious impediment in his speech; he had a passion for

German music, and was well acquainted with Liszt's new compositions,

and also with my own operas. He admitted that having regard to his

surroundings he was a 'white raven' in matters musical. He also

succeeded in approaching me through Ritter, who seemed to be devoting

himself in Venice to the study of human nature rather than to work. He

had taken a small and extremely modest dwelling on the Riva dei

Schiavoni, which, being in a sunny position, required no artificial

heating. This was in reality less for himself than for his scanty

luggage, as he was hardly ever at home, but was running about in the

daytime after pictures and collections; in the evening, however, he

studied human nature in the cafes on the Piazza San Marco. He was the

only person I saw regularly every day; otherwise I rigorously avoided

any other society or acquaintance. I was repeatedly asked by the

Princess Galitzin's private physician to call upon that lady, who came

to Venice very shortly and appeared to be living in grand style. Once,

when I wanted the piano scores of Tannhauser and Lohengrin, and had

heard that the Princess was the only person in Venice who possessed

them, I was bold enough to ask her for them, but I did not feel it

incumbent on me to call on her for that purpose. On only one occasion

did any stranger succeed in interrupting my seclusion, and then it was

because his appearance had pleased me when I had met him in the Albergo

San Marco; this was Rahl the painter, from Vienna. I once went so far

as to arrange a sort of soiree for him, Prince Dolgoroukow, and

Tessarin the pianoforte teacher, at which a few of my pieces were

played. It was then that Winterberger made his debut.

All my social experiences during the seven months I spent in Venice

were limited to these few attempts at friendly intercourse, and apart

from these my days were planned out with the utmost regularity during

the whole time. I worked till two o'clock, then I got into the gondola

that was always in waiting, and was taken along the solemn Grand Canal

to the bright Piazzetta, the peculiar charm of which always had a

cheerful effect on me. After this I made for my restaurant in the

Piazza San Marco, and when I had finished my meal I walked alone or

with Karl along the Riva to the Giardino Pubblico, the only

pleasure-ground in Venice where there are any trees, and at nightfall I

came back in the gondola down the canal, then more sombre and silent,

till I reached the spot where I could see my solitary lamp shining from

the night-shrouded facade of the old Palazzo Giustiniani. After I had

worked a little longer Karl, heralded by the swish of the gondola,

would come in regularly at eight o'clock for a few hours' chat over our

tea. Very rarely did I vary this routine by a visit to one of the

theatres. When I did, I preferred the performances at the Camploi

Theatre, where Goldoni's pieces were very well played; but I seldom

went to the opera, and when I did go it was merely out of curiosity.

More frequently, when bad weather deprived us of our walk, we

patronised the popular drama at the Malibran Theatre, where the

performances were given in the daytime. The admission cost us six

kreuzers. The audiences were excellent, the majority being in their

shirt-sleeves, and the pieces given were generally of the

ultra-melodramatic type. However, one day to my great astonishment and

intense delight I saw there Le Baruffe Chioggiote, the grotesque comedy

that had appealed so strongly to Goethe in his day, at this very

theatre. So true to nature was this performance that it surpassed

anything of the kind I have ever witnessed.

There was little else that attracted my attention in the oppressed and

degenerate life of the Venetian people, and the only impression I

derived from the exquisite ruin of this wonderful city as far as human

interest is concerned was that of a watering-place kept up for the

benefit of visitors. Strangely enough, it was the thoroughly German

element of good military music, to which so much attention is paid in

the Austrian army, that brought me into touch with public life in

Venice. The conductors in the two Austrian regiments quartered there

began playing overtures of mine, Rienzi and Tannhauser for instance,

and invited me to attend their practices in their barracks. There I

also met the whole staff of officers, and was treated by them with

great respect. These bands played on alternate evenings amid brilliant

illuminations in the middle of the Piazza San Marco, whose acoustic

properties for this class of production were really excellent. I was

often suddenly startled towards the end of my meal by the sound of my

own overtures; then, as I sat at the restaurant window giving myself up

to impressions of the music, I did not know which dazzled me most, the

incomparable piazza magnificently illuminated and filled with countless

numbers of moving people, or the music that seemed to be borne away in

rustling glory to the winds. Only one thing was wanting that might

certainly have been expected from an Italian audience: the people were

gathered round the band in thousands listening most intently, but no

two hands ever forgot themselves so far as to applaud, as the least

sign of approbation of Austrian military music would have been looked

upon as treason to the Italian Fatherland. All public life in Venice

also suffered by this extraordinary rift between the general public and

the authorities; this was peculiarly apparent in the relations of the

population to the Austrian officers, who floated about publicly in

Venice like oil on water. The populace, too, behaved with no less

reserve, or one might even say hostility, to the clergy, who were for

the most part of Italian origin. I saw a procession of clerics in their

vestments passing along the Piazza San Marco accompanied by the people

with unconcealed derision.

It was very difficult for Ritter to induce me to interrupt my daily

arrangements even to visit a gallery or a church, though, whenever we

had to pass through the town, the exceedingly varied architectonic

peculiarities and beauties always delighted me afresh. But the frequent

gondola trips towards the Lido constituted my chief enjoyment during

practically the whole of my stay in Venice. It was more especially on

our homeward journeys at sunset that I was always over-powered by

unique impressions. During the first part of our stay in the September

of that year we saw on one of these occasions the marvellous apparition

of the great comet, which at that time was at its highest brilliancy,

and was generally said to portend an imminent catastrophe. The singing

of a popular choral society, trained by an official of the Venetian

arsenal, seemed like a real lagoon idyll. They generally sang only

three-part naturally harmonised folk-songs. It was new to me not to

hear the higher voice rise above the compass of the alto, that is to

say, without touching the soprano, thereby imparting to the sound of

the chorus a manly youthfulness hitherto unknown to me. On fine

evenings they glided down the Grand Canal in a large illuminated

gondola, stopping before a few palaces as if to serenade (when

requested and paid for so doing, be it understood), and generally

attracted a number of other gondolas in their wake. During one

sleepless night, when I felt impelled to go out on to my balcony in the

small hours, I heard for the first time the famous old folk-song of the

gondolieri. I seemed to hear the first call, in the stillness of the

night, proceeding from the Rialo to about a mile away like a rough

lament, and answered in the same tone from a yet further distance in

another direction. This melancholy dialogue, which was repeated at

longer intervals, affected me so much that I could not fix the very

simple musical component parts in my memory. However, on a subsequent

occasion I was told that this folk-song was of great poetic interest.

As I was returning home late one night on the gloomy canal, the moon

appeared suddenly and illuminated the marvellous palaces and the tall

figure of my gondolier towering above the stern of the gondola, slowly

moving his huge sweep. Suddenly he uttered a deep wail, not unlike the

cry of an animal; the cry gradually gained in strength, and formed

itself, after a long-drawn 'Oh!' into the simple musical exclamation

'Venezia!' This was followed by other sounds of which I have no

distinct recollection, as I was so much moved at the time. Such were

the impressions that to me appeared the most characteristic of Venice

during my stay there, and they remained with me until the completion of

the second act of Tristan, and possibly even suggested to me the

long-drawn wail of the shepherd's horn at the beginning of the third

act.

These sensations, however, did not manifest themselves very easily or

consecutively. Bodily sufferings and my usual cares, that never quite

left me, often considerably hindered and disturbed my work. I had

scarcely settled down comfortably in my rooms, the northerly aspect of

which exposed them to frequent gusts of wind (from which I had

practically no protection in the form of heating appliances), and had

barely got over the demoralising effect of dysentery, when I fell a

victim to a specific Venetian complaint, namely a carbuncle on my leg,

as the result of the extreme change of climate and of air. This

happened just when I was intending to resume the second act, that had

been so cruelly interrupted. The malady, which I had first regarded as

slight, soon increased and became exceedingly painful, and I was

obliged to call in a doctor, who had to treat me carefully for nearly

four weeks. It was in the late autumn, towards the end of November,

that Ritter left me to pay a visit to his relations and friends in

Dresden and Berlin; I therefore remained quite alone during this long

illness, with no other society than that of the servants of the house.

Incapable of work, I amused myself by reading the History of Venice by

Count Daru, in which I became much interested, as I was on the spot.

Through it I lost some of my popular prejudices against the tyrannical

mode of government in ancient Venice. The ill-famed Council of Ten and

the State Inquisition appeared to me in a peculiar, although certainly

horrible, light; the open admission that in the secrecy of its methods

lay the guarantee of the power of the state, seemed to me so decidedly

in the interests of each and every member of the marvellous republic,

that the suppression of all knowledge was very wisely considered a

republican duty. Actual hypocrisy was entirely foreign to this state

constitution; moreover the clerical element, however respectfully

treated by the government, never exercised an unworthy influence on the

development of the character of the citizens as in other parts of

Italy. The terrible selfish calculations of state reasons were turned

into maxims of quite an ancient heathen character, not really evil in

themselves, but reminiscent of similar maxims among the Athenians,

which, as we read in Thucydides, were adopted by them in all

simplicity, as the foundations of human morality. In addition to this I

once more took up, by way of a restorative, as I had often done before,

a volume of Schopenhauer, with whom I became on intimate terms, and I

experienced a sensation of relief when I found that I was now able to

explain the tormenting gaps in his system by the aids which he himself

provided.

My few associations with the outer world now became calmer, but one day

I was distressed by a letter from Wesendonck in which he informed me of

the death of his son Guido, who was about four years old; it depressed

me to think that I had refused to stand godfather to him, on the

pretext that I might bring him bad luck. This event touched me deeply,

and as I was longing for a thorough rest, I mapped out for myself a

short journey across the Alps, with the idea that I might spend

Christmas with my old friends, and offer them my condolences. I

informed Mme. Wille of this idea, and in reply received, strange to

say, from her husband instead of from herself, some quite unexpected

particulars regarding the extremely unpleasant curiosity which my

sudden departure from Zurich had caused, especially in reference to the

part my wife had played in it, and at which the Wesendonck family had

been so much annoyed. As I also heard how skilfully Wesendonck had

treated the matter, some agreeable communications followed couched in

conciliatory terms. It was much to Minna's credit that in her relations

towards me she had by her letters proved herself wise and considerate,

and while staying in Dresden, where she met her old friends, she lived

quietly, and I always provided for her amicably. By so doing she

strengthened the impression she had made on me at the time of that

touching nocturnal scene, and I willingly put before her the

possibility of a domestic reunion, provided that we could establish a

home that promised to be a permanent one, which at that time I could

only picture to myself as feasible in Germany, and if possible in

Dresden. To obtain some idea as to whether it was possible to carry out

such an arrangement, I lost no time in applying to Luttichau, as I had

received favourable reports from Minna about his kindly feeling and

warm attachment to me. I really went so far as to write to him

cordially and in detail. It was another lesson for me when in return I

received occasionally a few dry lines in a businesslike tone, in which

he pointed out that at that moment nothing could be done with respect

to my desired return to Saxony. On the other hand, I learned through

the police authorities in Venice, that the Saxon ambassador in Vienna

ardently wished to drive me even out of Venice. This proved

unsuccessful, however, as I was sufficiently protected by a Swiss

passport, which to my great delight the Austrian authorities duly

respected. The only hope I had with regard to my longed-for return to

Germany was based on the friendly efforts of the Grand Duke of Baden.

Eduard Devrient, to whom I also applied for more definite information

respecting our project of a first performance of Tristan, informed me

that the Grand Duke looked upon my presence at the performance as an

understood thing; whether he was taking any steps on his own account

against the League, in case his direct efforts to obtain the King of

Saxony's permission should be fruitless, or whether he intended to

accomplish it in some other way, he did not know. Consequently I

realised that I could not count on the possibility of an early

settlement in Germany.

A great deal of my time was taken up in correspondence with the object

of procuring the necessary means of subsistence, which at that time,

owing to the divided household, made no small calls upon my purse.

Fortunately a few of the larger theatres had not yet come to terms

about my operas, so I might still expect some fees from them, whereas

those from the more active theatres had already been spent. The

Stuttgart Court Theatre was the last to apply for Tannhauser. At that

time I had a particular affection for Stuttgart, owing to the reasons I

have already mentioned; this was also true of Vienna, which had been

the first place to produce Lohengrin, and, in consequence of its

success, thought it necessary to secure Tannhauser. My negotiations

with Eckert, who was director at that time, quickly led to satisfactory

results.

All this happened during the course of the winter and early spring of

1859. Otherwise I lived very quietly and with great regularity, as I

have described. After recovering the use of my leg, I was able in

December to begin my regular gondola trips to the Piazzetta again and

the return journeys in the evening, and also to give myself up for some

time uninterruptedly to my musical work. I spent Christmas and New

Year's Eve quite alone, but in my dreams at night I often found myself

in society, which had a very disturbing effect on my rest.

At the beginning of 1859 Karl Ritter suddenly turned up again at my

rooms for his usual evening visits. His anxiety about the performance

of a dramatic piece he had written had taken him to the shores of the

Baltic. This was a work he had completed a short time before ARMIDA,

much of which again showed his great talent. The tendency of the whole

play is to show terrible glimpses of the poet's soul, and these prevent

one from passing a favourable judgment on some parts of the piece, but

other parts, notably the meeting of Rinaldo with Armida, and the

violent birth of their love, are depicted by the author with real

poetic fire. As is the case with all such works, which are in reality

always hampered by the superficiality of the dilettante, much should

have been altered and rewritten for stage effect. Karl would not hear

of this; on the contrary, he thought he had discovered, in an

intelligent theatrical manager in Stettin, the very man who would lay

aside any such considerations as were peculiar to me. He had, however,

been disappointed in this hope, and had come back to Venice intending

to carry out his fond desire of living aimlessly. To wander through

Rome clad in the garb of a capuchin, studying the treasures of art from

hour to hour, was the kind of existence he would have preferred to any

other.

He would not hear of a remodelled version of ARMIDA, but declared his

intention to set to work on some new dramatic material which he had

taken from Machiavelli's FLORENTINE HISTORIES. He would not specify

what this material was more definitely, lest I should dissuade him from

using it, inasmuch as it contained only situations, and absolutely no

indication of any purpose. He seemed no longer to have any desire to

give himself up to musical work, although even in this respect the

young man showed himself to me in a thoroughly interesting light by a

fantasy for the piano which he had written soon after his arrival in

Venice. Nevertheless he displayed a more highly intelligent

appreciation than before of the development of the second act of

Tristan, in which I had at last made regular progress. In the evening I

frequently played to him, Winterberger and Tessarin, the portions I had

completed during the day, and they were always deeply moved. During the

previous interruption in my work, which had lasted rather a long time,

Hartel had engraved the first act of the score, and Bulow had arranged

it for the piano. Thus a portion of the opera lay before me in

monumental completeness, while I was still in a fruitful state of

excitement with regard to the execution of the whole. And now in the

early months of the year the orchestration of this act, which I

continued to send in groups of sheets to the publisher to be engraved,

also neared completion. By the middle of March I was able to send off

the last sheets to Leipzig.

It was now necessary to make new decisions for my plan of life. The

question presented itself as to where I was going to compose the third

act; for I wished to begin it only in a place where I had a prospect of

finishing it undisturbed. It seemed as if this was not destined to be

the case in Venice. My work would have occupied me until late into the

summer, and on account of my health I did not think I dared spend the

hot weather in Venice. Its climate about this time of the year did not

commend itself to me. Already I had found great disadvantages and

anything but favourable results from the fact that it was not possible

to enjoy the invigorating recreation of rambling about in this place.

Once in the winter, when I wanted a good walk, I had gone by train to

Viterbo to take my fill of exercise by tramping inland for several

miles towards the mountains. Inhospitable weather had opposed my

progress, and this, added to other unfavourable circumstances, resulted

in my bringing away from my excursion nothing more valuable than a

favourable opinion of the city of lagoons, to which I fled as to a

place of refuge against the dust of the streets and the spectacle of

horses being cruelly used. Moreover, it now turned out that my further

stay in Venice no longer depended wholly on my own will. I had been

recently cited (very politely) before a commissioner of police, who

informed me, without mincing the matter, that there had been an

incessant agitation on the part of the Saxon embassy in Vienna against

my remaining in what was a part of the Austrian Empire. When I

explained that I only wished to extend my stay to the beginning of

spring, I was advised to obtain permission to do so from the Archduke

Maximilian, who as viceroy resided in Milan, preferring my request on

the ground of ill-health as alleged by a doctor's certificate. I did

this, and the Archduke issued immediate instructions by telegram to the

Administrative Government of Venice, to leave me in peace.

But soon it became clear to me that the political situation, which was

putting Austrian Italy into a state of ferment, might develop into an

occasion for renewing active precautionary measures against strangers.

The outbreak of war with Piedmont and France became more and more

imminent, and the evidence of deep agitation in the Italian population

grew more unmistakable every moment. One day, when I was sauntering up

and down the Riva with Tessarin, we came upon a fairly large crowd of

strangers, who, with a mixture of respect and curiosity, were watching

the Archduke Maximilian and his wife as they were taking the air during

a short visit to Venice. The situation was rapidly conveyed to me by my

Venetian pianist, who nudged me violently and sought to drag me away

from the spot by my arm: in order that, as he explained, I might be

spared the necessity of raising my hat to the Archduke. Seeing the

stately and very attractive figure of the young Prince passing along, I

slipped by my friend with a laugh, and took honest pleasure in being

able by my greeting to thank him for his protection, although, of

course, he did not know who I was.

Soon, however, everything began to assume a more serious aspect, and to

look gloomy and depressing. Day by day the Riva was so crowded with

troops newly disembarked, that it became quite unavailable for a

promenade. The officers of these troops, on the whole, made a very

favourable impression on me, and their homely German tongue, as they

chatted harmlessly with one another, reminded me pleasantly of home. In

the rank and file, on the other hand, I could not possibly feel any

confidence, for in them I saw chiefly the dull servile features of

certain leading Slav races in the Austrian monarchy. One could not fail

to recognise in them a certain brute force, but it was no less clear

that they were entirely devoid of that naive intelligence which is such

an attractive characteristic of the Italian people. I could not but

grudge the former race their victory over the latter. The facial

expression of these troops recurred forcibly to my memory in the autumn

of this year in Paris, when I could not avoid comparing the picked

French troops, the Chasseurs de Vincennes and the Zouaves, with these

Austrian soldiers; and without any scientific knowledge of strategy, I

understood in a flash the battles of Magenta and Solferino. For the

present I learned that Milan was already in a state of seige and was

almost completely barred to foreigners. As I had determined to seek my

summer refuge in Switzerland on the Lake of Lucerne, this news

accelerated my departure; for I did not want to have my retreat cut off

by the exigencies of war. So I packed up my things, sent the Erard once

more over the Gotthard, and prepared to take leave of my few,

acquaintances. Ritter had resolved to remain in Italy; he intended to

go to Florence and Rome, whither Winterberger, with whom he had struck

up a friendship, had hurried in advance. Winterberger declared that he

was provided by a brother with money enough to enjoy Italy--an

experience which he declared necessary for his recreation and recovery,

from what disease I do not know. Ritter therefore counted upon leaving

Venice within a very short time. My leave-taking with the worthy

Dolgoroukow, whom I left in great suffering, was very sincere, and I

embraced Karl at the station, probably for the last time, for from that

moment I was left without any direct news of him, and have not seen him

to this day.

On the 24th of March, after some adventures caused by the military

control of strangers, I reached Milan, where I allowed myself to stay

three days to see the sights. Without any official guide to help me, I

contented myself with following up the simplest directions I could

obtain to the Brera, the Ambrosian Library, the 'Last Supper' of

Leonardo da Vinci, and the cathedral. I climbed the various roofs and

towers of this cathedral at all points. Finding, as I always did, that

my first impressions were the liveliest, I confined my attention in the

Brera chiefly to two pictures which confronted me as soon as I entered;

they were Van Dyck's 'Saint Anthony before the Infant Jesus' and

Crespi's 'Martyrdom of Saint Stephen.' I realised on this occasion that

I was not a good judge of pictures, because when once the subject has

made a clear and sympathetic appeal to me, it settles my view, and

nothing else counts. A strange light, however, was shed on the effect

made by the purely artistic significance of a masterpiece, when I stood

before Leonardo da Vinci's 'Last Supper' and had the same experience as

every one else. This work of art, although it is almost entirely

destroyed as a picture, produces such an extraordinary effect on the

mind of the spectator, that even after a close examination of the

copies hanging beside it representing it in a restored state, when he

turns to the ruined picture the fact is suddenly revealed to the eye of

his soul that the contents of the original are absolutely inimitable.

In the evening I made all haste to get to the Italian comedy again. I

grew very fond of it, and found it had installed itself here in the

tiny Teatro Re for the benefit of a small audience of the lower orders.

The Italians of to-day unfortunately despise it heartily. Here, too,

the comedies of Goldoni were played with, as it seemed to me,

considerable and ingenious skill. On the other hand, it was my fate to

be present at a performance in the Scala Theatre, where, in a setting

of an external magnificence that was extraordinary, it was proved true

that Italian taste was degenerating sadly. Before the most brilliant

and enthusiastic audience one could wish for, gathered together in that

immense theatre, an incredibly worthless fake of an opera by a modern

composer, whose name I have forgotten, was performed. The same evening

I learned, however, that although the Italian public was passionately

fond of song, it was the ballet which they regarded as the main item;

for, obviously, the dreary opera, at the beginning was only intended to

prepare the way for a groat choreographic performance on a subject no

less pretentious than that of Antony and Cleopatra. In this ballet I

saw even the cold politician Octavianus, who until now had not so far

lost his dignity as to appear as a character in any Italian opera,

acting in pantomime and contriving fairly successfully to maintain an

attitude of diplomatic reserve. The climax, however, was reached in the

scene of Cleopatra's funeral. This afforded the immense staff of the

ballet an opportunity for displaying the most varied picturesque

effects in highly characteristic costumes.

After receiving these impressions all by myself, I travelled to Lucerne

one brilliant spring day by way of Como, where everything was in full

blossom, through Lugano, which I knew already, and the Gotthard, which

I had to cross in small open sledges along towering walls of snow. When

I reached Lucerne the weather was bitterly cold, in contrast with the

genial spring I had enjoyed in Italy. The allowance of money I had made

for my stay in Lucerne was based on the assumption that the big Hotel

Schweizerhof was quite empty from about this time until the summer

season began, and that without further preliminaries I should be able

to find a lodging there both spacious and free from noise. This hope

had not been entertained in vain. The courteous manager of the hotel,

Colonel Segesser, allotted to me a whole floor in the annexe on the

left, to occupy at my pleasure. I could make myself quite comfortable

here in the larger rooms at a moderate price. As the hotel at this time

of the year had only a very small staff of servants, it was left to me

to make arrangements for some one to wait upon me. For this purpose I

found a careful woman well suited to look after my comfort. Many years

afterwards, remembering the good services she had rendered me,

especially later on when the number of guests had increased, I engaged

her as my housekeeper.

Soon my things arrived from Venice. The Erard had been obliged to cross

the Alps again when the snow was on the ground. When it was set up in

my spacious drawing-room, I said to myself that all this trouble and

expense had been incurred to enable me at last to complete the third

act of Tristan und Isolde. There were times when this seemed to me to

be an extravagant ambition; for the difficulties in the way of

finishing my work seemed to make it impossible. I compared myself to

Leto who, in order to find a place in which to give birth to Apollo and

Artemis, was hunted about the world and could find no resting-place

until Poseidon, taking compassion on her, caused the island of Delos to

rise from the sea.

I wished to regard Lucerne as this Delos. But the terrible influence of

the weather, which was intensely cold and continuously wet, weighed

upon my spirits in a most unfriendly fashion until the end of May. As

such great sacrifice had been made to find this new place of refuge, I

thought every day had been uselessly frittered away which had not

contributed something to my work of composing. For the greater part of

my third act I was occupied with a subject sad beyond words; it came to

such a pass that it is only with a shudder that I can recall the first

few months of this emigration to Lucerne.

A few days after my arrival I had already visited the Wesendoncks in

Zurich. Our meeting was melancholy, but in no way embarrassed. I spent

some days in my friends' house, where I saw my old Zurich acquaintances

again, and felt as though I were passing from one dream to another. In

fact, everything assumed an air of unsubstantiality for me. Several

times in the course of my stay in Lucerne I repeated this visit, which

was twice returned to me, once on the occasion of my birthday.

Besides the work on which I was now somewhat gloriously engaged, I was

also heavy with cares about keeping myself and my wife alive. Of my own

accord and out of necessary respect for the circumstances in which my

friends the Ritters were placed, I had already in Venice felt myself

for the future obliged to decline their voluntary support. I was

beginning to exhaust the little that I could contrive to extract with

difficulty from those of my operas which up to this period it had been

possible to produce. It was settled that I should take up the

Nibelungen work when Tristan was finished, and I thought it my duty to

find out some way of making my future existence easier. This Nibelungen

work spurred me to the attempt. The Grand Duke of Weimar still kept up

his interest in it, to judge from the communications I had received

from him during the previous year. I therefore wrote to Liszt and

repeated my request that he would make a serious proposal to the Grand

Duke to buy the copyright of the work and arrange for its publication,

with the right of disposing of it to a publisher on his own terms. I

enclosed my former negotiations with Hartel, which had been broken off,

and which were now intended to serve as a fair basis for what may be

called the business arrangement that Liszt was to enter into with the

Grand Duke. Liszt soon gave me an embarrassed hint that his Royal

Highness was not really keen on it. This was quite enough for me.

On the other hand, I was driven by circumstances to come to an

agreement with Meser in Dresden about the unfortunate copyright of my

three earlier operas. The actor Kriete, one of my principal creditors,

was making piteous demands for the return of his capital. Schmidt, a

Dresden lawyer, offered to put the matter right, and after a long and

heated correspondence it was arranged that a certain H. Muller,

successor to Meser, who had died a short time before, should enter into

possession of the copyright of these publications. On this occasion I

heard of nothing but of the costs and expenditure to which my former

agent had been put; but it was impossible to get any clear account of

the receipts he had taken from my works beyond the fact that the lawyer

admitted to me that the late Meser must have put aside some thousands

of thalers, which, however, it would not be possible to lay hands on,

as he had not left his heirs any funds at all.

In order to pacify the woeful Kriete, I was eventually obliged to agree

to sell my rights in the works Meser had published for nine thousand

marks, which represented the exact sum I owed to Kriete and another

creditor who held a smaller share. With regard to the arrears of

interest still owing on the money at compound rate, I remained Kriete's

personal debtor; the joint sum amounted in the year 1864 to five

thousand four hundred marks, which were duly claimed of me about this

time with all the pressure of the law. In the interests of Pusinelli,

my chief creditor, who could only be provided under this arrangement

with inadequate payment, I reserved to myself the French copyright of

these three operas, in the event of this music being produced in France

through my efforts at finding a publisher to purchase it in that

country.

According to the contents of a letter from the lawyer Schmidt, this

reservation of mine had been accepted by the present publisher in

Dresden. Pusinelli in a friendly spirit forbore to take advantage of

the benefits accruing to him from this arrangement, in regard to the

capital he had formerly lent me. He assured me he would never claim it.

Thus one possibility remained open to me for the future: that if my

operas could make their way into France, although there would be no

question of any profit coming to me through those works of mine, I

should be reimbursed for the capital I had spent on them and for that

which I had been obliged to guarantee. When, later on, my Paris

publisher Flaxland and I came to make out an agreement, Meser's

successor in Dresden announced himself as absolute proprietor of my

operas, and actually succeeded in putting so many obstacles in

Flaxland's way in the conduct of his French business, that the latter

was compelled to purchase peace at the price of six thousand francs.

The natural result of this was that Flaxland was placed in the position

of being able to deny that it was I who owned the French copyright of

my work. Upon this I made repeated appeals to Adolph Schmidt, the

lawyer, to give evidence in my favour, asking nothing more of him than

that he should forward to me a copy of the correspondence referring to

the rights I had reserved, which had become valid in the Lucerne

transaction. To all the letters addressed to him on this subject,

however, he obstinately refused an answer, and I learned later on from

a Viennese lawyer that I must give up hoping to get this kind of

evidence, as I had no legal means in my possession to force the

advocate to give it, if he were not so inclined.

While, owing to this, I had little opportunity of improving my

prospects for the future, I had at least the satisfaction of seeing the

score of Tannhauser engraved at last. As the stock of my earlier

autograph copies had come to an end, chiefly through the wasteful

management of Meser, I had already persuaded Hartel when I was in

Venice to have the score engraved. Meser's successor had acquired the

complete rights of this work, and therefore regarded it as a point of

honour not to give up the score to another publisher; consequently he

took over the task of producing it at his own cost. Unluckily fate

demanded that just a year later I had to revise and reconstruct the

first two scenes completely. To this day it is a subject of regret to

me not to have been able to introduce this fresh piece of work into the

engraved score.

The Hartels, never faltering in their assumption that Tristan might

provide good food for the theatre, set their men busily to work upon

engraving the score of the second act, while I was at work on the

third. The process of registering corrections, while I was in the

throes of composing the third act--one long ecstasy--wielded over me a

strange, almost uncanny influence; for in the first scenes of this act

it was made clear to me that in this opera (which had been most

unwarrantably assumed to be an easy one to produce), I had embodied the

most daring and most exotic conception in all my writings. While I was

at work on the great scene of Tristan, found myself often asking

whether I was not mad to want to give such work to a publisher to print

for the theatre. And yet I could not have parted with a single accent

in that tale of pain, although the whole thing tortured me to the last

degree.

I tried to overcome my gastric troubles by using (among other things)

Kissingen water in moderate doses. As I was fatigued and made incapable

of work by the early walks I had to take during this treatment, it

occurred to me to take a short ride instead. For this purpose the hotel

manager lent me a horse, aged twenty-five, named Lise. On this animal I

rode every morning as long as it would carry me. It never conveyed me

very far, but turned back regularly at certain spots without taking the

slightest notice of my directions.

Thus passed the months of April, May, and the greater part of June,

without my completing even half of my composition for the third act,

and all the while I was contending with a mood of the deepest

melancholy. At last came the season for the visitors to arrive; the

hotel with its annexes began to fill, and it was no longer possible to

think of maintaining my exceptional privilege with regard to the use of

such choice quarters. It was proposed to move me to the second storey

of the main building, where only travellers who spent the night on

their way to other places in Switzerland were put up, whereas in the

annexes people were lodged who came to make a long stay, and who used

their rooms day and night. As a matter of fact, this arrangement

answered admirably. From this time forward I was completely undisturbed

during the hours of my work in my little sitting-room with its

adjoining bedchamber, as the rooms engaged for the night by strangers

in this storey were perfectly empty in the daytime.

Really splendid summer weather set in eventually, lasting a good two

months with a continuously cloudless sky. I enjoyed the curious charm

of protecting myself against the extremes of the sun's heat by

carefully keeping my room cool and dark, and going out on to my balcony

only in the evening to surrender myself to the influence of the summer

air. Two good horn-players gave me great pleasure by providing a

performance of simple folk-songs almost regularly in a skiff on the

lake. In my work, too, I had now luckily passed the critical point, and

in spite of its sorrowful character, the more subdued mood of that part

of my poem which I had still to master, threw me into a sincere

spiritual ecstasy, during which I completed the composition of the

whole work by the beginning of August, fragments only remaining to be

orchestrated.

Lonely as was my life, the exciting events of the Italian war provided

me plenty of interest. I followed this struggle, as unexpected as it

was significant, through the thrilling course of its successes and

reverses. Still I did not remain entirely without company. In July,

Felix Drasecke, whom I had not known before, came to Lucerne for a

lengthy visit. After hearing a performance of the prelude to Tristan

und Isolde conducted by Liszt, he had almost immediately determined to

make himself personally acquainted with me. I was completely terrified

by his arrival, and was at a loss to know what to do with him.

Moreover, as his talk was in a certain facetious vein, overflowing with

stories of persons and circumstances for which I was gradually losing

all appreciation, he soon began to bore me, a fact which astonished

him, and which he recognised so clearly that he thought he had better

leave after a few days. This made me in my turn embarrassed, and I now

took special care to deprive him of the bad opinion he had formed of

me. I soon learned to like him, and for a considerable time, until

shortly before his departure from Lucerne, he was my daily companion,

from whose intercourse I derived much pleasure, as he was a highly

gifted musician and by no means a prig. But Drasecke was not my only

visitor.

Wilhelm Baumgartner, my old Zurich acquaintance, came to spend a few

weeks in Lucerne out of kindness to me. And lastly Alexander Seroff

from St. Petersburg came to stay some time in the neighbourhood. He was

a remarkable man, of great intelligence, and openly prepossessed in

favour of Liszt and myself. He had heard my Lohengrin in Dresden and

wanted to know more of me--an ambition I was obliged to satisfy by

playing Tristan to him in the rough-and-ready fashion which was

peculiar to me. I went up Mount Pilatus with Drasecke, and again had to

look after a companion who suffered from giddiness. To celebrate his

departure I invited him to take an excursion to Brunnen and the Grutli.

After this we took leave of each other for the time being, as his

moderate resources did not permit him to remain any longer, and I too

was seriously thinking of taking my departure.

The question now arose as to where I was to go. I had addressed

letters, first through Eduard Devrient, and finally direct to the Grand

Duke of Baden, asking the latter for a guarantee that I might settle,

if not in Karlsruhe itself, at least in some small place in the

neighbourhood. This would suffice to set at rest a craving, which could

no longer be suppressed, for intercourse now and then with an orchestra

and a company of singers, if only to hear them play. I learned later

that the Grand Duke had really bestirred himself in the matter by

writing to the King of Saxony. But the view still prevailed in that

quarter that I could not be granted an amnesty, but could only hope to

receive an act of grace; it being assumed, of course, that I would

first have to report myself to a magistrate for examination. Thus the

fulfilment of my wish remained impossible, and I shrank in dismay

before the problem of how to secure a performance of my Tristan which I

could superintend in person, as I had determined to do. I was assured

that the Grand Duke would know what measures to resort to in order to

meet the situation. But the question was, where was I to turn for a

place in which to settle with some prospect of being able to remain

there. I longed for a permanent home again. After due consideration I

decided that Paris was the only place where I could make sure of now

and then hearing a good orchestra and a first-class quartette. Without

these stimulating influences Zurich at last became unbearable, and in

no other city but Paris, where I could stay undisturbed, could I safely

reckon on being able to obtain artistic recreation of a sufficiently

high standard.

At last I had to bestir myself to come to a decision about my wife. We

had now been apart from each other for a whole year. After the hard

lessons she had received from me, and which, according to her letters,

had left a deep impression upon her, I was justified in assuming that

the renewal of our life in common might be made tolerable; especially

as it would remove the grave difficulty of her maintenance. I therefore

agreed with her that she should join me late in the autumn in Paris. In

the meantime I was willing to look for a possible abode there, and

undertook to arrange for the removal of our furniture and household

goods to the French capital. In order to carry out this plan financial

assistance was imperative, as the means at my disposal were quite

inadequate. I then made to Wesendonck the same offer in regard to my

Nibelungen that I had made to the Grand Duke of Weimar, that is to say,

I proposed that he should buy the copyright for publishing the work.

Wesendonck acceded to my wishes without demur, and was ready to buy out

each of the completed portions of my work in turn for about the same

sum as it was reasonable to suppose a publisher would pay for it later

on. I was not able to fix my departure, which took place on the 7th of

September, when I went for a three days' visit to my friends in Zurich.

I spent these days at the Wesendonck's, where I was well looked after

and saw my former acquaintances, Herwegh, Semper, and Gottfried Keller.

One of the evenings I spent with them was marked by an animated dispute

with Semper over the political events of the time. Semper professed to

recognise, in the recent defeat of Austria, the defeat of the German

nationality; in the Romance element represented by Louis Napoleon, he

recognised a sort of Assyrian despotism which he hated both in art and

politics. He expressed himself with such emphasis that Keller, who was

generally so silent, was provoked into a lively debate. Semper in his

turn was so aggravated at this, that at last in a fit of desperation he

blamed me for luring him into the enemy's camp, by being the cause of

his invitation to the Wesendonck's. We made it up before we parted that

night, and met again on several occasions after this, when we took care

never again to let our discussions become so passionate. From Zurich I

went to Winterthur to visit Sulzer. I did not see my friend himself,

but only his wife and the boy she had borne to him since my last visit;

the mother and child made a very touching and friendly impression on

me, particularly when I realised that I must now regard my old friend

in the light of a happy father.

On the 15th of September I reached Paris. I had intended to fix my

abode somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Champs Elysees, and with

this object in view at once looked out for temporary lodgings in that

district, which I found eventually in the Avenue de Matignon. My main

object was to discover my desired peaceful place of refuge in some

small house remote from the thoroughfares. I at once bestirred myself

to find this, and thought it my duty to make use of every acquaintance

I could call to mind. The Olliviers were not in Paris at the time;

Countess d'Agoult was ill, and was also busy arranging her departure

for Italy, and unable to receive me. She referred me to her daughter

the Countess Charnace, upon whom I called, but without being able to

explain to her the purpose I had in view. I also looked up the Herold

family, who had received me in such a friendly way on my last visit to

Paris; but I found Mme. Herold in a strange and morbidly excitable

state of mind, the result of ill-health, so that instead of discussing

my views with her, my only thought was to keep her calm and avoid

upsetting her by even the slightest appeal for help. In my passionate

longing to find a home I decided to get no further information, but set

about the matter myself. At last I discovered in the Rue Newton near

the Barriere de l'Etoile, a side street off the Champs Elysees, not yet

completed in accordance with a former plan of Paris, a nice little

villa with a small garden. I took this on a three-years' agreement at a

rent of four thousand francs a year. Here, at all events, I might look

for complete quiet and total isolation from the noise of the streets.

This fact alone prepossessed me very much in taking the little house,

the late occupier of which had been the well-known author Octave

Feuillet, who was at that time under the patronage of the imperial

court. But I was puzzled that the building, in spite of my being unable

to detect anything old in its structure, had been so neglected inside.

The proprietor could in no way be induced to do anything to restore the

place and make it habitable, even if I had consented to pay a higher

rent. The reason of this I discovered some time afterwards: the estate

itself was doomed in consequence of the plans for the rebuilding of

Paris; but the time had not yet come to make the official announcement

of the government's intentions to the proprietors, because, had this

been done, their claims to compensation would have become valid at

once. I consequently laboured under the pleasant delusion that whatever

I was obliged to spend on interior decoration and on restoring the

property would, in the course of years, prove to be money well

invested. I therefore proceeded to give the necessary instructions for

the work without hesitating, and ordered my furniture to be sent from

Zurich, thinking that as fate had driven me to my choice, I could

regard myself as a resident of Paris for the rest of my life.

While the house was being prepared, I tried to get my bearings as to

what could be extracted for my future existence out of the popularity

of my artistic works. The first thing I did was to look up M. de

Charnal and to get information from him about the translation of the

libretto of my Rienzi with which he had been entrusted. It turned out

that M. Carvalho, the director of the Theatre Lyrique, would hear of

absolutely nothing but Tannhauser. I prevailed upon Carvalho to visit

me to talk the matter over. He declared that he was most certainly

inclined to produce one of my operas, only it must be Tannhauser,

because, as he explained, this opera was identified with me among the

Parisians, who would think it ridiculous to produce any other work

under the name of 'Wagner.' As to my choice of a translator for the

poem of this opera he seemed to entertain grave doubts: he asked

whether I had not made a mistake, whereupon I tried to get more

definite information about the capabilities of M. de Charnal, and

discovered to my horror that this charming young man, who boasted that

he had collaborated in a melodrama called Schinderhannes, which he

thought was a German romantic subject, had not had the slightest

conception of the character of the work he was handling.

As his enthusiasm moved me, I tried to shape some verses with him and

make them practicable for musical purposes; but I failed utterly, and

all my trouble was in vain. Bulow had once drawn my attention to

Auguste de Gasperini, a young doctor who had ceased to practise, and

whose acquaintance he had made in Baden-Baden, where he discovered that

he was extraordinarily fond of my music. I called upon him without loss

of time, and as he was not in Paris, I wrote to him. This man sent his

friend Leroy to me with a letter of recommendation. He was a

well-educated Parisian music-master, who won my esteem by his

attractive personality. My confidence in him was aroused, because he at

once dissuaded me from associating myself with an obscure journalist on

a theatrical newspaper (in which character M. de Charnal finally

disclosed himself), and advised me to go to Roger, a highly gifted and

experienced operatic singer, who had been a favourite with the Parisian

public and was master of the German language. This lifted a load from

my heart: I accepted the invitation which Leroy arranged for me through

another friend, who took me down to Roger's country place one day to

meet him. I have forgotten the name of this large estate which was

occupied by the Paris tenor, whose fame had been so celebrated up to

that time; the chateau had once belonged to a marquis, and was built in

a very sumptuous style and surrounded by extensive hunting-grounds. It

was the desire to handle a gun and make use of these grounds (which he

loved) that, only a short time before, had landed this charming singer

in a terrible disaster which had shattered his right arm.

I found Roger, some months after the accident, completely recovered;

but the forearm had had to be amputated. The question now was whether a

famous mechanician, who had promised to make him a perfect substitute

for the lost limb even in the matter of free gesticulation, would be

able to carry out his task. He succeeded fairly well, as I saw with my

own eyes some time later, when I witnessed Roger act in a benefit

performance which the Grand Opera had given him, and use his arm so

ingeniously that he received great applause for this reason alone. In

spite of this he had to accept the fact that he was regarded as

'disabled,' and that his career at the Grand Opera in Paris had come to

a close. For the time being he seemed to be glad to secure for himself

some sort of literary occupation, and accepted with much pleasure my

proposal that he should make a translation of Tannhauser for practical

use. He sang to me the French text of some of the main themes which he

had already translated, and they seemed to me good. After I had spent a

day and a night with the singer, who had once been such a popular

favourite, and was now condemned to look forward to a sad decline, I

felt in very good spirits and full of hope, more especially as his

intelligent way of approaching my opera gave me a pleasing idea of the

extent to which it was possible to cultivate the French mind. In spite

of this I had soon to give up the notion of Roger's working for me, as

for a long time he was entirely absorbed in trying to make secure the

position into which he had fallen through his terrible accident. He was

so busy with his own affairs that he could hardly give me an answer to

my inquiries, and for the time being I lost sight of him altogether.

I had come to this arrangement with Roger more by chance than out of

necessity, as I continued to adhere firmly to my plan simply to seek a

suitable pied-a-terre in Paris. My serious artistic enterprises, on the

other hand, were still directed to Germany, from which, from another

point of view, I was an enforced exile. Soon, however, the whole aspect

of affairs changed: the proposed performance of Tristan in Karlsruhe,

on which I had continued to keep an eye, was finally announced as

abandoned. I had to remain uncertain as to the precise reason why this

undertaking had been given up, which at an earlier stage had apparently

been pursued with so much zeal. Devrient pointed out to me that all his

attempts to secure an appropriate representation of the rule of Isolde

had been shattered by my deciding against the singer Garrigues (who had

already married young Schnorr), and that he felt his incapacity to

offer advice on the rest of the business all the more keenly because

Schnorr, the tenor, whose devotion to me was so great, had himself

despaired of being able to execute the last portion of the task

assigned to him. I realised at once that this was an obstacle which I

should have been able to overcome, together with all its disastrous

consequences, if I had been permitted, even for a brief space of time,

to visit Karlsruhe. But the mere expression of this wish seemed, as

soon as it was reiterated, to arouse the bitterest feelings against me.

Devrient expressed his opinion on the matter with so much violence and

brutality that I could not help seeing that what kept me from Karlsruhe

was mainly his personal disinclination to have me there, or to be

interfered with in the conduct of his theatre.

A less potent factor in the situation I found in the painful feeling

now aroused in the Grand Duke at the prospect of not being able to

fulfil the promise he had once held out to me, that I should visit him

in Karlsruhe, where he was in residence; if the main object for the

visit were to subside under pressure of other considerations, he could

only regard this circumstance in the light of an almost desirable

event. At the same time I received from Bulow, who had gone several

times to Karlsruhe, fairly broad hints as to what Devrient was aiming

at. Full light was shed on the affair at a later stage; for the present

it was a matter of the utmost importance for me to face the fact that I

was entirely cut off from Germany, and must think of a fresh field for

the production of Tristan, which lay so near my heart. I rapidly

sketched a plan for starting a German theatre in Paris itself, such as

had existed in bygone years with the co-operation of Schroder-Devrient.

I thought I could safely rely on the possibility of doing so, as the

most eminent singers of the German theatre were known to me, and would

gladly follow me if I were to summon them to Paris on such a mission. I

received messages of ready acceptance, in the event of my succeeding in

founding a German opera season in Paris on a solid basis, from

Tichatschek, Mitterwurzer, Niemann the tenor, and also Luise Meyer in

Vienna. My immediate and besetting care was then to discover in Paris a

suitable man for the task, who would undertake the execution of my plan

at his own risk. My object was to secure the Salle Ventadour for a

spring season of two months after the close of the Italian opera. There

would then be performances of my operas, Tannhauser, Lohengrin, and

finally Tristan, by a chosen company and chorus of German singers, for

the benefit of the Parisian public in general and myself in particular.

With this purpose in mind, my anxieties and endeavours now took a

totally different direction from that towards which they had tended

when I first settled again in Paris; to cultivate acquaintances,

especially among those who had influence, was now of the utmost

importance to me. For this reason I was glad to hear that Gasperini had

arrived in Paris for good. Although I had only known him very slightly

before, I now immediately communicated my plans to him, and was

introduced in the friendliest way to a rich man who was well disposed

towards him, a M. Lucy, who, so I was told, was not without influence,

and was at that time Receiver-General in Marseilles. Our deliberations

convinced us that the most necessary, and indeed indispensable, thing

was to find some one to come forward and finance our enterprise. My

friend Gasperini could not but agree that, on the strength of the

opinions he had himself advanced, it was natural I should look upon M.

Lucy as the very man we wanted; but he thought it advisable to put our

wishes before his friend with some caution, for though Lucy had much

chaleur de coeur, he was principally a man of business and understood

but little of music. Above all, it was necessary that my compositions

should become well known in Paris, so that further enterprises might be

founded on the results thus obtained. With this object in view I

decided to arrange a few important concerts. To effect this I had to

welcome my old friend Belloni, Liszt's former secretary, into the

circle of my closer acquaintances. He immediately enlisted a companion

of his in our cause, a highly intelligent man called Giacomelli, whom I

never knew to be anything but good-natured. He was the editor of a

theatrical journal and was cordially recommended to me by Belloni, as

much for his excellent French as for his exceptional capabilities in

other respects. My new protector's strange editorial office became from

this time one of my most important places of rendezvous, which I

frequented almost daily, and where I met all the curious creatures with

whom, for the purpose of theatrical and similar matters, one is obliged

to mix in Paris. The next thing to be considered was how to obtain the

most suitable hall for my intended concerts. It was evident that I

should appear to greatest advantage before the Parisian public if I

could secure the theatre and orchestra of the Grand Opera.

For this I had to address myself to the Emperor Napoleon, which I did

in a concise letter composed for me by Gasperini. The hostility of

Fould, who was at that time the Minister of the Household to Napoleon,

would probably have to be reckoned with, on account of his friendly

relations to Meyerbeer. The injurious and dreaded influence of this

personage we hoped to counteract by that of M. Mocquard, Napoleon's

secretary, who, as Ollivier declared, composed all the imperial

speeches. In an elan of fiery generosity Lucy decided to appeal to the

friend of his youth, for as such he regarded Mocquard, in a letter of

recommendation to him on my behalf. As even this communication received

no answer from the Tuileries, I and my more practical friends, Belloni

and Giacomelli, with whom I held consultations, grew more doubtful

every day of our own power as opposed to that of the Minister of the

Household, and we therefore entered into negotiations with Calzado, the

director of the Italian Opera, instead. We met with a direct refusal in

this quarter, whereupon I finally decided to seek a personal interview

with the man. By a power of persuasion which astonished even myself,

and, above all, by holding out the prospect of my Tristan at the

Italian Opera possibly proving a huge success, I actually succeeded in

at last obtaining his consent to let the Salle Ventadour for three

evenings with a week's interval between each. But even my passionate

eloquence, which Giacomelli extolled on our way home, could not

persuade him to lower the rent, which he fixed at four thousand francs

an evening, merely for the hire and lighting of the hall.

After this the most important point was to get a first-class orchestra

for my concerts, and my two agents had, for the time being, more than

enough to do in this respect. In consequence of their endeavours on my

behalf I now began to notice the first signs of a hostile, and hitherto

unsuspected, attitude towards me and my undertaking on the part of my

old friend Berlioz. Full of the favourable impression he had made upon

me when we met in London in 1855, which was strengthened by a friendly

correspondence he had kept up for a time, I had called at his house as

soon as I arrived in Paris. As he was not in I turned back into the

street, where I met him on his way home, and noticed that the sight of

me occasioned a convulsive movement of fright, which showed itself in

his whole physiognomy and bearing in a way which was almost gruesome. I

saw at a glance how matters stood between us, but concealed my own

uneasiness under an appearance of natural concern about his state of

health, which he immediately assured me was one of torture, and that he

could only bear up against the most violent attacks of neuralgia with

the help of electric treatment, from which he was just returning. In

order to allay his suffering I offered to leave him immediately, but

this made him so far ashamed of his attitude that he pressed me to

return with him to his house. Here I succeeded in making him feel

somewhat more friendly towards me by disclosing my real intentions in

Paris: even the concerts I proposed giving were merely to serve the

purpose of so far attracting public attention as to make it possible to

establish German opera here, so that when I wished to do so I could

superintend the representation of such of my own works I had not yet

heard; while, on the other hand, I completely renounced the idea of a

French production of Tannhauser, such as the manager Carvalho had

seemed to contemplate. In consequence of these explanations I was

apparently for a time on quite a friendly footing with Berlioz. I

consequently thought that, with regard to the engagement of musicians

for the proposed concerts, I could not on this occasion do better than

refer my agents to this experienced friend, whose advice would

certainly prove invaluable. They afterwards informed me that Berlioz

had at first shown himself sympathetically inclined, but his manner had

suddenly changed one day when Mme. Berlioz entered the room where they

were discussing matters, and exclaimed in a tone of angry surprise,

'Comment, je crois que vous donnez des conseils pour les concerts de M.

Wagner?' Belloni then discovered that this lady had just accepted a

valuable bracelet sent her by Meyerbeer. Being a man of the world he

said to me, 'Do not count upon Berlioz,' and there the whole matter

ended.

From this time forward Belloni's bright face was clouded over with an

expression of the deepest anxiety. He thought he had discovered that

the whole Parisian press was exceedingly hostile towards me, which he

had not the slightest doubt was due to the tremendous agitation

Meyerbeer had set on foot from Berlin. He discovered that an urgent

correspondence had been carried on from there with the editors of the

principal Paris journals, and that amongst others the famous Fiorentino

had already taken advantage of Meyerbeer's alarm at my Parisian

enterprise, to threaten him with praise of my music, thus naturally

exciting Meyerbeer to further bribery. This increased Belloni's

anxiety, and he advised me, above all, to try and find financial

support for my plans, or if I had no prospect of this, to rely on the

imperial power alone. He pointed out that it was absolutely impossible

for me to carry out the concerts entirely on my own responsibility

without financial support, and his arguments had the effect of making

me decide to be careful; for what with my journey to Paris and my

installation there, my funds were thoroughly exhausted. So I was again

forced to enter into negotiations with the Tuileries about the letting

of the Opera House and its orchestra free of charge. Ollivier now came

forward with judicious advice and introductions, which brought me into

touch with all kinds of people, and, amongst others, with Camille

Doucet (a leading member of Fould's ministry and also a dramatic

author). By this means I hoped to penetrate into the presence of

Meyerbeer's admirer, the unapproachable and terrible Minister of State.

One result of these introductions, however, was that I formed a lasting

friendship with Jules Ferry, though our acquaintance proved quite

useless to the immediate purpose in hand. The Emperor and his secretary

remained obstinately silent, and this even after I had obtained the

Grand Duke of Baden's consent to the intercession of his ambassador in

Paris on my behalf, and also that of the Swiss ambassador, Dr. Kern,

whose combined forces were to try and enlighten me, and possibly also

the Emperor, about Fould's manoeuvres. But it was useless--all remained

silent as before.

Under these circumstances I regarded it as a freak of fate that Minna

should announce her readiness to join me in Paris, and that I should

have to expect her arrival shortly. In the selection as well as in the

arrangement of the little house in the Rue Newton I had had particular

regard to our future existence together. My living-room was separated

from hers by a staircase, and I had taken care that the part of the

house to be occupied by her should not be wanting in comfort. But,

above all, the affection which had been revived by our last reunion in

Zurich had prompted me to furnish and decorate the rooms with special

care, so that they might have a friendly appearance and make life in

common with this woman, who was becoming quite a stranger to me, more

possible to bear. On account of this I was afterwards reproached with a

love of luxury. There was also a possibility of arranging a

drawing-room in our house, and though I had not intended to be

extravagant, I finally discovered that, in addition to the trouble of

negotiations with unreliable Parisian workmen, I was drawn into

expenses I had not counted upon. But I comforted myself with the

reflection that, as it could not be helped now, Minna would at least be

pleased when she entered the house she was henceforth to manage. I also

thought it necessary to get a maid for her, and a particularly suitable

person was recommended me by Mme. Herold. I had also engaged a

man-servant as soon as I arrived, and although he was rather a

thick-headed Swiss from Valais, who had at one time belonged to the

Pope's bodyguard, he soon became quite devoted to me. In addition to

these two servants there was my wife's former cook, whom she had taken

with her from Zurich, and by whom she was accompanied when at last I

was able to go and meet her at the station on the 17th of November.

Here Minna immediately handed me the parrot and her dog Fips, which

involuntarily reminded me of her arrival in the harbour of Rorschach

ten years ago. Just as she had done on that occasion also, she now

immediately gave me to understand that she did not come to me out of

need, and that if I treated her badly she knew quite well where to go.

Moreover, there was no denying that since then a not unimportant change

had taken place in her; she owned that she was filled with a similar

anxiety and fear like a person feels who is about to enter a new

situation, and did not know whether she would be able to stand it. Here

I sought to divert her thoughts by acquainting her with my public

position, which as my wife she would naturally share. Unfortunately she

could not understand this at all, and it failed to make any appeal to

her, while her attention was immediately absorbed by the interior

arrangement of our house. The fact of my having taken a man-servant

merely filled her with scorn; but that, under the title of lady's maid,

I should have provided her with what I had really considered a very

necessary attendant, made her furious. This person, whom Mme. Herold

had recommended to me with the assurance that she had shown angelic

patience in the care of her sick and aged mother, speedily became so

demoralised by Minna's treatment of her that, at the end of a very

short time, I of my own accord hurriedly dismissed her, and in doing so

was violently reproached by my wife for giving the woman a small tip.

To an even greater extent did she succeed in spoiling my man-servant,

who finally refused to obey her orders, and when I found fault with him

became so impertinent towards me also that I had to send him away at

the shortest notice. He left a very good complete set of livery behind,

which I had just bought at great expense, and which remained on my

hands, as I felt no inclination ever to have a man-servant again. On

the other hand, I cannot but bear the highest testimony in favour of

the Swabian Therese, who from this time forward performed the entire

service of the household alone during the whole of my sojourn in Paris.

This woman, who was gifted with unusual penetration, at once grasped my

painful position towards her mistress, and understanding my wife's

faults, succeeded by her indefatigable activity in turning matters to

the best advantage for me as well as for the household, and thus

neutralising their bad effect.

So in this last reunion with Minna I once more entered upon a state of

existence which I had repeatedly lived through before, and which it

seemed was now to start afresh. This time it was almost a blessing that

there could be no question of quiet retirement, but that, on the

contrary, it was necessary to enter upon an endless succession of

worldly relations and activities, to which I was again driven by fate

entirely against my choice and inclination.

With the opening of the year 1860 a very unexpected turn of affairs

made it seem possible that I should succeed in carrying out my plans.

The musical director Esser in Vienna informed me that Schott, the music

publisher of Mayence, wished to obtain a new opera by me for

publication. I had nothing to offer at present but the Rhieingold; the

peculiar composition of this work, meant only as a prelude to the

Nilielungen trilogy I meant to write, made it difficult for me to offer

it as an opera without adding any further explanation. However,

Schott's eagerness, at all costs, to have a work of mine to add to his

catalogue of publications was so great that I no longer hesitated, and,

without concealing from him the fact that he would have great

difficulty in propagating this work, I offered to place it at his

disposal for the sum of ten thousand francs, promising him at the same

time the option of purchasing the three main operas which were to

follow at the same price for each. In the event of Schott accepting my

offer, I immediately formed a plan of spending the sum thus

unexpectedly acquired for the furthering of my Paris undertaking.

Tired out with the obstinate silence maintained by the imperial

cabinet, I now commissioned my agents to close with Signor Calzado for

three concerts to be given at the Italian Opera, as well as to obtain

the necessary orchestra and singers. When the arrangements for this had

been set in motion, I was again made anxious by Schott's tardy offers

of lower terms; in order not to alienate him, however, I wrote to the

musical director Schmidt in Frankfort commissioning him to continue the

negotiations with Schott on considerably reduced terms, to which I gave

my consent. I had scarcely sent off this letter when an answer from

Schott reached me, in which he at last expressed his willingness to pay

me the sum of ten thousand francs for which I had asked. I thereupon

sent a telegram to Schmidt promptly cancelling the commission with

which I had just charged him.

With renewed courage I and my agents now followed up our plans, and the

necessary preparations for the concerts engaged my whole attention. I

had to look out for a choir, and for this I thought it necessary to

reinforce the expensively paid company of the Italian Opera by a German

society of singers who had been recommended to me and who were under

the direction of a certain Herr Ehmant. In order to ingratiate myself

with its members, I had one evening to visit their meeting-place in the

Rue du Temple, and cheerfully accommodate myself to the smell of beer

and the fumes of tobacco with which the atmosphere was laden, and in

the midst of which sturdy German artists were to reveal their

capabilities to me. I was also brought into contact with a M. Cheve,

the teacher and director of a French national choral society, whose

rehearsals took place in the Ecole de Medecine. I there met an odd

enthusiast, who, by his method of teaching people to sing without

notes, hoped to bring about the regeneration of the French people's

genius. But the worst trouble was occasioned by the necessity of my

having the different orchestral parts of the selections I was going to

have played copied out for me. For this task I hired several poor

German musicians, who remained at my house from morning till night, in

order to make the necessary arrangements, which were often rather

difficult, under my direction.

In the midst of these absorbing occupations Hans von Bulow looked me

up. He had come to Paris for some length of time, as it turned out,

more to assist me in my undertaking than to follow his own pursuit as a

concert virtuoso. He was staying with Liszt's mother, but spent the

greater part of the day with me, in order to give help wherever it was

needed, as, for instance, with the immediate preparation of the copies.

His activity in all directions was extraordinary, but he seemed, above

all, to have set himself the task of making certain social connections,

that he and his wife had formed during their visit to Paris the year

before, useful to my undertaking. The result of this was felt in due

course, but for the present he helped me to arrange the concerts, the

rehearsals for which had begun.

The first of these took place in the Herz Hall, and led to such an

agitation on the part of the musicians against me that it was almost as

bad as a riot. I had continually to remonstrate with them about habits

on their part, which I on my side felt unable to overlook, and tried to

prove, on common-sense grounds, how impossible it was to give way to

them. My 6/8 time, which I took as 4/4 time, particularly incensed

them, and with tumultuous protestations they declared it should be

taken alla-breva. In consequence of a sharp call to order and an

allusion on my part to the discipline of a well-drilled orchestra, they

declared they were not 'Prussian soldiers,' but free men.

At last I saw that one of the chief mistakes had lain in the faulty

setting up of the orchestra, and I now formed my plan for the next

rehearsal. After a consultation with my friends I went to the

concert-room on the next occasion the first thing in the morning and

superintended the arranging of the desks myself, and ordered a

plentiful lunch for the musicians to which, at the beginning of the

rehearsal, I invited them in the following manner. I told them that on

the result of our meeting of that day depended the possibility of my

giving my concerts; that we must not leave the concert-room till we

were quite clear about it. I therefore requested the members to

rehearse for two hours, then to partake of a frugal lunch prepared for

them in the adjoining salon, whereupon we would immediately hold a

second rehearsal for which I would pay them. The effect of this

proposal was miraculous: the advantageous arrangement of the orchestra

contributed to the maintenance of the general good-humour, and the

favourable impression made upon every one by the prelude to Lohengrin,

which was then played, rose to enthusiasm, so that at the conclusion of

the first rehearsal both players and audience, amongst whom was

Gasperini, were delighted with me. This friendly disposition was most

agreeably displayed at the principal rehearsal, which took place on the

stage of the Italian Opera House. I had now gained sufficient control

to allow me to dismiss a careless cornet-player from the orchestra with

a severe reproof, without incurring any difficulties owing to their

esprit de corps.

At last the first concert took place on the 25th of January (1860); all

the pieces which I had chosen from my various operas, including Tristan

und Isolde, met with an entirely favourable, nay enthusiastic,

reception from the public, and I even had the experience of one of my

pieces, the march from Tannhauser, being interrupted by storms of

applause. The pleasure thus expressed was aroused, it seems, because

the audience was surprised to find that my music, of which there had

been so many contradictory reports, contained such long phrases of

connected melody. Well satisfied as I was, both with the way in which

the concert had been carried out and its enthusiastic reception, I had

on the following days to overcome contrary impressions caused by the

papers giving vent to their feelings against me. It was now clear that

Belloni had been quite right in supposing that they were hostile to me,

and his foresight, which had led us to omit inviting the press, had

merely roused our opponents to greater fury. As the whole undertaking

had been arranged more for the stimulation of friends than to excite

praise, I was not so much disturbed by the blustering of these

gentlemen as by the absence of any sign from the former. What caused me

most anxiety was that the apparently well-filled house should not have

brought us better returns than was found to be the case. We had made

from five to six thousand francs, but the expenses amounted to eleven

thousand francs. This might be partially covered if, in the case of the

two less expensive concerts still to come, we could rely on

considerably higher returns. Belloni and Giacomelli shook their heads,

however; they thought it better not to close their eyes to the fact

that concerts were not suited to the taste of the French people, who

demanded the dramatic element as well, that is to say, costumes,

scenery, the ballet, etc., in order to feel satisfied. The small number

of tickets sold for the second concert, which was given on the 1st of

February, actually put my agents to the necessity of filling the room

artificially, so as at least to save appearances. I had to allow them

to do as they thought best in this matter, and was afterwards

astonished to learn how they had managed to fill the first places in

this aristocratic theatre in such a way as to deceive even our enemies.

The real receipts amounted to little over two thousand francs, and it

now required all my determination and my contempt for the miseries that

might result not to cancel the third concert to be given on the 8th of

February. My fees from Schott, a part of which, it is true, I had to

devote to the household expenses of my troubled domestic existence,

were all spent, and I had to look round for further subsidies. These I

obtained with great difficulty, through Gasperini's mediation, from the

very man to win whose assistance in a much wider sense had been the

whole object of the concerts. In short, we had to have recourse to M.

Lucy, the Receiver-General of Marseilles, who was to come to Paris at

the time my concerts were being given, and upon whom my friend

Gasperini had assumed that an important Parisian success would have the

effect of making him declare his readiness to finance my project of

establishing German opera in Paris. M. Lucy, on the contrary, did not

appear at the first concert at all, and was only present at a part of

the second, during which he fell asleep. The fact that he was now

called upon to advance several thousands of francs for the third

concert naturally seemed to him to protect him against any further

demands on our part, and he felt a certain satisfaction at being exempt

from all further participation in my plans, at the price of this loan.

Although, as a matter of fact, this concert now seemed useless, it

nevertheless gave me great pleasure, as much through the spirited

performance itself as on account of its favourable reception by the

audience, which, it is true, my agents had again to supplement in order

to give the appearance of a full hall, but which, nevertheless, showed

a marked increase in the number of tickets paid for.

The realisation of the deep impression I had made on certain people had

more effect upon me at this time than the dejection I felt at having to

all outward appearances failed in this enterprise. It was undeniable

that the sensation I had produced had directly, as the comments of the

press had indirectly, aroused extraordinary interest in me. My omission

to invite any journalists seemed to be regarded on all sides as a

wonderful piece of audacity on my part. I had foreseen the attitude

likely to be adopted by the majority of reporters, but I was sorry that

even such men as M. Franc-Marie, the critic of the Patrie, who at the

end of the concert had come forward to thank me with deep emotion,

should have found themselves forced to follow the lead of the others,

without compromising, and even to go so far as to deny their true

opinion of me. Berlioz aroused a universal feeling of anger amongst my

adherents, by an article which began in a roundabout way, but ended

with an open attack on me which he published in the Journal des Debats.

As he had once been an old friend, I was determined not to overlook

this treatment, and answered his onslaught in a letter which, with the

greatest difficulty, I managed to get translated into good French, and

succeeded, not without trouble, in having it inserted in the Journal

des Debats. It so happened that this very letter had the effect of

drawing those on whom my concerts had already made an impression more

enthusiastically towards me. Amongst others a M. Perrin introduced

himself to me; he had formerly been director of the Opera Comique, and

was now a well-to-do bel esprit and painter, and later became director

of the Grand Opera. He had heard Lohengrin and Tannhauser performed in

Germany, and expressed himself in such a way as led me to suppose that

he would make it a point of honour to bring these operas to France

should he at any time be in a position to do so. A certain Count

Foucher de Careil had also become acquainted with my operas in the same

way, through seeing them performed in Germany, and he too became one of

my distinguished and lasting friends. He had made a name by various

publications on German philosophy, and more especially through a book

on Leibnitz, and it could not but prove interesting to me to be brought

through him into touch with a form of the French genius as yet unknown

to me.

It is impossible to record all the passing acquaintances with whom I

was brought in contact at this time, amongst whom a Russian Count

Tolstoi was conspicuously kind; but I must here mention the excellent

impression made upon me by the novelist Champfleury's amiable pamphlet,

of which I and my concerts formed the subject. In a series of light and

airy aphorisms he displayed such a comprehension of my music, and even

of my personality, that I had never again met with such a suggestive

and masterly appreciation, and had only come across its equal once

before in Liszt's lucubrations on Lohengrin and Tannhauser. My personal

acquaintance with Champfleury, which followed, brought me face to face

with a very simple and in a certain sense easy-tempered individual,

such as one seldom meets, and belonging to a type of Frenchman fast

becoming extinct.

The advances made me by the poet Baudelaire were in their way still

more significant. My acquaintance with him began with a letter in which

he told me his impressions of my music and the effect it had produced

upon him, in spite of his having thought till then that he possessed an

artistic sense for colouring, but none for sound. His opinions on the

matter, which he expressed in the most fantastic terms and with

audacious self-assurance, proved him, to say the least, a man of

extraordinary understanding, who with impetuous energy followed the

impressions he received from my music to their ultimate consequences.

He explained that he did not put his address to his letter in order

that I might not be led to think that he wanted something from me.

Needless to say, I knew how to find him, and had soon included him

among the acquaintances to whom I announced my intention of being at

home every Wednesday evening.

I had been told by my older Parisian friends, amongst whom I continued

to count the faithful Gasperini, that this was the right thing to do in

Paris; and so it came about that, in accordance with the fashion, I

used to hold a salon in my small house in the Rue Newton, which made

Minna feel that she occupied a very dignified position, though she only

knew a few scraps of French, with which she could barely help herself

out. This salon, which the Olliviers also attended in a friendly way,

was crowded for a time by an ever-growing circle. Here an old

acquaintance of mine, Malwida von Meysenburg, again came across me, and

from that time forth became a close friend for life. I had only met her

once before; this was during my visit to London in 1855, when she had

made herself known to me by a letter in which she enthusiastically

expressed her agreement with the opinions contained in my book Das

Kunstwerk der Zukunft. The occasion on which we had met in London had

been at an evening party at the house of a family called Althaus, when

I found her full of the desires and projects for the future perfection

of the human race to which I had given expression in my book, but from

which, under the influence of Schopenhauer and a profound realisation

of the intense tragedy of life and the emptiness of its phenomena, I

had turned away with almost a feeling of irritation. I found it very

painful in discussing the question, not to be understood by this

enthusiastic friend and to have to appear to her in the light of a

renegade from a noble cause. We parted in London on very bad terms with

one another. It was almost a shock to me to meet Malwida again in

Paris. Very soon, however, all unpleasant recollections of our

discussion in London were wiped out, as she at once explained to me,

that our dispute had had the effect of making her decide to read

Schopenhauer at once. When, by earnest study, she had made herself

acquainted with his philosophy, she came to the conclusion that the

opinions she had at that time expressed and eagerly maintained

concerning the happiness of the world must have vexed me on account of

their shallowness. She then declared herself to be one of my most

zealous followers in the sense that she, from now, became a true friend

who was ever anxious for my welfare. When the laws of propriety

compelled me to introduce her as a friend of mine to my wife, she could

not help noticing at the first glance the misery of our merely nominal

life in common, and realising the discomfort resulting from it; made it

her business to interpose with affectionate solicitude. She also

quickly saw the difficult position in which I was placed in Paris with

my almost purposeless enterprises and the absence of all material

security. The tremendous expenses I had incurred in giving the three

concerts had not remained a secret from any of those concerned about

me. Malwida also soon guessed the difficulties in which I found myself,

since no prospect was opened on any side which could be looked upon as

a practical result of my enterprise and a compensation for the

sacrifices I had made. Entirely of her own accord she felt it her duty

to try and obtain help for me, which she endeavoured to get from a

certain Mme. Schwabe, the widow of a rich English tradesman, in whose

house she had found shelter as governess to the eldest daughter, and

whom she now proposed to introduce to me. She did not conceal from

herself or from me what a disagreeable task the cultivation of this

acquaintance might be to me; nevertheless she relied on the kindness

she thought this somewhat grotesque woman possessed, as well as on her

vanity, which would prompt her to repay me for the distinction she

obtained by frequenting my salon. As a matter of fact I was entirely at

the end of my resources, and I only found courage to deny my

poverty-stricken condition in public on account of the horror I felt

when I learned that a collection was being made for me amongst the

Germans in Paris to indemnify me for the expense I had incurred in

giving the three concerts. When the news of this reached me I

immediately interfered with the declaration that the idea that I was in

distress in consequence of the losses I had sustained was founded on a

false report, and that I should be obliged to refuse all efforts made

on my behalf. On this supposition Mme. Schwabe, who regularly attended

my soirees and as regularly fell asleep while any music was going on,

was however induced, through the solicitations of Malwida, to offer me

her personal assistance. She gave me about three thousand francs, of

which at this moment I was certainly in the greatest need; as I did not

wish to accept this money as a gift, I gave the lady, who in no way

exacted it, a written agreement of my own accord, by which I undertook

to return this sum at the end of a year. She good-naturedly accepted

this, not as a security but merely in order to satisfy my feelings.

When, at the end of this time, I found it impossible to meet my

obligation, I turned to Malwida, who was still in Paris, and asked her

to tell Mme. Schwabe, who had left, how matters stood, and to obtain

her consent to the renewal of the agreement for another year. Malwida

earnestly assured me I need not take the trouble to ask for a renewal,

as Mme. Schwabe had never looked upon the sum given me as anything but

a contribution towards my undertaking, in which she flattered herself

that she took great interest. We shall see later on how the case really

stood.

During this stirring time I was deeply moved and surprised to receive a

present from an admirer in Dresden called Richard Weiland; it was an

artistic silver ornament representing a sheet of music surrounded by a

crown of laurels; upon the sheet were engraved the first bars from the

principal themes of my various operas up to Rheingold and Tristan. The

modest fellow once paid me a visit afterwards and told me that he had

gone regularly to different places in order to see the productions of

my operas, which had given him the opportunity of comparing the

representation of Tannhauser in Prague, in which the overture had

lasted twenty minutes, with the one in Dresden, which, under my

direction, had only taken twelve minutes.

My acquaintance with Rossini also proved agreeably stimulating to me in

another way; a comic writer had attributed an anecdote to him according

to which, when his friend Caraffa declared himself an admirer of my

music, he had served him his fish without sauce at dinner, and

explained in so doing that his friend liked music without melody.

Rossini openly protested against this in an article in which he

designated the story as a mauvaise blague and at the same time declared

that he would never allow himself such a jest at the expense of a man

who was trying to extend his influence in the artistic world. When I

heard of this, I did not for a moment hesitate to pay Rossini a visit,

and was received by him in the friendliest manner, which I afterwards

described in a memorandum devoted to reminiscences of him. I was also

glad to hear that my old acquaintance Halevy, during the controversy

occasioned by my music, had taken my part in a kindly way, and I have

already described my visit to him and our conversation on that occasion.

In spite of all these pleasant and stimulating events, nothing occurred

to make my position less uncertain. I was still kept in doubt as to

whether I should receive an answer from the Emperor Napoleon to my

request for the use of the Opera House for the repetition of my

concerts. Only by obtaining this, and having no preliminary expenses in

consequence, could I gain the benefit which was becoming more and more

necessary to me. It remained an understood thing that the Minister

Fould was assiduously using his influence to turn the Emperor against

me. As, on the other hand, I had made the surprising discovery that

Marshal Magnan had been present at all three of my concerts, I hoped to

enlist this gentleman's sympathy, which might be turned to good

account, as the Emperor was particularly indebted to him since the

events of the 2nd of December. I was anxious to circumvent Fould's

intrigues, as the man had become most obnoxious to me, and I

consequently introduced myself to the Marshal, and was one day

surprised to see a hussar ride up to my door, who got down from his

horse, rang the bell, and handed my astonished man-servant a letter

from Magnan, in which he summoned me to his presence.

I was therefore duly received at the Commandant's residence by this

military man, whose bearing struck me as stately, almost to the point

of rudeness. He chatted very intelligently with me, frankly confessing

his delight in my music, and listening very attentively to the report

of my flagrantly futile addresses to the Emperor, as well as to my

expressions of suspicion regarding Fould. I was told later that he

spoke very plainly to Fould that very evening at the Tuileries on my

behalf.

This much at least is certain, that from that moment I noticed that my

affairs took a more favourable turn in that quarter. Yet the deciding

factor was found at last in a movement on my behalf from a source I had

hitherto entirely disregarded. Bulow, arrested by his interest in the

outcome of these matters, continued to prolong his stay in Paris. He

had come with letters of introduction from the Princess-Regent of

Prussia to the Ambassador, Count Pourtales. His hope that the latter

might eventually express a desire to have me presented to him had so

far remained unfulfilled. In order, therefore, to compel him to make my

acquaintance, he finally adopted the plan of inviting the Prussian

Ambassador and his attache, Count Paul Hatzfeld, to lunch at

Vachette's, a first-class restaurant, where I was to accompany him. The

result of this meeting was certainly everything that could be desired.

Not only did Count Pourtales charm me with the simplicity and

undisguised warmth of his conversation and attitude towards me, but

from this time forward Count Hatzfeld used to visit me and also

frequented my Wednesday evening At Homes, and at last brought me the

news that there was a distinct movement in my favour at the Tuileries.

Finally, one day he requested me to go with him to call on the

Emperor's military chamberlain, Count Bacciochi, and from this official

I received the first hints of a reply to my earlier application to his

Imperial Majesty, who now expressed a wish to know why I wanted to give

a concert in the Grand Opera House. No one, he said, took any serious

interest in such enterprises, and it could do me no good. He thought it

might perhaps be better if he were to persuade M. Alphonse Royer, the

director of this imperial institution, to come to some understanding

with me respecting the composition of an opera written on purpose for

Paris. As I would not agree to his suggestion, this and other

subsequent interviews remained for the time being without result. On

one of these occasions Bulow accompanied me, and we were both struck by

a ridiculous habit peculiar to this singular old man, whom Belloni said

he had known in his youth as a box-office clerk at the Scala Theatre in

Milan. He suffered from involuntary spasmodic movements of the hands,

the result of certain not very creditable physical infirmities, and

probably to conceal these he continually toyed with a small stick,

which he tossed to and fro with seeming affectation. But even after I

had at last succeeded in gaining access to the imperial officials, it

seemed as though next to nothing would be done on my behalf, when

suddenly one morning Count Hatzfeld overwhelmed me with news that on

the preceding evening the Emperor had given orders for a performance of

my Tannhauser. The decisive word had been spoken by Princess

Metternich. As I happened to be the subject of conversation near the

Emperor, she had joined the circle, and on being asked for her opinion,

she said she had heard Tannhauser in Dresden, and spoke in such

enthusiastic terms in favour of it that the Emperor at once promised to

give orders for its production. It is true that Fould, on receiving the

imperial command the same evening, broke out into a furious rage, but

the Emperor told him he could not go back upon his promise, as he had

pledged his word to Princess Metternich. I was now once more taken to

Bacciochi, who this time received me very seriously, but first of all

made the singular inquiry as to what was the subject of my opera. This

I had to outline for him, and when I had finished, he exclaimed with

satisfaction, 'Ah! le Pape ne vient pas en scene? C'est bon! On nous

avait dit que vous aviez fait paraitre le Saint Pere, et ceci, vous

comprenez, n'aurait pas pu passer. Du reste, monsieur, on sait a

present que vous avez enormement de genie; l'Empereur a donne l'ordre

de representer votre opera.' He moreover assured me that every facility

should be placed at my disposal for the fulfilment of my wishes, and

that henceforth I must make my arrangements direct with the manager

Royer. This new turn of affairs put me into a state of vague agitation,

for at first my inner conviction could only make me feel that singular

misunderstandings would be sure to arise. For one thing, all hope of

being able to carry out my original plan of producing my work in Paris

with a picked German company was now at an end, and I could not conceal

from myself that I had been launched upon an adventure which might turn

out well or badly. A few interviews with the manager Royer sufficed to

enlighten me as to the character of the enterprise entrusted to me. His

chief anxiety was to convince me of the necessity of rearranging my

second act, because according to him it was absolutely necessary for a

grand ballet to be introduced at this point. To this and similar

suggestions I hardly deigned to reply, and as I went home asked myself

what I should do next, in case I decided to refuse to produce my

Tannhauser at the Grand Opera.

Meanwhile other cares, more immediately connected with my personal

affairs, pressed heavily upon me, and compelled me to devote every

effort to their removal. With this object in view I decided at once to

carry out an undertaking suggested to me by Giacomelli, namely, a

repetition of my concerts in Brussels. A contract had been made with

the Theatre de la Monnaie there for three concerts, half the proceeds

of which, after the deduction of all expenses, was to be mine.

Accompanied by my agent, I started on 19th March for the Belgian

capital, to see whether I could not manage to recoup the money lost on

my Paris concerts. Under the guidance of my mentor I found myself

compelled to call upon all sorts of newspaper editors and, among other

Belgian worthies, a certain M. Fetis pere. All I knew about him was

that, years before, he had allowed himself to be bribed by Meyerbeer to

write articles against me, and I now found it amusing to enter into

conversation with this man, who, although he assumed great airs of

authority, yet in the end declared himself entirely of my opinion.