Here also I made the acquaintance of a very remarkable man, the

Councillor of State Klindworth, whose daughter, or, as some said, his

wife, had been recommended to me by Liszt when I was in London. But I

had not seen her on that occasion, and I now had the pleasant surprise

of being invited to call upon her in Brussels. While she, on her part,

showed the greatest cordiality towards me, M. Klindworth provided me

with inexhaustible entertainment by the narrative of his wonderful

career as a diplomatist in numerous transactions of which I had

hitherto known nothing. I dined with them several times, and met Count

and Countess Condenhoven, the latter being a daughter of my old friend

Mme. Kalergis. M. Klindworth showed a keen and lasting interest in me,

which even prompted him to give me a letter of recommendation, to

Prince Metternich, with whose father he said he had been on very

familiar terms. He had a strange habit of interlarding his otherwise

frivolous conversation with continual references to an omnipotent

Providence, and when, during one of our later interviews, I once

hazarded a risky retort, he quite lost his temper, and I fancied he was

going to break off our connection. Fortunately this fear was not

realised, either at that time or afterwards.

But except for these interesting acquaintances, I gained nothing in

Brussels but anxiety and fruitless exertion. The first concert, for

which season-tickets were suspended, drew a large audience. But, owing

to my misconception of a clause in our agreement, the cost of musical

accompaniment, which was put down to me alone, was reckoned at so high

a figure by the managers, that next to nothing was left over by way of

profit. This deficiency was to be recouped from the second concert, to

which, however, season-ticket holders were admitted free. But beyond

these persons, who, I was told, almost filled the house, there were few

single-ticket holders, so that there was not enough left to pay my

travelling and hotel expenses, which had been increased by the

inclusion of my agent and servant. I consequently gave up the idea of

having a third concert, and set off once more for Paris in a not very

cheerful frame of mind, but with the gift of a vase of Bohemian glass

from Mme. Street, Klindworth's daughter whom I have already mentioned.

Nevertheless, my stay in Brussels, including a short trip from there to

Antwerp, had served to distract my thoughts a little. As I did not at

that moment feel at all inclined to devote my precious time to looking

at works of art, I contented myself in Antwerp with a cursory glance at

its outward aspect, which I found less rich in antiquities than I had

anticipated. The situation of its famous citadel proved peculiarly

disappointing. In view of the first act of my Lohengrin I had presumed

that this citadel, which I imagined as the ancient keep of Antwerp,

would from the opposite side of the Scheldt be a prominent object to

the eye. Instead of which, nothing whatever was to be seen but a

monotonous plain, with fortifications sunk into the earth. After this,

whenever I saw Lohengrin again, I could not restrain a smile at the

scene-painter's castle, perched aloft in the background on its stately

mountain.

On returning to Paris at the end of March my sole anxiety was how to

repair my impecunious and therefore hopeless position. The pressure of

these monetary cares seemed all the more incongruous from the fact that

the notoriety of my position had made my house, where, of course, I

allowed no signs of poverty to appear, exceedingly popular. My

Wednesday receptions became more brilliant than ever. Interesting

strangers sought me out, in the hope that they, too, might attain to

equal fortune through knowing me. Fraulein Ingeborg Stark, who

afterwards married young Hans von Bronsart, put in an appearance among

us, a vision of bewitching elegance, and played the piano, in which she

was modestly assisted by Fraulein Aline Hund of Weimar. A highly gifted

young French musician, Camille Saint-Saens, also played a very

agreeable part in our musical entertainments; a noteworthy addition to

my other French acquaintances was made in the person of M. Frederic

Villot. He was Conservateur des Tableaux du Louvre, an exceedingly

polished and cultured man, whom I met for the first time in Flaxland's

music-shop, where I did a good deal of business. To my surprise I

happened to overhear him asking about the score of Tristan, which he

had ordered. On being introduced to him I learned, in reply to my

inquiry, that he already possessed the scores of my earlier operas; and

when I then asked whether he thought it possible for me to make my

dramatic compositions pay, as I could not understand how he, without

any knowledge of the German language, could rightly appreciate the

music, which was so closely allied to the sense of the poetry, he

answered wittily that it was precisely my music which afforded him the

best guidance to a comprehension of the poem itself. This reply

strongly attracted me to the man, and from that time I found great

pleasure in keeping up an active correspondence with him. For this

reason, when I brought out a translation of my operatic poems, I felt

that its very detailed preface could not be dedicated to any worthier

man. As he was not able to play the scores of my operas himself, he had

them performed for him by Saint-Saens, whom he apparently patronised. I

thus learned to appreciate the skill and talent of this young musician,

which was simply amazing. With an unparalleled sureness and rapidity of

glance with regard to even the most complicated orchestral score, this

young man combined a not less marvellous memory. He was not only able

to play my scores, including Tristan, by heart, but could also

reproduce their several parts, whether they were leading or minor

themes. And this he did with such precision that one might easily have

thought that he had the actual music before his eyes. I afterwards

learned that this stupendous receptivity for all the technical material

of a work was not accompanied by any corresponding intensity of

productive power; so that when he tried to set up as a composer I quite

lost sight of him in the course of time.

I now had to enter into closer communication with the manager of the

Opera House, M. Royer, with regard to the production of Tannhauser,

which he had been commissioned to prepare. Two months passed before I

was able to make up my mind whether to say yes or no to the business.

At no single interview did this man fail to press for the introduction

of a ballet into the second act. I might bewilder him, but with all the

eloquence at my command I could never convince him on the point. At

last, however, I could no longer refuse to consider the advisability of

preparing a suitable translation of the poem.

Arrangements for this work had so far progressed very slowly. As I have

already said, I had found M. de Charnal altogether incompetent, Roger

had permanently disappeared from my sight, and Gasperini showed no real

desire for the work. At last a certain Herr Lindau came to see me, who

protested that with the aid of young Edmond Roche he could produce a

faithful translation of Tannhauser. This man Lindau was a native of

Magdeburg, who had fled to escape the Prussian military service. He had

first been introduced to me by Giacomelli on an occasion when the

French singer engaged by him to sing 'L'Etoile du Soir' at one of my

concerts had disappointed us, and he had recommended Lindau as a very

efficient substitute. This man promptly declared his readiness to

undertake this song, with which he was quite familiar, without any

rehearsal, an offer which led me to regard him as a genius sent down

from heaven on purpose for me. Nothing could, therefore, equal my

amazement at the unbounded impudence of the man; for on the evening of

the concert he executed his task with the most amateurish timidity; he

did not enunciate a single note of the song clearly, and nothing but

astonishment at so unprecedented a performance appeared to restrain the

audience from breaking out into marked disapproval. Yet, in spite of

this, Lindau, who had all sorts of explanations and excuses to offer

for his short-comings, contrived to insinuate himself into my house, if

not as a successful singer, at least as a sympathetic friend. There,

thanks to Minna's partiality, he soon became an almost daily guest. In

spite of a certain inward repugnance towards him, I treated him with

tolerant good-nature, not so much because of the 'enormous connection'

he said he could influence, but because he really showed himself to be

a most obliging fellow on all sorts of occasions.

But the fact that finally induced me to grant him a share in the

translation of Tannhauser was his suggestion that young Roche should

also participate in the work.

I had become acquainted with Roche immediately after my arrival in

Paris (in the September of the previous year), and this in a somewhat

remarkable and flattering way. In order to receive my furniture on its

arrival from Zurich I had to go to the Custom House, where I was

referred to a pale, seedy-looking young man, who appeared full of life,

however, with whom I had to settle my business. When I wished to give

him my name, he enthusiastically interrupted me with the exclamation,

'O, je connais bien Monsieur Richard Wagner, puisque j'ai son portrait

suspendu au-dessus de mon piano.' Much astonished, I asked what he knew

about me, and learned that by careful study of my pianoforte

arrangements he had become one of my most fervent admirers. After he

had helped me with self-sacrificing attentions to complete my tiresome

business with the Custom House, I made him promise to pay me a visit.

This he did, and I was able to obtain a clearer insight into the

necessitous position of the poor fellow, who, so far as I was able to

judge, showed signs of possessing great poetic talent. He further

informed me that he had tried to eke out a precarious living as a

violinist in the orchestras of the smaller vaudeville theatres, but

that being a married man he would, for the sake of his family, much

prefer a situation in some office with a fixed salary and prospects of

promotion. I soon found that he thoroughly understood my music, which,

he assured me, gave him the only pleasure he had in his hard life. As

regards his power of poetical composition, I could only gather from

Gasperini and other competent judges that he could, at any rate, turn

out very good verse. I had already thought of him as a translator for

Tannhauser, and now that the only obstacle to his doing the work, his

ignorance of the German language, was removed by Lindau's proffered

collaboration, the possibility of such an arrangement at once decided

me to accept the latter's offer.

The first thing on which we agreed was that a fair prose translation of

the whole subject should be taken in hand, and this task I naturally

entrusted to Lindau alone. A serious delay, however, intervened before

this was delivered to me, which was subsequently explained by the fact

that Lindau was quite unable to provide even this dry version, and had

pressed the work on another man, a Frenchman who knew German, and whom

he induced to undertake it by holding out hopes of a fee, to be

squeezed out of me later on. At the same time Roche turned a few of the

leading stanzas of my poem into verse, with which I was well contented.

As I was thus satisfied about the ability of my two helpers, I visited

Royer in order to make my position secure by obtaining his authority

for a contract with the two men. He did not seem to like my placing the

work in the hands of two perfectly unknown people; but I insisted that

they should at least have a fair trial. As I was obstinately resolved

not to withdraw the work from Roche, but soon realised Lindau's

complete inefficiency, I joined in the task myself at a cost of much

exertion. We frequently spent four hours together in my room in

translating a few verses, during which time I often felt tempted to

kick Lindau out, for although he did not even understand the German

text, he was always ready with the most impudent suggestions. It was

only because I could not think of any other way of keeping poor Roche

in the business that I endured such an absurd association.

This irritating and laborious work lasted for several months, during

which I had to enter into fuller negotiations with Royer respecting his

preparations for the production of Tannhauser, and particularly with

regard to the cast and distribution of the parts. It struck me as odd

that hardly any of the leading singers of the Opera were suggested by

him. As a matter of fact none of them aroused my sympathy, with the

sole exception of Mme. Gueymard, whom I would gladly have secured for

Venus, but who, for reasons I never clearly understood, was refused me.

In order to form an honest opinion of the company at my disposal, I now

had to attend several performances of such operas as La Favorita, Il

Trovatore, and Semiramis, on which occasions my inner conviction told

me so clearly that I was being hopelessly led astray, that each time I

reached home I felt I must renounce the whole enterprise. On the other

hand, I found continual encouragement in the generous way in which M.

Royer, in obedience to authority, now offered to secure me any singer I

might choose to designate. The most important item was a tenor for the

title-role. I could think of no one but Niemann of Hanover, whose fame

reached me from every quarter. Even Frenchmen such as Foucher de Careil

and Perrin, who had heard him in my operas, confirmed the report of his

great talent. The manager also regarded such an acquisition as highly

desirable for his theatre, and Niemann was accordingly invited to come

to Paris with a view of being engaged. Besides him, M. Royer wished me

to agree to his securing a certain Mme. Tedesco, a tragedienne, who, on

account of her beauty, would be a very valuable addition to the

repertoire of his theatre, protesting that he could think of no woman

better fitted for the part of Venus. Without knowing the lady I gave my

consent to this excellent proposal, and moreover agreed to the

engagement of a Mlle. Sax, a still unspoiled young singer with a very

beautiful voice, as well as of an Italian baritone, Morelli, whose

sonorous tones, as contrasted with the sickly French singers of this

class, had greatly pleased me during my visits to the Opera. When these

arrangements were concluded, I thought I had done all that was really

necessary, though I did not cherish any very firm conviction on the

matter.

Amid these labours I passed my forty-seventh birthday in a far from

happy frame of mind, to which, however, on the evening of this day, the

peculiarly bright glow of Jupiter gave me an omen of better things to

come. The beautiful weather, suitable to the time of year, which in

Paris is never favourable to the conduct of business, had only tended

to increase the stringency of my needs. I was and still continued to be

without any prospect of meeting my household expenses, which had now

become very heavy. As I was ever anxious, amid all my other

discomforts, to find some relief from this burden, I had made an

agreement with the music-dealer Flaxland for the sale of all my French

rights in the Fliegender Hollander, Tannhauser, and Lohengrin for

whatever they would fetch. Our contract stipulated that for each of

these three operas he was to pay me a sum of one thousand francs down,

and further payments on their being performed in a Paris theatre,

namely, one thousand francs after the first ten performances, and the

same amount for the following performances up to the twentieth. I at

once notified my friend Pusinelli of this contract, having made this

condition in his favour when selling my operas to Meser's successors.

This I did by way of guaranteeing him the repayment of the capital

advanced for their publication. I begged him, however, to allow me to

retain Flaxland's first instalment on account, as otherwise I should be

stranded in Paris without the means of bringing my operas to the point

of being profitable. My friend agreed to all my suggestions. The

Dresden publisher, on the contrary, was just as disagreeable, and

complained at once that I was infringing his rights in France, and so

worried Flaxland that the latter felt justified in raising all sorts of

difficulties against me.

I had almost become involved in fresh complications in consequence,

when one day Count Paul Hatzfeld appeared at my house with a request

that I would visit Mme. Kalergis, who had just arrived in Paris, to

receive certain communications from her. I now saw the lady again for

the first time since my stay in Paris with Liszt in 1853. She greeted

me by declaring how much she regretted not having been present at my

concerts in the preceding winter, as she had thereby missed the chance

of helping me in a time of great stress. She had heard that I had

suffered great losses, the account of which she had been told ran to

ten thousand francs, and she now begged me to accept that sum from her

hand. Although I had thought it right to deny these losses to Count

Hatzfeld, when an application was made to the Prussian embassy on

behalf of the odious subscription-list, yet I had now no reason

whatever for hiding the truth from this noble-hearted woman. I felt as

though something were now being fulfilled which I had always been

entitled to expect, and my only impulse was an immediate desire to show

my gratitude to this rare lady by at least doing something for her. All

the friction which disturbed our later intercourse sprang solely from

my inability to fulfil this desire, in which I felt ever more and more

confirmed by her singular character and restless, unsettled life. For

the present I endeavoured to do something for her which should prove

the reality of my feeling of obligation. I improvised a special

performance of the second act of my Tristan, in which Mme. Viardot was

to share the singing parts with myself, and on which occasion my

friendship for the latter received a considerable impetus; while for

the pianoforte accompaniment I summoned Klindworth at my own expense

from London. This exceedingly select performance took place in Mme.

Viardot's house. Besides Mme. Kalergis, in whose honour alone it was

given, Berlioz was the only person present. Mme. Viardot had specially

charged herself with securing his presence, apparently with the avowed

object of easing the strained relations between Berlioz and myself. I

was never clear as to the effect produced upon both performers and

listeners by the presentation under such circumstances of this

extraordinary selection. Mme. Kalergis remained dumb. Berlioz merely

expressed himself warmly on the chaleur of my delivery, which may very

well have afforded a strong contrast to that of my partner in the work,

who rendered most of her part in low tones. Klindworth seemed

particularly stirred to anger at the result. His own share was

admirably executed; but he declared that he had been consumed with

indignation at observing Viardot's lukewarm execution of her part, in

which she was probably determined by the presence of Berlioz. By way of

set-off to this, we were very pleased by the performance, on another

evening, of the first act of the Walkure, at which, in addition to Mme.

Kalergis, the singer Niemann was present. This man had now arrived in

Paris, at the request of the manager Royer, to arrange a contract. I

confess I was astounded at the pose he assumed, and the airs with which

he presented himself at my door with the question, 'Well, do you want

me or do you not?' Nevertheless, when we went to the manager's office

he pulled himself together, so as to make a good effect. In this he

succeeded admirably, for every one was amazed to meet a tenor of such

extraordinary physical endowments. Nevertheless, he had to submit to a

nominal trial performance, for which he chose the description of the

pilgrimage in Tannhauser, acting and singing it upon the stage of the

Grand Opera House. Mme. Kalergis and Princess Metternich, who were

secretly present at this performance, were both enthusiastically

prepossessed in Niemann's favour, as were also all the members of the

management. He was engaged for eight months at a monthly salary of ten

thousand francs. His contract referred solely to Tannhauser, as I felt

obliged to protest against the singer appearing before this in other

operas.

The conclusion of this agreement, and the remarkable circumstances

under which it had been brought about, filled me with a hitherto

unknown consciousness of the power thus suddenly placed in my hands. I

had also been drawn into closer contact with Princess Metternich, who

was undoubtedly the good fairy of the whole enterprise, and I was now

also received with flattering cordiality by her husband and by the

whole diplomatic circle to which they belonged. To the Princess, in

particular, people attributed an almost omnipotent influence at the

French Imperial Court, where Fould, the otherwise influential Minister

of State, could effect nothing against her in matters pertaining to

myself. She instructed me to apply only to her for the fulfilment of

all my wishes, and said she would know how to find ways and means of

attaining the success of the project, on which she had now evidently

set her heart, all the more firmly because she saw that I still had no

real faith in the enterprise.

Under these more hopeful auspices I spent the months from summer to

autumn, when rehearsals were to begin. It was a great boon to me that I

was just then able to make provision for Minna's health, as the doctors

had urgently prescribed her a visit to the baths of Soden, near

Frankfort. She accordingly set off at the beginning of July, when I

promised myself the pleasure of fetching her on the completion of her

cure, as it happened that I myself had occasion to visit the Rhine at

that time.

It was just at this moment that an improvement took place in my

relations with the King of Saxony, who had hitherto obstinately opposed

to grant me an amnesty. I owed this to the growing interest now taken

in me by the other German embassies, especially those of Austria and

Prussia. Herr von Seebach, the Saxon Ambassador, who was married to a

cousin of my magnanimous friend, Mme. Kalergis, had shown great

kindness to me, and at last he seemed to grow tired of being

continually taunted by his colleagues about my objectionable position

as a 'political refugee,' and consequently felt it his duty to make

representations to his court on my behalf. In this action he appears to

have been generously assisted by the Princess-Regent of Prussia--once

more through the intervention of Count Pourtales. I heard that on the

occasion of a meeting between the German princes and the Emperor

Napoleon in Baden she used her influence on my behalf with the King of

Saxony. The result was that, after settling several ridiculous

objections, all of which Herr von Seebach had to repeat to me, the

latter was able to report that, although King John would not pardon me,

nor permit my return to the kingdom of Saxony, yet he would raise no

obstacle to my staying in any other state in the German Confederation

which I might have to visit in pursuit of my artistic aims, provided

such a state made no objection to my presence. Herr von Seebach added

the further hint, that it would be advisable for me to present myself

to the Princess-Regent on the occasion of my next visit to the

Rhineland, in order to express my thanks for her kindly intercession, a

courtesy which he gave me to understand the King of Saxony himself

appeared to desire.

But before this project could be realised I had still to endure the

most harassing torments with my translators of Tannhauser. Amid these

anxieties, and indeed throughout all my previous worries, I was again

suffering from my old malady, which now seemed to have settled in my

abdomen. As a remedy I was advised to take horse exercise. The painter

Czermak, a friendly young man, whom Fraulein Meysenburg had introduced

to me, offered his help for the necessary riding lessons. In return for

a subscription for a fixed period, a man from a livery stables brought

round his quietest horses, for which we had specially bargained, for

the use of myself and comrade, upon which we ventured forth with the

utmost caution for a ride in the Bois de Boulogne. We chose the morning

hours for this exercise, so as not to meet the elegant cavaliers of the

fashionable world. As I placed implicit reliance on Czermak's

experience, I was naturally astonished to find that I far excelled him,

if not in horsemanship, at least in courage, for I was able to endure

the exceedingly disagreeable trot of my horse, whereas he loudly

protested against every repetition of the experience. As I grew bolder

I resolved one day to ride out alone. The groom who brought me the

horse prudently kept an eye on me as far as the Barriere de l'Etoile,

as he was doubtful of my ability to take my horse beyond this point.

And, in fact, as I drew near to the Avenue de l'Imperatrice my steed

obstinately refused to go any further: he curveted sideways and

backwards and frequently stood stock-still. In this he persisted until

at last I decided to return, in which the prudent foresight of the

groom luckily came to my rescue. He helped me down from my beast in the

open street and led it home smiling. With this experience my last

effort to become a horseman came to an inglorious end, and I lost ten

rides, the vouchers for which remained unused in my desk.

By way of compensation I found abundant refreshment and regular

exercise in solitary walks in the Bois de Boulogne, gaily accompanied

by my little dog Fips, during which I learned once more to appreciate

the sylvan beauty of this artificial pleasure-ground. Life also had

become quieter, as is usually the case at this season in Paris. Bulow,

after hearing that his dejeuner at Vachette's had produced the

extraordinary result of an imperial command for the production of

Tannhauser, had long since gone back to Germany; and in August I also

set out on my carefully planned excursion to the German Rhine

districts. There I first turned my steps, via Cologne, to Coblenz,

where I expected to find Princess Augusta of Prussia. Learning,

however, that she was in Baden, I made my way towards Soden, whence I

fetched Minna for a further tour, accompanied by her recently acquired

friend, Mathilde Schiffner. We touched at Frankfort, where I met my

brother Albert for the first time since leaving Dresden, as he also

happened to be passing through this city.

When I was there it occurred to me that this was the residence of

Schopenhauer, but a singular timidity restrained me from calling upon

him. My temper just then seemed too distraught and too far removed from

all that which might have formed a subject for conversation with

Schopenhauer, even if I had felt strongly attracted towards him, and

which alone could have furnished a reason for intruding myself upon

him, in spite of such disinclination. As with so many other things in

my life, I again deferred one of its most precious opportunities until

that fervently expected 'more favourable season,' which I presumed was

sure to come some day. When, a year after this flying visit, I again

stayed some time in Frankfort to superintend the production of my

Meistersinger, I imagined that at last this more favourable opportunity

for seeing Schopenhauer had come. But, alas! he died that very year, a

fact which led me to many bitter reflections on the uncertainty of fate.

During this earlier visit another fondly cherished hope also came to

nothing. I had reckoned on being able to induce Liszt to meet me in

Frankfort, but instead found only a letter declaring it impossible to

grant the fulfilment of my wish.

From this town we went straight to Baden-Baden. Here I abandoned Minna

and her friend to the seductions of the roulette-table, while I availed

myself of a letter of introduction from Count Pourtales to Countess

Hacke, a lady-in-waiting on her Royal Highness, through whom I hoped to

be presented to her exalted patroness. After a little delay I duly

received an invitation to meet her in the Trinkhalle at five o'clock in

the afternoon. It was a wet, cold day, and at that hour the whole

surroundings of the place seemed absolutely devoid of life as I

approached my momentous rendezvous. I found Augusta pacing to and fro

with Countess Hacke, and as I approached she graciously stopped. Her

conversation consisted almost entirely of assurances that she was

completely powerless in every respect, in response to which I

imprudently cited the hint received from the King of Saxony that I

should offer her my personal thanks for previous intervention on my

behalf. This she seemed evidently to resent, and dismissed me with an

air of indifference meant to show that she took very little interest in

my concerns. My old friend Alwine Frommann told me later that she did

not know what there was about me that displeased the Princess, but

thought it might possibly be my Saxon accent.

This time I left the much-praised paradise of Baden without carrying

away any very friendly impression, and at Mannheim boarded a steamer,

accompanied only by Minna, on which for the first time I was borne

along the famous Rhine. It struck me as very strange that I should so

often have crossed the Rhine without having once made the acquaintance

of this most characteristic historical thoroughfare of mediaeval

Germany. A hasty return to Cologne concluded this excursion, which had

lasted only a week, and from which I returned to face once more the

solution of the problems of my Parisian enterprise, now opening out

painfully before me.

One factor which seemed likely greatly to relieve the difficulties

confronting me was to be found in the friendly relationship into which

the young banker, Emil Erlanger, was pleased to enter towards me. This

I owed, in the first place, to an extraordinary man named Albert

Beckmann, a former Hanoverian revolutionary, and afterwards private

librarian to Louis Napoleon, who was at this time a press agent for

several interests, respecting which I was never quite clear. This man

succeeded in making my acquaintance as an open admirer, in which

capacity he showed himself remarkably obliging. He now informed me that

M. Erlanger, by whom he was also employed in connection with the press,

would be pleased to know me. I was on the point of bluntly declining

the honour, saying that I wanted to know nothing about any banker

except with regard to his money, when he answered my jest by telling me

in all seriousness that it was precisely in this way that M. Erlanger

desired to serve me. As a result of this invitation I made the

acquaintance of a genuinely agreeable man, who, having often heard my

music in Germany, had become inspired by a sympathetic interest in my

person. He frankly expressed a desire that I should commit the

management of my financial business entirely to his hands, which meant,

in fact, nothing less than that he would permanently hold himself

responsible for any needful subsidies, in return for which I was to

assign to him all the eventual proceeds of my Paris undertakings. This

offer was distinctly novel, and moreover exactly fell in with the needs

of my peculiar situation. And, in fact, so far as my subsequent

financial security was concerned, I had no further difficulties to

encounter until my position in Paris was fully decided. And although my

later intercourse with M. Erlanger was accompanied by many

circumstances which no man's kindly courtesy could have relieved, yet I

ever found in him a truly devoted friend, who earnestly studied both my

own personal welfare and the success of my enterprises.

This eminently satisfactory turn of events was calculated to inspire me

with high courage had the circumstances been somewhat different. As it

was, it had no power to excite in me even the slightest enthusiasm for

an undertaking of which the hollowness and unsuitability for me

personally were clearly revealed every time I approached it. It was

with a feeling of ill-humour that I met every demand made by this

venture, and yet it represented the foundation of the confidence

reposed in me. My mind was subjected, however, to a certain refreshing

uncertainty as to the character of my scheme by a new acquaintance who

was introduced to me in connection with it. M. Royer informed me that

he could not 'pass' the translation which I had taken infinite pains to

conjure into existence through the two men who had volunteered to help

me. He most earnestly recommended a thorough revision by M. Charles

Truinet, whose pseudonym was Nuitter. This man was still young and

extraordinarily attractive, with something friendly and open in his

manner. He had called on me a few months ago to offer his co-operation

in the translation, of my operas, on the introduction of Ollivier, his

colleague at the Paris bar. Proud of my connection with Lindau,

however, I had refused his help; but the time had now come when, in

consequence of M. Royer's strictures, Truinet's renewed offer of his

services had to be taken into consideration. He understood no German,

but maintained that as far as this was concerned he could place

sufficient reliance upon his old father, who had travelled for a long

time in Germany and had acquired the essentials of our language. As a

matter of fact, there was no need for special knowledge in this

respect, as the sole problem seemed to be to make the French verses

less stiff and stilted which poor Roche had constructed under the

shameful control of Lindau, who used to make out that he knew

everything better than any one else. The inexhaustible patience with

which Truinet proceeded from one change to another in order to satisfy

my requirements, even with regard to the musical fitness of the

version, won my sympathy for this last collaborator. From this time

forward we had to keep Lindau away from the slightest interference in

this new modelling of the 'book.' He had been recognised as quite

incompetent. Roche, on the other hand, was retained, in so far as his

work served as a basis for the new versification. As it was difficult

for him to leave his custom office, he was excused from troubling about

the remaining part of the work, as Truinet was quite free and could

keep in daily touch with me. I now saw that Truinet's law degree was

merely ornamental, and that he never had any thought of conducting a

case. His chief interests lay in the administration of the Grand Opera,

to which he was attached as keeper of the archives. First with one

collaborator and then with another he had also worked at little plays

for the vaudeville and theatres of a lower order, and even for the

Bouffes Parisiens; but he was ashamed of these productions and always

knew how to evade talking about this sphere of activity. I was greatly

obliged to him for the final arrangement of a text to my Tannhauser

which could be sung and which was regarded on all sides as

'acceptable.' But I cannot remember ever having been attracted by

anything poetic or even aesthetic in his nature. His value, however, as

an experienced, warm-hearted, staunchly devoted friend at all times,

especially in periods of the greatest distress, made itself more and

more clearly felt. I can hardly remember ever meeting a man of such

sound judgment on the most difficult points, or one so actively ready

when occasion arose to uphold the view I advocated.

We had first of all to join forces in promoting an entirely new piece

of work. In obedience to a need I had always felt, I had seized the

occasion of this carefully prepared production of Tannhauser to expand

and considerably fill out the first Venus scene. For this purpose I

wrote the text in loosely constructed German verses, so as to leave the

translator quite free to work them out in a suitable French form:

people told me that Truinet's verses were not at all bad; and with

these as a basis I composed the extra music for the scene, and only

fitted a German text to it afterwards. My annoying discussions with the

management on the subject of a big ballet had determined me to make

extensive additions to the scene of the 'Venusberg.' I thought that

this would give the staff of the ballet a choreographic task of so

magnificent a character that there would no longer be any occasion to

grumble at me for my obstinacy in this matter. The musical composition

of the two scenes occupied most of my time during the month of

September, and at the same time I began the pianoforte rehearsals of

Tannhauser in the foyer of the Grand Opera.

The company, part of which had been freshly engaged for this purpose,

were now assembled, and I was interested in learning the way in which a

new work is studied at the French Opera.

The characteristic features of the system in Paris may be described

simply as extreme frigidity and extraordinary accuracy. M. Vauthrot,

the chorus-master, excelled in both these qualities. He was a man whom

I could not help regarding as hostile to me, because I had never been

able to win from him a single expression of enthusiasm. On the other

hand, he proved to me by the most punctilious solicitude how

conscientious he really was about his work. He insisted on considerable

alterations in the text, so as to obtain a favourable medium for

singing. My knowledge of the scores of Auber and Boieldieu had misled

me into assuming that the French people were entirely indifferent as to

whether the mute syllables in poetry and singing were to be sounded or

not. Vauthrot maintained that this was only the case with composers,

but not with good singers. He was always feeling misgivings about the

length of my work, which I met with the observation that I could not

understand how he could be afraid of boring the public with any opera

after they had been accustomed to find pleasure in Rossini's Semiramis,

which was often produced. Upon this he paused to reflect, and agreed

with me so far as the monotony of action and of music in that work was

concerned. He told me not to forget, however, that the public neither

cared for action nor music, but that their whole attention was directed

to the brilliancy of the singers. Tannhauser gave little scope for

brilliancy, and, as a matter of fact, I had none of that quality at my

disposal. The only singer in my company who had any claim to such a

distinction was Mme. Tedesco, a rather grotesque but voluptuous type of

Jewess who had returned from Portugal and Spain after having had great

triumphs in Italian operas. She did not conceal her satisfaction at

having secured an engagement at the Paris Opera through my unwilling

choice of her for the part of Venus. She gave herself no end of trouble

to solve the problem to the best of her ability--a problem which was

entirely beyond her and which was suited only to a genuine tragedy

actress. For a certain time her efforts appeared to be crowned with

success, and several special rehearsals with Niemann led to a lively

affinity between Tannhauser and Venus. As Niemann mastered the French

pronunciation with considerable skill, these rehearsals, in which

Fraulein Sax also proved delightful, made genuine and encouraging

progress. Up to this point these rehearsals were undisturbed, as my

acquaintance with M. Dietzsch was as yet very slight. According to the

rules of the Opera House, Dietzsch had hitherto only been present at

the pianoforte rehearsals as chef d'orchestre and future conductor of

the opera, so as to make himself accurately acquainted with the

intentions of the singers. Still less was I disturbed by M. Cormon, the

stage manager, who was also present at the rehearsals, and with a

lively skill, characteristic of the French people, conducted the

numerous so-called 'property' rehearsals, at which the way each scene

was to be played was determined. Even when M. Cormon or others did not

understand me, they were always ready to subordinate themselves to my

decisions; for I continued to be regarded as all-powerful, and

everybody thought that I could enforce what I wanted through Princess

Metternich, a belief which, indeed, was not without foundation. For

instance, I had learned that Prince Poniatowsky was threatening to

place a serious obstacle in the way of continuing our rehearsals by

reviving one of his own operas, the production of which had fallen

through. The undaunted Princess met my complaints on this subject by

obtaining an immediate order that the Prince's opera should be laid

aside. Naturally this did not tend to ingratiate me with the Prince,

and he did not fail to make me feel his displeasure when I called upon

him. In the midst of all this work I was afforded some recreation by a

visit from my sister Louise with part of her family. To entertain her

in my own home presented the greatest difficulties owing to the strange

fact that it was now becoming absolutely dangerous to approach my

house. When I first took it, the proprietor gave me a fairly long

lease, but would not undertake any repairs. I now discovered the reason

of this was that it had just been decided by the Paris Committee of

Reconstruction to clear the Rue Newton with all its side streets to

facilitate the opening up of a broad boulevard from one of the bridges

to the Barriere de l'Etoile. But up to the last moment this plan was

officially denied, so as to avoid for as long as possible the liability

of paying compensation for the land that was to be expropriated. To my

astonishment I noticed that excavations were being made close to my

front door; these increased in width, so that at first no carriages

could pass my door, and finally my house was unapproachable even on

foot. Under these circumstances the proprietor had no objection to make

to my leaving the house. His sole stipulation was that I should sue him

for damages, as that was the only way by which he in his turn could sue

the government. About this time my friend Ollivier was debarred for

three months on account of a parliamentary misdemeanour; he therefore

recommended me for the conduct of my case to his friend Picard, who, as

I saw later on from the legal proceedings, acquitted himself of his

task with much humour. Nevertheless, there was no chance of damages for

me (whether the proprietor obtained any, I cannot say); but, at all

events, I had to content myself with being released from my agreement.

I also obtained leave to look about for another house, and instituted

my search in a neighbourhood less remote from the Opera. I found a poor

cheerless spot in the Rue d'Aumale. Late in the autumn in stormy

weather we completed the arduous task of moving, in which Louisa's

daughter, my niece Ottilie, proved a capable and willing child.

Unfortunately I caught a violent cold in the course of moving and took

few precautions to check it. I again exposed myself to the growing

excitement of the rehearsals, and eventually I was struck down by

typhoid fever.

We had reached the month of November. My relations had to go home,

leaving me behind in a state of unconsciousness, in which I was

consigned to the care of my friend Gasperini. In my fits of fever I

insisted on their calling in all imaginable medical aid, and, as a

matter of fact, Count Hatzfeld did bring in the doctor attached to the

Prussian embassy. The injustice thus done to my friend, who took the

greatest care of me, was due to no mistrust of him, but to feverish

hallucinations which filled my brain with the most outrageous and

luxuriant fancies. In this condition, not only did I imagine that

Princess Metternich and Mme. Kalergis were arranging a complete court

for me, to which I invited the Emperor Napoleon, but I actually

requested that Emil Erlanger should place a villa near Paris at my

disposal, and that I should be removed to it, as it was impossible for

me to recover in the dark hole where I was. At last I insisted on being

taken to Naples, where I promised myself a speedy recovery in free

intercourse with Garibaldi. Gasperini held bravely out against all this

madness, and he and Minna had to use force in order to apply the

necessary mustard-plasters to the soles of my feet. During bad nights

later on in life similar vain and extravagant fancies used to return to

me, and on waking I have realised with horror that they were the

offspring of that period of fever. After five days we mastered the

fever; but I seemed to be threatened with blindness, and my weakness

was extreme. At last the injury to my sight passed away, and after a

few weeks I again trusted myself to steal along the few streets between

my house and the Opera, to satisfy my anxiety for the continuation of

the rehearsals.

People here had indulged in the oddest ideas, and seemed to have

assumed that I was as good as dead. I learned that the rehearsals had

been needlessly suspended, and moreover gathered from one indication

after another that the affair had practically collapsed, although in my

intense desire for recovery I tried my utmost to conceal this from

myself. But I was much elated and pleased to see that the translation

of the four operatic librettos which had so far appeared had been

published. I had written a very exhaustive preface to them addressed to

M. Frederic Villot. The translation of all this had been arranged for

me by M. Challemel Lacour, a man with whom I had become acquainted at

Herwegh's house in days gone by when he was a political refugee. He was

a highly intelligent translator, and had now done me such admirable

service that every one recognised the value of his work. I had given J.

J. Weber, the bookseller in Leipzig, the German original of the preface

to publish under the title of Zukunftsmusik. This pamphlet also reached

me now, and pleased me, as it probably represented the only result of

my whole Paris undertaking, which looked so brilliant on the surface.

At the same time I was now in a position to complete the new

composition for Tannhauser, of which the great dance scene in the

Venusberg was still incomplete. I finished it at three o'clock one

morning after staying up all night, just as Minna returned home from a

great ball at the Hotel de Ville to which she had been with a friend. I

had given her some handsome presents for Christmas, but as far as I

myself was concerned I continued, on the advice of my doctor, to assist

the slow process of recovery by a beefsteak in the morning and a glass

of Bavarian beer before going to bed. We did not watch the old year

out; on the contrary, I retired to bed and slept calmly into 1861.

1861.--The slackness with which the rehearsals of Tannhauser were being

conducted when I fell ill changed at the beginning of the new year into

a more decided handling of all the details connected with the intended

performance. But I could not fail to notice at the same time that the

attitude of all those who took part was substantially altered. The

rehearsals, which were more numerous than might be expected, gave me

the impression that the management was adhering to the strict execution

of a command, but were not fired by any hope of successful results.

Certainly I now obtained a clearer insight into the actual state of

affairs. From the press, which was entirely in the hands of Meyerbeer,

I knew long ago what I had to expect. The management of the Opera,

probably after repeated efforts to make the chief leaders in the press

tractable, were now likewise convinced that my Tannhauser venture would

only meet with a hostile reception from that quarter. This view was

shared even in the highest circles, and it seemed as if an attempt was

being made to discover some means whereby to win over to my side that

part of the operatic public which could turn the scales. Prince

Metternich sent me an invitation one day to meet the new cabinet

minister, Count Walewsky. An air of ceremony pervaded the introduction,

and made it particularly significant when the Count in a persuasive

speech endeavoured to convince me that they entertained every wish for

my good fortune and desired to help me to a brilliant success. He added

in conclusion that the power to effect this was in my own hands, if I

would only consent to introduce a ballet into the second act of my

opera; the most celebrated ballet-dancers from St. Petersburg and

London had been proposed to me, and I had only to make my selection;

their engagement would be concluded as soon as I had entrusted the

success of my work to their co-operation. In declining these proposals

I think I was no less eloquent than he in making them. My complete

failure, however, was due to the fact that I did not appear to

understand the worthy minister when he informed me that the ballet in

the first act counted for nothing, because those devotees of the

theatre who only cared for the ballet on an opera night were

accustomed, according to the new fashion, not to dine until eight

o'clock, and so did not reach the theatre until ten o'clock, when about

half the performance was over. I replied that I could not undertake

myself to oblige these gentlemen, but might well hope duly to impress

another part of the public. But with his imperturbable air of ceremony

he met me with the objection that these gentlemen's support could alone

be counted upon to produce a successful result, inasmuch as they were

powerful enough even to defy the hostile attitude of the press. This

precaution awakened no response in me, and I offered to withdraw my

work altogether, whereupon I was assured with the greatest earnestness

that, according to the Emperor's command, which had to be universally

respected, I was master of the situation, and my wishes would be

followed in everything. The Count had only thought it his duty to give

me a friendly piece of advice.

The consequences of this conversation soon became evident in many ways.

I threw myself enthusiastically into the work of carrying out the great

dance scenes of the first act, and tried to win Petitpas, the

ballet-master, to my side. I asked for unheard-of combinations quite

different from those generally employed in the ballet. I drew attention

to the dances of the Maenads and Bacchantes, and astounded Petitpas

with the mere proposition that he would be able to accomplish something

of the kind with his graceful pupils, as it was well within his powers.

He explained to me that by placing my ballet at the beginning of the

first act I had myself renounced all claim to the step-dancers attached

to the Opera, and all he could do was to offer to engage three

Hungarian dancers, who had formerly danced in the fairy scenes at the

Porte St. Martin, to fill the parts of the three graces. As I was quite

content to dispense with the distinguished dancers belonging to the

Opera, I insisted all the more that the rank and file of the ballet

should be actively coached. I wanted to know that the male staff was

present in full force, but I learned that it was impossible to bring it

up to my requirements, unless some tailors were engaged who, for a

monthly salary of fifty francs, figured in a vague way in the wings

during the performances of the solo dancers. Finally I tried to produce

my effects by means of the costumes, and asked for considerable funds

for that purpose, only to learn, after I had been wearied by one

subterfuge after another, that the management was determined not to

expend a halfpenny on my ballet, which they regarded as completely

wasted. Such was the substance of what my trusty friend Truinet

conveyed to me. This was the first sign out of many which soon revealed

to me the fact, that even in the circles of the operatic administration

itself Tannhauser was already regarded as labour lost and sheer waste

of trouble.

The atmosphere created by this conviction now weighed with increasing

pressure upon everything which was undertaken for the preparation of a

performance which was postponed time after time. With the beginning of

the year the rehearsals had readied the stage at which the scenes were

arranged and the orchestral practices begun. Everything was conducted

with a care which impressed me very agreeably at the beginning, until

finally I was bored by it, because I saw that the powers of the

performers were being relaxed by eternal repetition, and it was now

evident that I must trust to my own ability to pull the matter quickly

through as I thought best. But it was not the fatigue due to this

system that finally made Niemann, the main prop in my work, recoil from

the task which at the start he had undertaken with an energy full of

promise. He had been informed that there was a conspiracy to ruin my

work. From this time forward he was a victim to a despondency to which,

in his relations with me, he sought to lend a sort of diabolical

character. He maintained that so far he could only see the matter in a

black light, and he brought forward some arguments that sounded very

sensible; he criticised the whole Opera as an institution and the

public attached to it, and also our staff of singers, of whom he

maintained that not a single one understood his part as I intended it;

and he exposed all the disadvantages of the undertaking, which I myself

could not fail to see as soon as I came to deal with the chef du chant,

the regisseur, the ballet-master, the conductor of the chorus, but,

particularly, with the chef d'orchestre. Above all, Niemann (who at the

beginning, with a full knowledge of what it involved, had imposed upon

himself the task of playing his part without curtailments of any sort)

insisted upon cutting down the score. He met my expression of

astonishment with the remark, that I must not suppose that the

sacrifice of this or that passage mattered, but that we were in the

throes of an undertaking which could not be got through too quickly.

Under circumstances from which so little encouragement could be

derived, the study of Tannhauser dragged itself along to the brink of

the so-called 'dress' rehearsals. From all sides the friends of my past

life gathered together in Paris to be present at the apotheosis of the

first performance. Among these were Otto Wesendonck, Ferdinand Prager,

the unfortunate Kietz, for whom I had to pay the costs of his journey

and of his stay in Paris; luckily M. Chandon from Epernay came, too,

with a hamper of 'Fleur du Jardin,' the finest of all his champagne

brands. This was to be drunk to the success of Tannhauser. Bulow also

came, depressed and saddened by the burdens of his own life, and hoping

to be able to gather courage and renewed vitality from the success of

my undertaking. I did not dare to tell him in so many words of the

miserable state of affairs; on the contrary, seeing him so depressed, I

made the best of a bad matter. At the first rehearsal, however, at

which Bulow was present, he did not fail to grasp how matters stood. I

no longer concealed anything from him; and we continued to indulge in

sorrowful intercourse till the night of the performance, which was

again and again postponed, and it was only his untiring efforts to be

of use to me that gave some life to our companionship. From whatever

side we regarded our grotesque undertaking, we encountered

unsuitability and incompetence. For instance, it was impossible in the

whole of Paris to find the twelve French horns which in Dresden had so

bravely sounded the hunting call in the first act. In connection with

this matter I had to deal with the terrible man Sax, the celebrated

instrument-maker. He had to help me out with all kinds of substitutes

in the shape of saxophones and saxhorns; moreover, he was officially

appointed to conduct the music behind the scenes. It was an

impossibility ever to get this music properly played.

The main grievance, however, lay in the incompetence of M. Dietzsch,

the conductor, which had now reached a pitch hitherto unsuspected. In

the numerous orchestral rehearsals which had been held hitherto, I had

accustomed myself to use this man like a machine. From my habitual

position on the stage near his desk I had conducted both conductor and

orchestra. In this way I had maintained my tempi in such a way that I

felt no doubt that on my removal all my points would remain firmly

established. I found, on the contrary, that no sooner was Dietzsch left

to his own resources than everything began to waver; not one tempo, not

one nuance was conscientiously and strictly preserved. I then realised

the extreme danger in which we were placed. Granted that no one singer

was suited to his task, or qualified to achieve it so as to produce a

genuine effect; granted that the ballet, and even the sumptuous

mounting and vitality of the Parisian performances of the day, could

contribute nothing on this occasion, or at most but little; granted

that the whole spirit of the libretto, and that indefinable SOMETHING

which even in the worst performances of Tannhauser in Germany roused a

feeling of home, was likely here to strike an alien or at best an

unfamiliar note; yet in spite of all this the character of the

orchestral music, which if rendered with emphasis was full of

suggestive expression, led one to hope that it would make an impression

even upon a Parisian audience. But it was precisely in this particular

that I saw everything submerged in a colourless chaos, with every line

of the drawing obliterated; moreover, the singers became more and more

uncertain in their work; even the poor ballet-girls were no longer able

to keep time in their trivial steps; so that at last I thought myself

obliged to interpose with the declaration that the opera required a

different conductor, and that in case of necessity I myself was ready

to take his place. This declaration brought to a climax the confusion

that had grown up around me. Even the members of the orchestra, who had

long recognised and openly ridiculed their conductor's incompetence,

took sides against me now that the matter concerned their notorious

chief. The press lashed itself into fury over my 'arrogance,' and in

the face of all the agitation caused by the affair, Napoleon III. could

send me no better advice than to forgo my requests, as in adhering to

them I should only be exposing the chances of my work to the greatest

risks. On the other hand, I was allowed to start fresh rehearsals and

have them repeated until I was satisfied.

This way out of the difficulty could lead to nothing but an increase of

fatigue for me and for the whole staff actively engaged in the

undertaking, and the fact still remained that M. Dietzsch could not be

depended upon for the tempo. Finally, by sheer force of will rather

than of conviction, I tried to imagine I was doing a service by holding

out for the correct interpretation of a performance which, after all,

had to be got through; whereupon for the first time the impetuous

musicians broke out into rebellion against the excessive rehearsals. At

this stage I noticed that the guarantee of my practical control given

by the general management was not altogether made in good faith, and in

the face of the growing complaint on all sides against being

overfatigued I decided 'to demand the return of my score' as they

called it; that is to say, to dispense with the production of the

opera. I addressed an express request to this effect to the cabinet

minister Walewsky, but received the answer that it was impossible to

comply with my wishes, more particularly on account of the heavy

expenses which had already been incurred in its preparation. I refused

to abide by his decision, and called a conference of those friends of

mine who were more closely interested in me, among whom were Count

Hatzfeld and Emil Erlanger. I took counsel with them as to the means at

my disposal for forbidding Tannhauser to be performed at the Opera

House. It happened that Otto Wesendonck was present at this conference;

he was still waiting in Paris hoping to have the pleasure of attending

the first performance, but he was now thoroughly convinced that the

situation was hopeless, and promptly fled back to Zurich. Prager had

already done likewise. Kietz alone held out faithfully, and he busied

himself in trying to make some money in Paris to provide for his

future, in which attempt he was hampered by many difficulties that

stood in the way of his desire. This conference resulted in fresh

representations being made to the Emperor Napoleon, which, however, met

with the same gracious reply as before, and I was authorised to

institute a fresh course of rehearsals. At last, weary to the depths of

my soul, completely disillusioned, and absolutely decided in my

pessimistic view of the matter, I determined to abandon it to its fate.

Having at last, in this frame of mind, given my consent to fix the date

of the first performance of my opera, I was now plagued in another

direction in the most astonishing way. Every one of my friends and

partisans demanded a good seat for the first night; but the management

pointed out that the occupation of the house on such occasions was

entirely in the hands of the court and those dependent on it, and I was

soon to realise clearly enough to whom these seats were to be allotted.

At present I had to suffer the annoyance of being unable to serve many

of my friends as I should have liked. Some of them were very quick to

resent what they supposed to be my neglect of them. Champfleury in a

letter complained of this flagrant breach of friendship; Gasperini

started an open quarrel because I had not reserved one of the best

boxes for his patron and my creditor Lucy, the Receiver-General of

Marseilles. Even Blandine, who had been filled with the most generous

enthusiasm for my work at the rehearsals she had attended, could not

suppress a suspicion that I was guilty of neglecting my best friends

when I was unable to offer her and her husband Ollivier anything better

than a couple of stalls. It needed all Emil's sang-froid to obtain from

this deeply offended friend a just appreciation of the honest assurance

that I was in an impossible position, in which I was exposed to

betrayal on all sides. Poor Bulow alone understood everything; he

suffered with me, and shirked no trouble to be of use to me in all

these difficulties. The first performance on the 13th of March put an

end to all these complications; my friends now understood that it was

to no celebration of my triumphs, as they supposed, to which they

should have been invited.

I have already said enough elsewhere of the way in which this evening

passed off. I was justified in flattering myself that in the end a

favourable view of my opera prevailed, inasmuch as the intention of my

opponents had been to break up this performance completely, and this

they had found it impossible to do. But I was grieved the next day to

receive nothing but reproaches from my friends, with Gasperini at the

head of them, because I had allowed the occupation of the house at the

first performance to be completely wrested out of my hands. Meyerbeer,

they urged, knew how to work such things differently; had he not, ever

since he first appeared in Paris, refused to allow the production of a

single one of his operas to take place without a guarantee that he

himself should fill the auditorium, to the remotest corner? As I had

not looked after my best friends, such as M. Lucy, was not the

ill-success of that evening to be ascribed to my own conduct?

Confronted with these and similar arguments, I had to spend the whole

day in writing letters and in devoting myself to the most urgent

efforts at propitiation. Above all, I was besieged with advice as to

how I might recover the lost ground at the subsequent performances. As

the management placed a very small number of free seats at my disposal,

money had to be found for the purchase of tickets. In the pursuit of

this object, which my friends were so warmly advocating and which

involved much that was disagreeable, I shrank from approaching Emil

Erlanger or anybody else. Giacomelli, however, had found out that

Aufmordt, the merchant, a business friend of Wesendonck, had offered to

help to the extent of five hundred francs. I now allowed these

champions of my welfare to act according to their own ideas, and was

curious to see what assistance I should derive from these resources

which I had previously neglected and now utilised.

The second performance took place on the 18th of March, and, indeed,

the first act promised well. The overture was loudly applauded without

a note of opposition. Mme. Tedesco, who had eventually been completely

won over to her part of Venus by a wig powdered with gold dust, called

out triumphantly to me in the manager's box, when the 'septuor' of the

finale of the first act was again vigorously applauded, that everything

was now all right and that we had won the victory. But when shrill

whistling was suddenly heard in the second act, Royer the manager

turned to me with an air of complete resignation and said, 'Ce sont les

Jockeys; nous sommes perdus.' Apparently at the bidding of the Emperor,

extensive negotiations had been entered into with these members of the

Jockey Club as to the fate of my opera. They had been requested to

allow three performances to take place, after which they had been

promised that it should be so curtailed as to admit of its presentation

only as a curtain-raiser to introduce a ballet which was to follow. But

these gentlemen had not agreed to the terms. In the first place, my

attitude during the first performance (which had been such a bone of

contention) had been observed to be utterly unlike that of a man who

would consent to the proposed line of conduct; this being so, it was to

be feared that if two more performances were allowed to take place

without interruption, we might hope to win so many adherents that the

friends of the ballet would be treated to repetitions of this work

thirty times running. To guard against this they determined to protest

in time. The fact that these gentlemen meant business was now realised

by the excellent M. Royer; and from that time he gave up all attempt to

resist them, in spite of the support granted to our party by the

Emperor and his Consort, who stoically kept their seats through the

uproars of their own courtiers.

The impression made by this scene had a disastrous effect upon my

friends. After the performance Bulow broke out into sobs as he embraced

Minna, who had not been spared the insults of those next to her when

they recognised her as the wife of the composer. Our trusty servant

Therese, a Swabian girl, had been sneered at by a crazy hooligan, but

when she realised that he understood German, she succeeded in quieting

him for a time by calling him Schweinhund at the top of her voice. Poor

Kietz was struck dumb with disappointment, and Chandon's 'Fleur du

Jardin' was growing sour in the storeroom.

Hearing that in spite of everything a third performance was fixed, I

was confronted with only two possible solutions of the difficulty. One

was, to try once more to withdraw my score; the other, to demand that

my opera should be given on a Sunday, that is to say, on a

non-subscriber's day. I assumed that such a performance could not be

regarded by the usual ticket-holders as a provocation, for they were

quite accustomed on such days to surrender their boxes to any of the

general public who chanced to come and buy them. My strategical

proposal seemed to please the management and the Tuileries, and was

accepted. Only they refused to conform to my wish to announce this as

the third and LAST performance. Both Minna and I stayed away from this,

as it was just as embarrassing for me to know that my wife was insulted

as to see the singers on the stage subjected to such behaviour. I was

really sorry for Morelli and Mlle. Sax, who had proved their genuine

devotion to me. As soon as the first performance was over, I met Mlle.

Sax in the corridor on her way home, and chaffed her about being

whistled off the stage. With proud dignity she replied, 'Je le

supporterai cent fois comme aujourd' hui. Ah, les miserables!' Morelli

found himself strangely perplexed when he had to weather the onslaught

of the hooligans. I had explained to him in the minutest detail how to

act his part from the time when Elizabeth disappears in the third act,

until the beginning of his song to the evening star. He was not to move

an inch from his rocky ledge, and from this position, half turning to

the audience, he was to address his farewell to the departing lady. It

had been a difficult task for him to obey my instructions, as he

maintained that it was against all operatic custom for the singer not

to address such an important passage straight to the public from the

footlights. When in the course of the performance he seized his harp to

begin the song, there was a cry from the audience, 'Ah! il prend encore

sa harpe,' upon which there was a universal outburst of laughter

followed by fresh whistling, so prolonged, that at last Morelli decided

boldly to lay aside his harp and step forward to the proscenium in the

usual way. Here he resolutely sang his evening carol entirely

unaccompanied, as Dietzsch only found his place at the tenth bar. Peace

was then restored, and at last the public listened breathlessly to the

song, and at its close covered the singer with applause.

As the vocalists showed a courageous determination to encounter fresh

onslaughts, I could not protest. At the same time I could not endure to

be in the position of a passive spectator suffering at the infliction

of such unworthy methods, and as the third performance was also likely

to be attended with doubtful consequences, I stayed at home. After the

various acts messages reached us informing us that after the first act

Truinet at once came round to my opinion that the score should be

withdrawn; it was found that the 'Jockeys' had not stayed away, as was

their custom, from this Sunday performance; on the contrary, they had

purposely taken their seats from the beginning, so as not to allow a

single scene to pass without a row. I was assured that in the first act

the performance had been twice suspended by fights lasting a quarter of

an hour each. By far the greater part of the public obstinately took my

part against the childish conduct of the rowdies, without intending by

their action to express any opinion of my work. But in opposing their

assailants they were at a great disadvantage. When everybody on my side

was utterly wearied out with clapping and shouting applause and calling

'Order,' and it looked as if peace were about to reign once more, the

'Jockeys' returned afresh to their task and began cheerfully whistling

their hunting-tunes and playing their flageolets, so that they were

always bound to have the last word. In an interval between the acts one

of these gentlemen entered the box of a certain great lady, who in the

excess of her anger introduced him to one of her friends with the

words, 'C'est un de ces miserables, mon cousin.' The young man,

completely unabashed, answered, 'Que voulez-vous? I am beginning to

like the music myself. But, you see, a man must keep his word. If you

will excuse me, I will return to my work again.' He thereupon took his

leave. The next day I met Herr von Seebach, the friendly Saxon

Ambassador, who was as hoarse as he could be, as he and all his friends

had completely lost their voices through the uproar of the previous

night. Princess Metternich had remained at home, as she had already had

to endure the coarse insults and ridicule of our opponents at the first

two performances.

She indicated the height to which this fury had risen by mentioning

some of her best friends, with whom she had engaged in so virulent a

controversy that she had ended by saying: 'Away with your free France!

In Vienna, where at least there is a genuine aristocracy, it would be

unthinkable for a Prince Liechtenstein or Schwarzenberg to scream from

his box for a ballet in Fidelio.' I believe she also spoke to the

Emperor in the same strain, so that he seriously debated whether by

police intervention some check could not be put upon the unmannerly

conduct of these gentlemen, most of whom, unfortunately, belonged to

the Imperial Household. Some rumour of this got abroad, so that my

friends believed they had really gained the day when, at the third

performance, they found the corridors of the theatre occupied by a

strong body of police. But it turned out later on that these

precautions had only been taken to ensure the safety of the 'Jockeys,'

as it was feared they might be attacked from the pit as a punishment

for their insolence. It seems that the performance, which was again

carried through to the end, was accompanied from start to finish by an

endless tumult. After the second act the wife of von Szemere, the

Hungarian revolutionary minister, joined us in a state of complete

collapse, declaring that the row in the theatre was more than she could

bear. No one seemed able to tell me exactly how the third act had been

got through. As far as I could make out, it resembled the turmoil of a

battle thick with the smoke of gunpowder. I invited my friend Truinet

to visit me the next morning, so that with his help I might compose a

letter to the management withdrawing my work and, as author, forbidding

any further performance of the same, as I did not wish to see my

singers abused instead of myself by a section of the public from whom

the Imperial administration seemed unable to protect them. The

astonishing thing about the whole matter was that in thus interfering I

was guilty of no bravado, for a fourth and fifth performance of the

opera had been already arranged, and the management protested that they

were under obligations to the public, who still continued to crowd to

this opera. But through Truinet I contrived to have my letter published

the next day in the Journal des Debats, so that at last, though with

great reluctance, the management gave their consent to my withdrawal of

the piece.

Thereupon the legal action taken on my behalf by Ollivier against

Lindau also came to an end. The latter had put in a claim on my

author's rights in the libretto, in which he said he was entitled to a

share as one of the three collaborators. His counsel, Maitre Marie,

based his plea on a principle which I was said to have established

myself, namely that the point of chief importance was not the melody,

but the correct declamation of the words of the libretto, which

obviously neither Roche nor Truinet could have ensured, seeing that

neither of them understood German. Ollivier's argument for the defence

was so energetic that he was almost on the point of proving the purely

musical essence of my melody by singing the 'Abendstern.' Completely

carried away by this, the judges rejected the plaintiff's claim, but

requested me to pay him a small sum by way of compensation, as he

seemed really to have taken some part in the work at the beginning. In

any case, however, I could not have paid this out of the proceeds of

the Paris performances of Tannhauser, as I had decided with Truinet, on

withdrawing the opera, to hand over the whole of the proceeds from my

author's rights, both for libretto and music, to poor Roche, to whom

the failure of my work meant the ruin of all his hopes for the

amelioration of his position.

Various other connections were also dissolved by this outcome of

affairs. During the past few months I had busied myself with an

artistic club which had been founded, chiefly through the influence of

the German embassies, among an aristocratic connection for the

production of good music apart from the theatres, and to stimulate

interest in this branch of art among the upper classes. Unfortunately,

in the circular it had published it had illustrated its endeavours to

produce good music by comparing them to those of the Jockey Club to

improve the breed of horses. Their object was to enrol all who had won

a name in the musical world, and I was obliged to become a member at a

yearly subscription of two hundred francs. Together with M. Gounod and

other Parisian celebrities, I was nominated one of an artistic

committee, of which Auber was elected president. The society often held

its meetings at the house of a certain Count Osmond, a lively young

man, who had lost an arm in a duel, and posed as a musical dilettante.

In this way I also learned to know a young Prince Polignac, who

interested me particularly on account of his brother, to whom we were

indebted for a complete translation of Faust. I went to lunch with him

one morning, when he revealed to me the fact that he composed musical

fantasies. He was very anxious to convince me of the correctness of his

interpretation of Beethoven's Symphony in A major, in the last movement

of which he declared he could clearly demonstrate all the phases of a

shipwreck. Our earlier general meetings were chiefly occupied with

arrangements and preparations for a great classical concert, for which

I also was to compose something. These meetings were enlivened solely

by Gounod's pedantic zeal, who with unflagging and nauseating garrulity

executed his duties as secretary, while Auber continually interrupted,

rather than assisted the proceedings, with trifling and not always very

delicate anecdotes and puns, all evidently intended to urge us to end

the discussions. Even after the decisive failure of Tannhauser I

received summonses to the meetings of this committee, but never

attended it any more, and sent in my resignation to the president of

the society, stating that I should probably soon be returning to

Germany.

With Gounod alone did I still continue on friendly terms, and I heard

that he energetically championed my cause in society. He is said on one

occasion to have exclaimed: 'Que Dieu me donne une pareille chute!' As

an acknowledgment of this advocacy I presented him with the score of

Tristan und Isolde, being all the more gratified by his behaviour

because no feeling of friendship had ever been able to induce me to

hear his Faust.

I now came into touch with energetic protagonists of my cause at every

turn. I was particularly honoured in the columns of those smaller

journals of which Meyerbeer had as yet taken no account, and several

good criticisms now appeared. In one of these I read that my Tannhauser

was la symphonie chantee. Baudelaire distinguished himself by an

exceedingly witty and aptly turned pamphlet on this topic; and finally

Jules Janin himself astonished me by an article in the Journal des

Debats, in which, with burning indignation, he gave a somewhat

exaggerated report, in his own peculiar style, of the whole episode.

Even parodies of Tannhauser were given in the theatres for the

delectation of the public; and Musard could find no better means of

attracting audiences to his concerts than the daily announcement, in

enormous letters, of the Overture to Tannhauser. Pasdeloup also

frequently produced some of my pieces by way of showing his sentiments.

And lastly, Countess Lowenthal, the wife of the Austrian military

plenipotentiary, gave a great matinee, at which Mme. Viardot sang

various items from Tannhauser, for which she received five hundred

francs.

By some singular coincidence people managed to confound my fate with

that of a certain M. de la Vaquerie, who had also made a dismal failure

with a drama, Les Funerailles de l'Honeur. His friends gave a banquet,

to which I was invited, and we were both enthusiastically acclaimed.

Fiery speeches were made about the encanaillemenl of the public,

containing references to politics, which were easily explained by the

fact that my partner in the festivity was related to Victor Hugo.

Unfortunately particular supporters had provided a small piano, on

which I was literally compelled to play favourite passages from

Tannhauser. Whereupon the evening became a festival in my honour alone.

But a much more important result than these was that people began to

recognise the reality of my popularity, and began to plan yet greater

undertakings. The manager of the Theatre Lyrique sought everywhere for

a tenor suitable for Tannhauser, and only his inability to find one

compelled him to renounce his intention of producing my opera at once.

M. de Beaumont, the manager of the Opera Comique, who was on the verge

of bankruptcy, hoped to save himself with Tannhauser, with which

intention he approached me with the most urgent proposals. True, he

hoped at the same time to enlist Princess Metternich's intervention on

his behalf with the Emperor, who was to help him out of his

embarrassments. He reproached me with coldness when I failed to fall in

with his glowing dreams, in which I could find no pleasure. But I was

interested to learn that Roger, who now had a post at the Opera

Comique, had included part of the last act of Tannhauser in the

programme of a performance given for his own benefit, whereby he drew

down upon his head the fury of the more influential press, but won a

good reception from the public. Schemes now began to multiply. A. M.

Chabrol, whose journalistic name was Lorbach, visited me on behalf of a

company, whose director was an enormously wealthy man, with a plan for

founding a Theatre Wagner, of which I refused to hear anything until it

could secure an experienced man of first-class reputation as manager.

Eventually M. Perrin was selected for the post. This man had lived for

years in the firm conviction that he would be some day appointed

manager of the Grand Opera, and thought, therefore, that he ought not

to compromise himself. It is true, he ascribed the failure of

Tannhauser entirely to Royer's incapacity, who ought to have made it

his business to win over the press to his side. Nevertheless he was

strongly tempted to share in the attempt because of the opportunity it

afforded him of proving that, if he took the matter in hand, everything

would at once wear a different aspect, and Tannhauser become a great

success. But as he was an exceedingly cold and cautious man, he thought

he had discovered serious flaws in M. Lorbach's proposals, and when the

latter began to stipulate for certain commissions, Perrin immediately

fancied that he detected a not quite blameless savour of speculation in

the whole business, and declared that if he wanted to found a Wagner

Theatre, he would manage to procure the necessary funds in his own way.

As a matter of fact, he did actually entertain the notion of securing a

large cafe, the 'Alcazar,' and after that the 'Bazar de la Bonne

Nouvelle,' for the purposes of such a theatre. It also seemed possible

that the requisite capitalists would be found for his enterprise. M.

Erlanger believed he could succeed in getting ten bankers to guarantee

fifty thousand francs, thus placing a sum of five hundred thousand

francs at M. Perrin's disposal. But the latter soon lost courage when

he found that the gentlemen thus approached were willing to risk their

money on a theatre for their own amusement, but not for the serious

purpose of acclimatising my music in Paris.

With this disappointing experience M. Erlanger now withdrew from all

further participation in my fate. From a business point of view he

regarded the arrangement made with me as a sort of deal, in which he

had not succeeded. The settlement of my financial position seemed

likely now to be undertaken by other friends, and with this object in

view the German embassies approached me with great delicacy,

commissioning Count Hatzfeld to inquire into my necessities. My own

view of the situation was simply that, in obedience to the Emperor's

command for the production of my opera, I had wasted my time over an

enterprise the failure of which had not been my fault. With perfect

justice my friends pointed out how careless I had been not to secure

from the first certain stipulations about compensations, a demand which

the Frenchman's practical mind would at once have recognised as

reasonable and obvious. As matters stood, I had demanded no return for

my time and labour beyond certain author's rights in case of success.

Feeling how impossible it was for me to approach either the management

or the Emperor to retrieve this omission, I was content to leave

Princess Metternich to intercede on my behalf. Count Pourtales had

stayed on in Berlin to try and persuade the Prince Regent to order a

performance of Tannhauser for my benefit. Unfortunately, the latter had

been unable to secure the execution of his order owing to the

opposition of his manager, Herr von Hulsen, who was hostile to me. As I

had no other prospect for a long time to come but one of complete

helplessness, I had no option but to leave the representation of my

claim for compensation to the kindly care of my royal patroness. All

these events had taken place within the short space of a month after

the production of Tannhauser, and now, on the 15th April, I went for a

short trip to Germany, to try and find some solid ground for my future

in that country.

The only person who really understood my deepest needs had already set

out on the same road, away from the chaos of Parisian theatrical life.

Bulow had just sent me news from Karlsruhe that the grand-ducal family

were favourably disposed towards me, and I promptly formed the plan of

immediately setting to work seriously on the production there of my

Tristan, which had been so fatally deferred. Accordingly I went to

Karlsruhe, and if anything could have decided me to execute my hastily

formed plan, it would certainly have been the exceptionally cordial

welcome I now received at the hands of the Grand Duke of Baden. This

exalted personage seemed really desirous of awakening my sincerest

confidence in himself. During an exceedingly intimate interview, at

which his young wife was also present, the Grand Duke took pains to

convince me that his profound sympathy for me was less as a composer of

operas, whose excellence he neither wished nor was able to appreciate,

than as the man who had suffered so much for his patriotic and

independent opinions. As I naturally could not attach much value to the

political importance of my past career, he imagined this arose from

suspicious reticence, and encouraged me by the assurance that, although

great mistakes and even offences might have been committed in this

respect, these only affected those who, while they had remained in

Germany, had not been made happy, and had thereby certainly atoned for

their misdeeds by inward suffering. On the other hand, it was now the

duty of all these guilty ones to repair the wrongs they had done to

those who had been driven into exile. He gladly placed his theatre at

my disposal, and gave the necessary orders to the manager. This was my

old 'friend' Eduard Devrient, and the painful embarrassment he betrayed

on my arrival fully justified all that Bulow had said about the

complete worthlessness of those sentiments of sincere sympathy for me

which he had hitherto affected. But in the happy atmosphere created by

the Grand Duke's gracious reception I was soon able to bring

Devrient--in appearance at least--to do as I wished, and he was

compelled to assent to the proposed production of Tristan. As he was

unable to deny that, especially since Schnorr's departure for Dresden,

he did not possess the requisite singers for my work, he referred me to

Vienna, expressing at the same time his astonishment that I did not try

to have my operas produced there, where everything required was ready

to hand. It cost me some trouble to make him understand why I preferred

a few exceptionally fine performances of my works in Karlsruhe to the

mere chance of having them inscribed on the repertoire of the Vienna

Opera House. I obtained permission to secure Schnorr, who of course

would be engaged only for the special performances at Karlsruhe, and

was also allowed to choose in Vienna the other singers for our intended

'model performance.'

I was thus left to rely on Vienna, and had meanwhile to return to

Paris, so as to settle my affairs there in such a way as to suit the

execution of my latest project. I arrived here, after an absence of

only six days, and my sole occupation was to provide money for the

needs of the moment. Under these circumstances I could only feel

indifferent to the many sympathetic advances and assurances which

reached me with ever-growing cordiality, although at the same time they

filled me with apprehension.

In the meantime, the operations undertaken on a larger scale by

Princess Metternich to secure me some compensation dragged along with

mysterious slowness, and it was to a merchant named Sturmer, whom I had

previously known in Zurich, that I owed my deliverance from my present

troubles. He had constantly interested himself in my welfare while in

Paris, and now by his help I was enabled, first to set my household

affairs in order, and then to set off for Vienna.

Liszt had announced that he was coming to Paris some time before, and

during the recent disastrous time I had longed for his presence, as I

thought that, with his recognised position in the higher circles of

Parisian society, he would have been able to exert a very helpful

influence upon my hopelessly involved situation. A mysterious

epistolary 'shrug of the shoulders' had been the only answer I had

received to my various inquiries as to the cause of his delay. It

seemed like irony on the part of Fate that, just as I had arranged

everything for my journey to Vienna, news should come that Liszt would

reach Paris in a few days. But I could only yield to the pressure of my

necessities which sternly demanded that I should pick up new threads

for my plan of life, and I quitted Paris about the middle of May,

without awaiting my old friend's arrival.

I stopped first of all at Karlsruhe for another interview with the

Grand Duke, who received me as kindly as ever, and granted me

permission to engage in Vienna any singers I liked for a really fine

performance of Tristan in his theatre. Armed with this command I went

on to Vienna, where I stayed at the 'Erzherzog Karl,' and there waited

for Conductor Esser to fulfil the promises he had made by letter to

allow me to see a few performances of my operas. It was here that for

the first time I saw my own Lohengrin. Although the opera had already

been played very frequently, the entire company was present at the full

rehearsal, as I desired. The orchestra played the prelude with such

delightful warmth, the voices of the singers and many of their good

qualities were so conspicuously and surprisingly pleasing, that I was

too much overcome by the sensation created by them to have any desire

to criticise the general performance. My profound emotion seemed to

attract attention, and Dr. Hanslick probably thought this was a

suitable moment for being introduced to me in a friendly way as I sat

listening on the stage. I greeted him shortly, like a perfectly unknown

person; whereupon the tenor, Ander, presented him a second time with

the remark that Dr. Hanslick was an old acquaintance. I answered

briefly that I remembered Dr. Hanslick very well, and once more turned

my attention to the stage. It seems that exactly the same now happened

with my Vienna friends as once before in the case of my London

acquaintances, when the latter found me disinclined to respond to their

efforts to make me conciliate the dreaded critics. This man, who as a

budding young student had been present at the earliest performances of

Tannhauser in Dresden, and had written glowing reports on my work, had

since become one of my most vicious antagonists, as was proved on the

production of my operas in Vienna. The members of the opera company,

who were all well disposed towards me, seemed to have devoted their

whole attention to reconciling me, as best they could, with this

critic. As they failed to do so, those who ascribe, to the enmity thus

aroused, the subsequent failure of every attempt to launch my

enterprise in Vienna, may be right in their opinion.

But for the present it seemed as though the flood of enthusiasm would

bear down all opposition. The performance of Lohengrin, which I

attended, was made the occasion of a frantic ovation, such as I have

only experienced from the Viennese public. I was urged to have both my

other operas presented also, but felt a sort of shyness at the thought

of a repetition of that evening's occurrences. As I had now fully

realised the serious weaknesses in the performance of Tannhauser, I

only agreed to a revival of the Fliegender Hollander, for the reason

that I wished to hear the singer Beck, who excelled in that opera. On

this occasion also the public indulged in similar manifestations of

delight, so that, backed up by universal favour, I could begin to

consider the main business on which I had come. The students of the

University offered me the honour of a torchlight procession, which I

declined, thereby winning the hearty approval of Esser, who, together

with the chief officials of the Opera, asked me how these triumphs

could be turned to account. I then presented myself to Count

Lanckoronski, the Controller of the Emperor's household, who had been

described to me as a peculiar person, totally ignorant of art and all

its requirements. When I unfolded to him my request that he would

graciously grant leave of absence for a fairly long period to the chief

singers of his Opera, namely, Frau Dustmann (nee Luise Meyer), Herr

Beck, and probably also Herr Ander, for the proposed performance of

Tristan in Karlsruhe, the old gentleman dryly answered that it was

quite impossible. He thought it much more reasonable, seeing I was

satisfied with his company, that I should produce my new work in

Vienna, and the courage necessary to refuse this proposition melted

completely away.

As I descended the steps of the Hofburg, lost in meditation over this

new turn of affairs, a stately gentleman of unusually sympathetic mien

came to meet me at the door, and offered to accompany me in the

carriage to my hotel. This was Joseph Standhartner, a famous physician,

who was exceedingly popular in high circles, an earnest devotee of

music, thenceforth destined to be a faithful friend to me all my life.

Karl Tausig had also sought me out, and was now devoting his energies

to Vienna, with the express determination of conquering this field for

Liszt's compositions, and had opened his campaign there during the

previous winter with a series of orchestral concerts, started and

conducted by himself. He introduced me to Peter Cornelius, who had also

been drawn to Vienna, and whom I only knew from our meeting in Bale in

1853. They both raved about the recently published pianoforte

arrangement of Tristan, which Bulow had prepared. In my room at the

hotel, whither Tausig had transported a Bosendorff grand-piano, a

musical orgy was soon in full swing. They would have liked me to have

started rehearsing Tristan at once; and, in any case, I was now so bent

on securing the acceptance of the proposal that my work should first be

performed here, that I finally quitted Vienna with a promise to return

in a few months, in order to start the preliminary study at once.

I felt no little embarrassment at the prospect of communicating my

change of plan to the Grand Duke, and therefore readily yielded to the

impulse of only visiting Karlsruhe after a long detour. As my birthday

fell just at the time of this return journey, I resolved to celebrate

it at Zurich. I reached Winterthur, via Munich, without delay, and

hoped to meet my friend Sulzer there. Unfortunately he was away, and I

only saw his wife, who had a pathetic interest for me, and also their

little son, a lively and attractive boy. Sulzer himself, I learned, was

expected back the next day, the 22nd of the month, and I accordingly

spent most of the day in a small room at the inn. I had brought

Goethe's Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre with me, and now for the first

time was enraptured by fuller comprehension of this wonderful

production. The spirit of the poet attracted me most profoundly to his

work by the impression left on my mind by his lively description of the

breaking-up of the players' company, in which the action almost becomes

a furious lyric. Next morning at early dawn I returned to Zurich. The

wonderfully clear air decided me to try the long and circuitous path

through the familiar haunts of the Sihlthal to Wesendonck's estate.

Here I arrived quite unannounced; and when I inquired what the habits

of the household were, I learned that about this time Wesendonck

usually came down to his dining-room to breakfast alone. There I

accordingly seated myself in a corner, where I awaited the tall,

good-tempered man, who, on entering quietly for his morning coffee,

broke out into joyous astonishment on beholding me. The day passed most

sociably; Sulzer, Semper, Herwegh, and Gottfried Keller were all sent

for, and I thoroughly enjoyed the satisfaction of a well-contrived

surprise, under such strange circumstances, as my recent fate had only

just been forming the daily topic of animated discussion among these

friends.

The next day I hurried back to Karlsruhe, where my announcement was

received by the Grand Duke with kindly acquiescence. I could truly

state that my request for leave of absence for the singers had been

refused, and the projected performance in Karlsruhe thereby rendered

impossible. Without any grief, but, on the contrary, with undisguised

satisfaction, Eduard Devrient yielded to this fresh turn of affairs,

and prophesied a splendid future for me in Vienna. Here Tausig overtook

me, having already decided in Vienna to pay a visit to Paris, where he

wished to see Liszt; and we accordingly continued our journey from

Karlsruhe together by way of Strasburg.

When I reached Paris, I found my household on the point of breaking up.

My only anxiety with regard to this was to procure means for getting

away from the city, and for the prompt settlement of a future which

seemed hopeless. Meanwhile Minna found an opportunity for exhibiting

her talents as a housewife. Liszt had already fallen back into his old

current of life, and even his own daughter, Blandine, could only manage

to get a word with him in his carriage, as he drove from one visit to

another. Nevertheless, impelled by his goodness of heart, he found time

once to accept an invitation to 'beef-steaks' at my house. He even

managed to spare me a whole evening, for which he kindly placed himself

at my disposal for the settlement of my small obligations. In the

presence of a few friends, who had remained true after the recent days

of trouble, he played the piano to us on this occasion, during which a

curious coincidence occurred. The day before poor Tausig had filled up

a spare hour by playing Liszt's 'Fantaisie' on the name of Bach,

[Footnote: The notes B, A, C, H, are equivalent to our English B flat,

A, C, B.--Editor.] and now when Liszt chanced to play us the same

piece, he literally collapsed with amazement before this wonderful

prodigy of a man.

Another day we met for lunch at Gounod's, when we had a very dull time,

which was only enlivened by poor Baudelaire, who indulged in the most

outrageous witticisms. This man, crible de dettes, as he told me, and

daily compelled to adopt the most extravagant methods for a bare

subsistence, had repeatedly approached me with adventurous schemes for

the exploitation of my notorious fiasco. I could not on any account

consent to adopt any of these, and was glad to find this really capable

man safe under the eagle-wing of Liszt's 'ascendency.' Liszt took him

everywhere where there was a possibility of a fortune being found.

Whether this helped him into anything or not, I never knew. I only

heard that he died a short time afterwards, certainly not from an

excess of good fortune.

In addition to this festive morning, I met Liszt again at a dinner at

the Austrian embassy, on which occasion he once more showed his kindly

sympathy by playing several passages from my Lohengrin on the piano to

Princess Metternich. He was also summoned to a dinner at the Tuileries,

to which, however, it was not thought necessary to invite me to

accompany him. With regard to this he related a conversation, which was

very much to the point, with the Emperor Napoleon about the episode of

my Tannhauser performances in Paris, the upshot of which appears to

have been that I was not in my right place at the Grand Opera House.

Whether Liszt ever discussed these matters with Lamartine I do not

know, I only heard that my old friend several times addressed him, to

try and arrange a meeting with him, for which I was very anxious.

Tausig, who at first had taken refuge chiefly with me, fell back later

into his natural dependence upon his master, so that in the end he

quite vanished from my sight, when he went with Liszt to visit Mme.

Street in Brussels.

I was now longing to leave Paris. I had fortunately managed to get rid

of my house in the Rue d'Aumale by sub-letting it, a transaction in

which I was helped by a present of a hundred francs to the concierge,

and was now merely waiting for news from my protectors. As I did not

wish to press them, my situation became most painfully prolonged,

though it was not altogether devoid of pleasant but tantalising

incidents. For instance, I had won the special favour of Mlle. Eberty,

Meyerbeer's elderly niece. She had been an almost rabid partisan of my

cause during the painful episode of the Tannhauser performances, and

now seemed earnestly desirous of doing something to brighten my

cheerless situation. With this object she arranged a really charming

dinner in a first-class restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne, to which we

and Kietz, of whom we were not yet rid, were invited, and which took

place in lovely spring weather. The Flaxland family also, with whom I

had had some differences over the publication of Tannhauser, now

exerted themselves in every possible way to show me kindness, but I

could only wish that they had had no reason for doing so.

It was now settled that we must at all costs leave Paris soon. It was

proposed that Minna should resume her treatment at the Soden baths and

also revisit her old friends in Dresden, while I was to wait until it

was time for me to return to Vienna for the preliminary study of my

Tristan. We decided to deposit all our household belongings, well

packed, with a forwarding-agent in Paris. While thus occupied with

thoughts of our painfully delayed departure, we also discussed the

difficulty of transporting our little dog Fips by rail. One day, the

22nd of June, my wife returned from a walk, bringing the animal back

with her, in some mysterious way dangerously ill. According to Minna's

account, we could only think that the dog had swallowed some virulent

poison spread in the street. His condition was pitiable. Though he

showed no marks of outward injury, yet his breathing was so convulsive

that we thought his lungs must be seriously damaged. In his first

frantic pangs he had bitten Minna violently in the mouth, so that I had

sent for a doctor immediately, who, however, soon relieved our fears

that she had been bitten by a mad dog.

But we could get no relief for the poor animal. He lay quietly curled

up, and his breathing grew steadily shorter and more violent. Towards

eleven o'clock at night he seemed to have fallen asleep under Minna's

bed, but when I drew him out he was dead. The effect of this melancholy

event upon Minna and myself was never expressed in words. In our

childless life together the influence of domestic pets had been very

important. The sudden death of this lively and lovable animal acted as

the final rift in a union which had long become impossible. For the

moment I had no more urgent care than to rescue the body from the usual

fate of dead dogs in Paris, that of being flung out into the street for

the scavengers to carry off in the morning. My friend Sturmer had a

small garden behind his house in the Rue de la Tour des Dames, where I

wished to bury Fips the next day. But it cost me a rare expenditure of

persuasion to induce the absent owner's housekeeper to give me

permission to do so. At last, however, with the help of the concierge

of our house, I dug a small grave, as deep as possible, among the

bushes of the garden, for the reception of our poor little pet. When

the sad ceremony was completed, I covered up the grave with the utmost

care and tried to make the spot as indistinguishable as possible, as I

had a suspicion that Herr Sturmer might object to harbouring the dog's

body, and have it removed, a misfortune which I strove to prevent.

At last Count Hatzfeld announced in the kindliest possible manner that

some friends of my art, who wished to remain unknown, sympathising with

my unmerited condition, had united to offer me the means of relieving

my burdensome position. I considered it fitting to express my thanks

for this happy consummation only to my patroness, Princess Metternich,

and now set about making arrangements for the final dissolution of my

Paris establishment. My first care, after concluding all these

necessary labours, was to see that Minna set out at once for Germany to

begin her treatment; while, as for myself, I had no better object there

for the present than to pay a visit to Liszt in Weimar, where in August

a German-music festival was to be celebrated with farewell performances

of Liszt's compositions. Moreover Flaxland, who had now taken courage

to issue my other operas in French, wished to retain me in Paris until,

in collaboration with Truinet, I had completed the translation of the

Fliegender Hollander. For this work I needed several weeks, which it

was impossible for me to spend in our apartments, now entirely stripped

of furniture. Count Pourtales, hearing of this, invited me to take up

my abode for this period in the Prussian embassy, a remarkable and

indeed in its way unprecedented act of kindness which I accepted with a

gratitude full of foreboding. On the 12th of July I saw Minna off to

Soden, and the same day went to reside at the embassy, where they

assigned me a pleasant little room looking out upon the garden, with a

view of the Tuileries in the distance. In a pool in the garden there

were two black swans, to which, in a dreamy sort of way, I felt

strangely attracted. When young Hatzfeld looked me up in my room, to

make inquiries about my needs in the name of my well-wishers, a strong

emotion overwhelmed me for the first time in many years, and I felt a

profound sense of well-being in the midst of a condition of complete

impecuniosity and detachment from everything usually considered as

necessary for permanent existence.

I asked permission to have my Erard brought to my room for the period

of my stay, as it had not been packed away with the rest of my

furniture, whereupon a handsome room was given up to me on the first

floor. Here I worked every morning at the translation of my Fliegender

Hollander, and also composed two musical album pieces, one of which,

intended for Princess Metternich, contained a pretty theme which had

long floated in my mind, and was afterwards published, while a similar

one, for Frau Pourtales, got somehow mislaid.

My intercourse with the family of my friend and host had not only a

soothing influence upon my spirit, but also filled me with calm

content. We dined together daily, and the midday meal often developed

into the well-known 'diplomatic dinner.' I here made acquaintance with

the former Prussian minister, Bethmann-Hollweg, the father of Countess

Pourtales, with whom I discussed in detail my ideas respecting the

relations between art and the state. When at last I had succeeded in

making them clear to the minister, our conversation closed with the

fatal assertion that such an understanding with the supreme head of the

state would always remain an impossibility, seeing that in his eyes art

belonged merely to the realm of amusement.

In addition to Count Hatzfeld, the two other attaches, Prince Reuss and

Count Donhoff, often shared these domestic gatherings. The former

seemed to be the politician of the company, and was particularly

commended to me on account of the great and able efforts he had made on

my behalf at the Imperial Court, while the latter simply appealed to me

by his looks and by his attractive and open-hearted friendliness. Here,

too, I was again frequently brought into social contact with Prince and

Princess Metternich, but I could not help noticing that a certain

embarrassment marked our demeanour. Owing to her energetic complicity

in the fate of Tannhauser, Princess Pauline had not only been subjected

to the coarsest handling by the press, but had also suffered the most

ungallant and ill-natured treatment at the hands of so-called higher

society. Her husband seems to have borne all this very well, though

doubtless he experienced many a bitter moment. It was difficult for me

now to understand what compensation the Princess could have found in a

genuine sympathy for my art for all she had been obliged to endure.

Thus I frequently spent the evenings in familiar intercourse with my

amiable hosts, and was even seduced into trying to instruct them about

Schopenhauer. On one occasion a larger evening assembly led to almost

intoxicating excitement. Selections from several of my works were

vivaciously played in a circle of friends all very much prepossessed in

my favour. Saint-Saens took the piano, and I had the unusual experience

of hearing the final scene of Isolde rendered by the Neapolitan

Princess Campo-Reale, who, to that excellent musician's accompaniment,

sang it with a beautiful German accent and an astounding faithfulness

of intonation.

I thus passed three weeks in peace and quiet. Meanwhile, Count

Pourtales had procured me a superior Prussian ministerial passport for

my projected visit to Germany, his attempt to get me a Saxon passport

having failed, owing to the nervousness of Herr von Seebach.

This time, before taking leave of Paris--for ever, as I supposed--I

felt impelled to bid an intimate farewell to the few French friends who

had stood by me loyally in the difficulties I had overcome. We met at a

cafe in Rue Lafitte--Gasperini, Champfleury, Truinet and I--and talked

until late in the night. When I was about to start on my homeward way

to the Faubourg St. Germain, Champfleury, who lived on the heights of

Montmartre, declared that he must take me home, because we did not know

whether we should ever see each other again. I enjoyed the exquisite

effect of the bright moonlight on the deserted Paris streets; only the

huge business firms, whose premises extend to the uppermost floors,

seemed to have turned night into day in a picturesque fashion,

particularly those houses which have been pressed into the service of

trade in the Rue Richelieu. Champfleury smoked his short pipe and

discussed with me the prospects of French politics. His father was, he

told me, an old Bonapartist of the first water, but had been moved to

exclaim, a short time before, after reading the papers day after day,

'Pourtant, avant de mourir je voudrais voir autre chose.' We parted

very affectionately at the door of the embassy.

I took leave in equally friendly fashion of a young Parisian friend,

who has not yet been mentioned--Gustave Dore--who had been sent to me

by Ollivier at the very outset of my Paris venture. He had proposed to

make a fantastic drawing of me in the act of conducting, without, it is

true, ever realising his intention. I do not know why, except, perhaps,

that I did not show any particular inclination for it. Dore remained

loyal to me, however, and was one of those who made a point of

demonstrating their friendship just now in their extreme indignation at

the outrage inflicted on me. This extraordinarily prolific artist

proposed to include the Nibelungen among his many subjects for

illustration, and I wished first to make him acquainted with my

interpretation of this cycle of legends. This was undoubtedly

difficult, but as he assured me he had a friend well versed in the

German language and German literature, I gave myself the pleasure of

presenting him with the recently published pianoforte score of

Rheingold, the text of which would give him the clearest idea of the

plan on which I had moulded the material. I thus returned the

compliment of his having sent me a copy of his illustrations to Dante,

which had just appeared.

Full of pleasant and agreeable impressions, which formed the only

actual gain of real worth that I reaped from my Paris enterprise, I

left the generous asylum offered by my Prussian friends the first week

in August to go, first, to Soden by way of Cologne. Here I found Minna

in the society of Mathilde Schiffner, who seemed to have become

indispensable to her as an easy victim for her tyranny. I spent two

extremely painful days there in trying to make the poor woman

understand that she was to establish herself at Dresden (where I was

not at present allowed to stay), while I looked about me in Germany--in

Vienna first--for a new centre of operations. She glanced at her friend

with peculiar satisfaction on hearing my proposal and my promise to

remember, under any circumstances, to provide her with three thousand

marks a year. This bargain set the standard of my relation to her for

the rest of her life. She went with me as far as Frankfort, where I

parted from her to go, for the time being, to Weimar--the town where

Schopenhauer had died a short time before.