PART IV

1861-1864

AND so I again crossed Thuringia, passing the Wartburg which, whether I

visited it or merely saw it in the distance, seemed so strangely bound

up with my departures from Germany or my return thither. I reached

Weimar at two in the morning, and was conducted later in the day to the

rooms which Liszt had arranged for my use at the Altenburg. They were,

as he took good care to inform me, Princess Marie's rooms. This time,

however, there were no women to entertain us. Princess Caroline was

already in Rome, and her daughter had married Prince Constantin

Hohenlohe and gone to Vienna. There was only Miss Anderson, Princess

Marie's governess, left to help Liszt entertain his guests. Indeed, I

found the Altenburg was about to be closed, and that Liszt's youthful

uncle Eduard had come from Vienna for this purpose, and also to make an

inventory of all its contents. But at the same time there reigned an

unusual stir of conviviality in connection with the Society of Musical

Artists, as Liszt was putting up a considerable number of musicians

himself, first and foremost among his guests being Bulow and Cornelius.

Every one, including Liszt himself, was wearing a travelling cap, and

this strange choice of head-dress seemed to me typical of the lack of

ceremony attending this rural festival at Weimar. On the top floor of

the house Franz Brendel and his wife were installed with some

splendour, and a swarm of musicians soon filled the place, among them

my old acquaintance Drasecke and a certain young man called Weisheimer,

whom Liszt had once sent to see me at Zurich. Tausig put in an

appearance too, but excluded himself from most of our free and easy

gatherings to carry on a love-affair with a young lady. Liszt gave me

Emilie Genast as a companion on one or two short excursions, an

arrangement with which I found no fault, as she was witty and very

intelligent. I made the acquaintance of Damrosch too, a violinist and a

musician. It was a great pleasure to see my old friend Alwine Frommann,

who had come in spite of her somewhat strained relations with Liszt;

and when Blandine and Ollivier arrived from Paris and became my

neighbours on the Altenburg, the days which were lively before to begin

with, now became boisterously merry. Bulow, who had been chosen to

conduct Liszt's Faust Symphony, seemed to me the wildest of all. His

activity was extraordinary. He had learned the entire score by heart,

and gave us an unusually precise, intelligent, and spirited performance

with an orchestra composed of anything but the pick of German players.

After this symphony the Prometheus music had the greatest success,

while I was particularly affected by Emilie Genast's singing of a

song-cycle, composed by Bulow, called Die Entsagende. There was little

else that was enjoyable at the festival concert with the exception of a

cantata, Das Grab im Busento by Weisheimer, and a regular scandal arose

in connection with Drasecke's 'German March.' For some obscure reason

Liszt adopted a challenging and protecting attitude towards this

strange composition, written apparently in mockery by a man of great

talent in other directions. Liszt insisted on Bulow's conducting the

march, and ultimately Hans made a success of it, even doing it by

heart; but the whole thing ended in the following incredible scene. The

jubilant reception of Liszt's own works had not once induced him to

show himself to the audience, but when Drasecke's march, which

concluded the programme, was at last rejected by the audience in an

irresistible wave of ill-humour, Liszt came into the stage-box and,

stretching out his hands, clapped vigorously and shouted 'Bravos.' A

real battle set in between Liszt, whose face was red with anger, and

the audience. Blandine, who was sitting next to me, was, like me,

beside herself at this outrageously provocative behaviour on the part

of her father, and it was a long time before we could compose ourselves

after the incident. There was little in the way of explanation to be

got out of Liszt. We only heard him refer a few times, in terms of

furious contempt, to the audience, 'for whom the march was far and away

too good.' I heard from another quarter that this was a form of revenge

on the regular Weimar public, but it was a strange way of wreaking it,

as they were not represented on this occasion. Liszt thought it was a

good opportunity to avenge Cornelius, whose opera The Barber of Bagdad

had been hissed by the Weimar public when Liszt had conducted it in

person some time previously. Besides this, I could of course see that

Liszt had much to bear in other directions. He admitted to me that he

had been trying to induce the Grand Duke of Weimar to show me some

particular mark of distinction. He first wanted him to invite me, with

himself, to dine at court, but as the Duke had qualms about

entertaining a person who was still exiled from the kingdom of Saxony

as a political refugee, Liszt thought he could at least get me the

Order of the White Falcon. This too was refused him, and as his

exertions at court had been so fruitless, he was bent on making the

townsmen of the Residency do their part in celebrating my presence. A

torchlight procession was accordingly arranged, but when I heard of it

I took all possible pains to thwart the plan--and succeeded. But I was

not to get off without any ovation at all. One afternoon Justizrath

Gille of Jena and six students grouped themselves under my window, and

sang a nice little choral society song, for which attention I thanked

them most warmly. A contrast to this was presented by the great banquet

attended by all the musical artists. I sat between Blandine and

Ollivier, and the feast developed into a really hearty ovation for the

composer of Tannhauser and Lohengrin, whom they now 'welcomed back to

Germany after he had won their love and esteem during his banishment.'

Liszt's speech was short but vigorous, and I had to respond in greater

detail to another speaker. Very pleasant were the select gatherings

which on several occasions met round Liszt's own dinner-table, and I

thought of the absent hostess of Altenburg at one of them. Once we had

our meal in the garden, and I had the pleasure of seeing my good friend

Alwine Frommann there conversing intelligently with Ollivier, as a

reconciliation with Liszt had taken place.

The day for parting was drawing near for us all, after a week of very

varied and exciting experiences. A happy chance enabled me to make the

greater part of my prearranged journey to Vienna in the company of

Blandine and Ollivier, who had decided to visit Cosima at Reichenhall,

where she was staying for a 'cure.' As we were all saying good-bye to

Liszt on the railway platform, we thought of Bulow, who had

distinguished himself so remarkably in the past few days. He had

started a day in advance, and we exhausted ourselves in singing his

praises, though I added with jesting familiarity, 'There was no

necessity for him to marry Cosima.' And Liszt added, bowing slightly,

'That was a luxury.'

We travellers--Blandine and I, that is--soon fell into a frivolous mood

which was much intensified by Ollivier's query, repeated after each

burst of laughter, 'Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?' He had to submit

good-humouredly to our continuous joking in German, though we always

responded in French to his frequent demands for tonique or jambon cru,

which seemed to form the staple of his diet. It was long after midnight

when we reached Nuremberg, where we were obliged to halt for the night.

We got ourselves conveyed to an inn by dint of much effort, and were

kept waiting there some time before the door opened. A fat and elderly

innkeeper acceded to our entreaties to give us rooms, late as it was,

but to accomplish this he found it necessary--after much anxious

reflection--to leave us in the hall for a good long time while he

vanished down a back passage. There he stood outside a bedroom door,

and we heard him calling 'Margarethe' in bashful and friendly tones. He

repeated the name several times with the information that visitors had

arrived, and a woman answered him with oaths. After much pressing

entreaty on the innkeeper's part Margarethe at last appeared, in

neglige, and showed us, after various mysterious confabulations with

the host, the rooms selected for us. The odd part of the incident was

that the immoderate laughter in which we all three indulged seemed to

be noticed neither by the innkeeper nor by his chambermaid. The next

day we went to see some of the sights of the town, last of all the

Germanisches Museum, which was in such a wretched condition at that

time as to earn the contempt of my French companion particularly. The

large collection of instruments of torture, which included a box

studded with nails, filled Blandine with sympathetic horror.

We reached Munich that evening, and inspected it the next day (after

tonique and ham had again been obtained) with great satisfaction,

particularly on the part of Ollivier, who thought that the 'antique'

style in which King Ludwig I. had had the museums built contrasted most

favourably with the buildings with which, much to his indignation, it

had pleased Louis Napoleon to fill Paris. I here ran across an old

acquaintance, young Hornstein, whom I introduced to my friends as 'the

baron.' His comical figure and clumsy behaviour gave them food for

mirth, which degenerated into a positive orgy of merriment when 'the

baron' thought it necessary, before we started on our night journey to

Reichenhall, to take us to a Bier-Brauerei some distance away, so that

we should see that side of Munich life. It was pitch dark and there was

no light provided, except a stump of a candle to light 'the baron,' who

had to go down himself to fetch the beer from the cellar. The beer

certainly tasted particularly good, and Hornstein repeated his descent

into the cellar several times. When, being obliged to hurry, we set off

on our perilous journey across fields and ditches to the station, we

found that the unwonted refreshment had somewhat dazed us. Blandine

fell fast asleep as soon as she got into the carriage, only waking at

daybreak when we arrived at Reichenhall. Here Cosima met us, and took

us to the rooms that had been prepared for us.

We were first of all rejoiced to find Cosima's state of health much

less alarming than we--I in particular--had known it to be before. She

had been ordered a sour-milk cure, and we went to look on the next

morning when she took her walk to the institution. Cosima appeared to

lay less stress on the actual milk-drinking, however, than on the walks

and the sojourn in the splendid, bracing, mountain air. Ollivier and I

were generally excluded from the merriment which here too immediately

set in, as the two sisters, to secure more privacy for their

talks--they laughed so incessantly that they could be heard a long way

off--usually shut themselves away from us in their bedrooms, and almost

my only resource was to converse in French with my political friend. I

succeeded in gaining admission to the sisters once or twice, to

announce to them amongst other things my intention of adopting them, as

their father took no more notice of them--a proposition received with

more mirth than confidence. I once deplored Cosima's wild ways to

Blandine, who seemed unable to understand me, until she had persuaded

herself that I meant timidite d'un sauvage by my expression. After a

few days I had really to think of continuing my journey, which had been

so pleasantly interrupted. I said good-bye in the hall, and caught a

glimpse of almost timid inquiry from Cosima.

I first drove down the valley to Salzburg in a one-horse carriage. On

the Austrian frontier I had an adventure with the custom-house. Liszt

had given me at Weimar a box of the most costly cigars--a present to

him from Baron Sina. As I knew from my visit to Venice what incredible

formalities make it exceedingly difficult to introduce these articles

into Austria, I hit upon the plan of hiding the cigars singly among my

dirty linen and in the pockets of my clothes. The officer, who was an

old soldier, seemed to be prepared for precautionary measures of this

sort, and drew forth the corpora delicta skilfully from all the folds

of my little trunk. I tried to bribe him with a tip, which he actually

accepted, and I was all the more indignant when, in spite of this, he

denounced me to the authorities. I was made to pay a heavy fine, but

received permission to buy back the cigars. This I furiously declined

to do. With the receipt of the fine I had paid, however, I was also

given back the Prussian thaler which the old soldier had quietly tucked

away before, and when I got into my carriage to continue the journey I

saw the same officer sitting placidly before his beer and bread and

cheese. He bowed very politely, and I offered to give him his thaler

back, but this time he refused it. I have often been angry with myself

since for not asking the man's name, as I clung to the notion that he

must be a particularly faithful servant, in which capacity I should

like to have engaged him myself later on.

I touched at Salzburg, arriving soaked through by floods of rain, and

spent the night there, and on the following day at last reached my

place of destination--Vienna. I proposed to accept the hospitality of

Kolatschek, with whom I had been friendly in Switzerland. He had long

since been granted an amnesty by Austria, and had, on my last visit to

Vienna, called on me and offered me the use of his house, to avoid the

unpleasantness of an inn, in the event of my returning for a longer

stay. For reasons of economy alone--and these at the time were very

urgent--I had willingly accepted this offer, and now drove direct with

my hand luggage to the house described. To my surprise I at once

discovered that I was in an exceedingly remote suburb, practically cut

off from Vienna itself. The house was quite deserted, Kolatschek and

his family having gone to a summer resort at Hutteldorf. With some

difficulty I unearthed an old servant, who seemed to think she had been

warned of my arrival by her master. She showed me a small room in which

I could sleep if I liked, but was apparently unable to provide either

linen or service of any kind. Greatly discomfited by this

disappointment, I first drove back into town to wait for Kolatschek at

a certain cafe in Stephan's Platz, which, according to the servant, he

was likely to visit at a particular time. I had been sitting there a

good while, making repeated inquiries for the man I expected to see,

when suddenly I saw Standhartner come in. His extreme surprise at

finding me there was intensified, as he told me, by the fact that he

had never in his life entered this cafe. It had been quite a special

coincidence that had brought him there on that day and at that time. On

being made aware of my situation he at once became furious at the idea

of my living in the most deserted part of Vienna when I had such

pressing business in the city, and promptly offered me his own house

for temporary quarters, as he and all his family would be away for six

weeks. A pretty niece, who, with her mother and sister, lived in the

same house, was to see to all my wants, including breakfast, etc., and

I should be able to make use of the whole place with the greatest

freedom. He took me triumphantly home with him at once to a deserted

dwelling, as the family had already gone to their summer resort at

Salzburg. I let Kolatschek know, had my luggage brought in, and for a

few days had the pleasure of Standhartner's society and easy

hospitality. I realised, however, from information given me by my

friend, that my path was beset with new difficulties. The rehearsals

for Tristan und Isolde, which had been planned in the spring to take

place about this time (I had arrived in Vienna on 14th August), had

been postponed indefinitely as Ander, the tenor, had sent word that he

had injured his voice. On hearing this I at once concluded that my stay

in Vienna would be useless; but I knew that no one would be able to

suggest any other place where I could employ myself profitably.

My situation was, as I now saw plainly, quite hopeless, for every one

seemed to have deserted me. A few years back I might, in a similar

case, have flattered myself that Liszt would be pleased to have me at

Weimar during the period of waiting, but if I returned to Germany just

now I should only have to look on at the dismantling of the house--to

which I have already alluded. My chief concern, then, was to find a

friendly shelter somewhere. It was with this sole end in view that I

turned to the Grand Duke of Baden, who had shortly before greeted me

with such kindness and sympathy. I wrote him a beseeching letter,

urging him to consider my necessitous condition. I pointed out that

what I wanted, above all, was an asylum, however modest, and implored

him to provide me with one in or near Karlsruhe, by securing me a

pension of two thousand four hundred marks. Judge of my surprise on

receiving a reply, not in the Grand Duke's own hand, but only signed by

him, to the effect that if my request were granted, it would probably

mean that I would interfere with the management of the theatre, and, as

a very natural result, discussions would ensue with the director (my

old friend E. Devrient, who was now doing splendidly). As the Grand

Duke would in any such case feel obliged to act in the interests of

justice, 'possibly to my disadvantage,' as he put it, he must, after

mature consideration, regretfully decline to accede to my request.

Princess Meternich, who had suspected my embarrassment on that score

also when I left Paris, had given me a warm recommendation to Count

Nako and his family in Vienna, referring me with particular emphasis to

his wife. Now I had made the acquaintance through Standhartner, during

the short time before he left me, of young Prince Rudolph

Liechtenstein--known to his friends as Rudi. His doctor, with whom he

was very intimate, had spoken of him to me in the most flattering way

as being a passionate admirer of my music. I often met him at meal

times at the 'Erzherzog Karl,' after Standhartner had joined his

family, and we planned a visit to Count Nako on his estate at

Schwarzau, some distance away. The journey was made in the most

comfortable fashion, partly by rail, in the company of the Prince's

young wife. They introduced me to the Nakos at Schwarzau. The Count

proved to be a particularly handsome man, while his wife was more of a

cultured gipsy, whose talent for painting was evidenced in striking

fashion by the gigantic copies of Van Dyck resplendent on the walls. It

was more painful to hear her amuse herself at the piano, where she gave

faithful renderings of gipsy music, which, she said, Liszt failed to

do. The music to Lohengrin seemed to have prepossessed them all very

much in my favour, and this appreciation was confirmed by other

magnates who were visiting there, among them being Count Edmund Zichy,

whom I had known in Venice. I was thus able to observe the character of

unconstrained Hungarian hospitality, without being much edified by the

subjects of conversation, and I had soon, alas! to face the question as

to what I was to get from these people. I was given a decent room for

the night, and on the following day took an early opportunity of

looking round the beautifully kept precincts of the majestic castle,

wondering in which part of the building there might be found room for

me in case of a longer visit. But my remarks in praise of the size of

the building were met at breakfast with the assurance that it really

was hardly big enough for the family, as the young Countess in

particular lived in great style with her suite. It was a cold morning

in September, and we spent it out of doors. My friend Rudi seemed to be

out of humour. I felt cold, and very soon took leave of the great man's

board with the consciousness of having rarely found myself in the

company of such nice people without discovering the smallest subject in

common. This consciousness grew into a positive feeling of disgust when

I was driving with several of the cavalieri to the station at Modling,

for I was reduced to absolute silence during the hour's drive, as they

had literally only the one topic of conversation, by that time so

terribly familiar to me!--namely horses.

I got out at Modling to call on Ander the tenor, having invited myself

for that day with the intention of going through Tristan. It was still

very early on a bright morning, and the day was gradually growing

warmer. I decided to take a walk in the lovely Bruhl before looking up

Ander. There I ordered a lunch in the garden of the beautifully

situated inn, and enjoyed an extremely refreshing hour of complete

solitude. The wild birds had already ceased singing, but I shared my

meal with an army of sparrows, which assumed alarming proportions. As I

fed them with bread-crumbs, they finally became so tame that they

settled in swarms on the table in front of me to seize their booty. I

was reminded of the morning in the tavern with the landlord Homo in

Montmorency. Here again, after shedding many a tear, I laughed aloud,

and set off to Ander's summer residence. Unfortunately his condition

confirmed the statement that the injury to his voice was not merely an

excuse; but in any case I soon saw that this helpless person could

never under any circumstances be equal to the task of playing Tristan,

demi-god as he was, in Vienna. All the same I did my best, as I was

there, to show him the whole of Tristan in my own interpretation of the

part (which always excited me very much), after which he declared that

it might have been written for him. I had arranged for Tausig and

Cornelius, whom I had again met in Vienna, to come out to Ander's house

that day, and I returned with them in the evening.

I spent a good deal of time with these two, who were sincerely

concerned about me and did their best to cheer me. Tausig, it is true,

was rather more reserved, as he had aspirations in high quarters at

that time. But he, too, accepted Frau Dustmann's invitations to the

three of us. She was then at Hietzing for the summer, and there dinners

were given more than once, and also a few vocal rehearsals for Isolde,

for which part her voice seemed to possess some of the spiritual

susceptibility required. There, too, I read through the poem of Tristan

again, still thinking the prospect of its performance possible with the

exercise of patience and enthusiasm. For the present patience was the

quality most needed; certainly nothing was to be obtained by

enthusiasm. Ander's voice still failed him and did not improve, and no

doctor was prepared to fix a limit to his malady. I got through the

time as best I could, and hit upon the idea of translating back into

German the new scene to Tannhauser, written to a French text for the

performance in Paris. Cornelius had first to copy it from the original

score for me, as this was in a very defective condition. I accepted his

copy without inquiring further about the original left in his hands,

and we shall see the result of this later on.

A musician named Winterberger also joined our party. He was an old

acquaintance, and I found him in a position I much envied. Countess

Banfy, an old friend of Liszt's, had taken him into her very pleasant

house at Hietzing, and he was thus in excellent quarters, living at

ease, and with nothing to trouble about, as the kind lady thought it

her duty to keep this fellow--in other respects so

undeserving--supplied with everything. Through him I again had news of

Karl Ritter, and was told that he was now at Naples, where he lived in

the house of a piano-maker, whose children he had to teach in return

for board and lodging. It seems that Winterberger, after running

through everything, had on the strength of some of Liszt's

introductions started off to seek his fortune in Hungary. But things

did not fall out to his satisfaction, and he was now enjoying

compensation in the house of the worthy Countess. I met an excellent

harpist there--also one of the family--Fraulein Mossner. By the

Countess's orders she was made to betake herself and her harp to the

garden, where, either at or with her harp, she had a most pert air and

looked quite delightful, so that I gained an impression which lingered

pleasantly in my mind. Unfortunately I became involved in a quarrel

with the young lady because I would not compose a solo for her

instrument. From the time when I definitely refused to humour her

ambitions she took no more notice of me.

The poet Hebbel must be mentioned among the special acquaintances I

made in Vienna during this difficult epoch. As it seemed not unlikely

that I should have to make Vienna the scene of my labours for some

time, I thought it desirable to become better acquainted with the

literary celebrities living there. I prepared myself for meeting Hebbel

by taking considerable trouble to read his dramatic pieces beforehand,

doing my best to think that they were good and that a closer

acquaintance with the author was desirable. I was not to be deterred

from my purpose by my consciousness of the great weakness of his poems,

although I realised the unnaturalness of his conceptions and the

invariably affected and frequently vulgar form of expression. I only

visited him once, and did not have a particularly long talk with him

even then. I did not find any expression in the poet's personality of

the eccentric force which threatens to explode in the figures of his

dramas. When I heard, some years later, that Hebbel had died of

softening of the bones, I understood why he had affected me so

unpleasantly. He talked about the theatrical world in Vienna with the

air of an amateur who feels himself neglected but continues to work in

a businesslike fashion. I felt no particular desire to repeat my visit,

especially after his return call in my absence, when he left a card

announcing himself as 'Hebbel, chevalier de plusieurs ordres!'

My old friend Heinrich Laube had now long been established as director

of the Royal and Imperial Court Theatre. He had felt it his duty on my

previous visit to Vienna to introduce me to the literary celebrities,

among whom, being of a practical turn, he counted chiefly journalists

and critics. He invited Dr. Hanslick to a big dinner-party, thinking I

should be particularly interested in meeting him, and was surprised

that I had not a word to say to him. The conclusions Laube drew from

this led him to prophesy that I should find it hard to get on in Vienna

if I really hoped to make it the sphere of my artistic labours. On my

return this time he welcomed me simply as an old friend, and begged me

to dine with him as often as I cared to come. He was a passionate

sportsman, and was able to provide the luxury of fresh game for his

table. I did not avail myself very often of this invitation, however,

as the conversation, which was inspired solely by the dull business

routine of the stage, did not attract me. After dinner a few actors and

literary men would come in for coffee and cigars, sitting at a large

table where Laube's wife generally held her court, while Laube himself

enjoyed his rest and his cigar in silence. Frau Laube had consented to

become Theatre Directrice solely to please her husband, and now thought

herself obliged to make long and careful speeches about things of which

she had no understanding whatever. The only pleasure I had was in

renewed glimpses of the good-nature which I had admired in her of old;

for instance, when none of the company dared to oppose her, and I

intervened with some frank criticism, she usually accepted it with

unreserved merriment. To her and her husband I probably seemed a

good-natured sort of fool and nothing more, for my conversation was

generally in a joking strain, as I was utterly indifferent to their

earnestness. In fact, when I gave my concerts in Vienna later on, Frau

Laube remarked with the most friendly air of surprise that I was quite

a good conductor, contrary to what she had expected after reading some

newspaper report or other.

For one thing, Laube's practical knowledge was not without importance,

as he could tell me all about the character of the chief inspectors of

the Royal and Imperial Court Theatre. It now transpired that the

Imperial Councillor, von Raymond, was a most important personage, and

the aged Count Lanckoronski, the Lord High Marshall, who in other

respects was extremely tenacious of his authority, could not trust

himself to come to any decision in matters of finance without

consulting this exceedingly competent man.

Raymond himself, whom I soon got to know and regard as a model of

ignorance, took fright and felt bound to withhold his consent to my

performance of Tristan, mainly on account of the Vienna papers, which

always ran me down and scoffed at my proposal. Officially I was

referred to the actual manager of the Opera, Herr Salvi, who had

formerly been the singing-master of a lady-in-waiting to the Grand

Duchess Sophia. He was an absolutely incapable and ignorant man, who

was obliged to pretend in front of me that, according to the command of

the supreme authorities, nothing lay so near his heart as the

furtherance of the performance of Tristan. Accordingly he tried by

perpetual expressions of zeal and goodwill to conceal the increasing

spirit of doubt and hesitation with which even the staff was imbued.

I found out the state of affairs one day when a company of our singers

was invited with me to the country house of a certain Herr Dumba, who

was introduced to me as a most enthusiastic well-wisher. Herr Ander had

taken the score of Tristan with him, as if to show that he could not

part with it for a single day. Frau Dustmann grew very angry about it,

and accused Ander of trying to impose upon me by playing the hypocrite;

for he knew as well as any one else that he would never sing that part,

and that the management was only awaiting a chance of preventing the

performance of Tristan in some way or other, and then laying the blame

on her shoulders. Salvi tried most zealously to interfere in these

extremely awkward revelations. He recommended me to choose the tenor

Walter, and as I objected on the ground of my antipathy to the man, he

next referred me to certain foreign singers whom he was quite ready to

approach.

As a matter of fact, we tried a few outside players of whom the most

promising was a certain Signor Morini, and I really felt so depressed

and so desirous of furthering my work at any price that I attended a

performance of Luzia by Donizetti with my friend Cornelius to see if I

could extract from him a favourable judgment of the singer. Cornelius,

who was apparently absorbed in listening, whilst I attentively watched

him, suddenly started up in a passion and exclaimed, 'Horrible!

horrible!' which made us both laugh so heartily that we soon left the

theatre in quite a cheerful frame of mind.

At last I carried on my negotiations with the conductor Heinrich Esser

alone, as he was apparently the only honest man in the management.

Although he found Tristan very difficult, yet he worked at it with

great earnestness, and never really gave up the hope of making a

performance possible, if only I would accept Walter as the tenor; but,

in spite of my persistent refusal to make use of such help, we always

remained good friends. As he, like myself, was a keen walker, we often

explored the neighbourhood of Vienna, and our conversations during

these expeditions were enthusiastic on my part and thoroughly honest

and serious on his.

Whilst these Tristan matters were running their weary course like a

chronic disease, whose outcome it is impossible to foresee,

Standhartner returned at the end of September with his family.

Consequently the next thing I had to do was to look out for a

residence, which I chose in the Hotel Kaiserin Elizabeth. Through my

cordial intercourse with the family of this friend I became quite

intimate not only with his wife, but also with her three sons and a

daughter by her first marriage, and a younger daughter by the second

marriage with Standhartner. On looking back upon my former residence in

my friend's house, I greatly missed the presence and kindly care

bestowed upon me by his niece Seraphine, whom I have already mentioned,

as well as her untiring thoughtfulness and pleasant, amusing

companionship. On account of her natty figure and hair carefully curled

a I'enfant, I had given her the name of 'The Doll.' Now I had to look

after myself in the dull room of the hotel, and the expense of my

living increased considerably. I remember at that time that I had only

received twenty-five or thirty louis d'or for Tannhauser from

Brunswick. On the other hand, Minna sent me from Dresden a few leaves

of the silver-spangled wreath presented by some of her friends as a

souvenir of her silver wedding-day, which she had celebrated on the

24th of November. I could hardly wonder that there was no lack of

bitter reproach on her part when sending me this gift; however, I tried

to inspire her with the hope of having a golden wedding. For the

present, seeing that I was staying without any object in an expensive

Viennese hotel, I did my utmost to secure a chance of performing

Tristan. First I turned to Tichatschek in Dresden, but obtained no

promise from him. I then had recourse to Schnorr, with a similar

result, and I was at last obliged to acknowledge that my affairs were

in a bad way. Of this I made no secret in my occasional communications

to the Wesendoncks, who, apparently to cheer me up, invited me to meet

them in Venice, where they were just going for a pleasure trip. Heaven

knows what my intention was as I started off in a casual sort of way by

train, first to Trieste and then by steamer (which did not agree with

me at all) to Venice, where I again put up in my little room at the

Hotel Danieli.

My friends, whom I found in very flourishing circumstances, seemed to

be revelling in the pictures, and fully expected that a participation

in their enjoyment would drive away my 'blues.' They seemed to have no

desire to realise my position in Vienna. Indeed, after the ill-success

of my Paris under-taking, entered upon with such glorious

anticipations, I had learned to recognise among most of my friends a

tacitly submissive abandonment of all hope for my future success.

Wesendonck, who always went about armed with huge field-glasses, and

was ever ready for sight-seeing, only once took me with him to see the

Academy of Arts, a building which on my former visit to Venice I had

only known from the outside. In spite of all my indifference, I must

confess that the 'Assumption of the Virgin' by Titian exercised a most

sublime influence over me, so that, as soon as I realised its

conception, my old powers revived within me, as though by a sudden

flash of inspiration.

I determined at once on the composition of the Meistersinger.

After a frugal dinner with my old acquaintances Tessarin and the

Wesendoncks, whom I invited to the Albergo San Alarco, and once more

exchanging friendly greetings with Luigia, my former attendant at the

Palazzo Giustiniani, to the astonishment of my friends I suddenly left

Venice. I had spent four dreary days there, and now started by train on

my dull journey to Vienna, following the roundabout overland route. It

was during this journey that the music of the Meistersinger first

dawned on my mind, in which I still retained the libretto as I had

originally conceived it. With the utmost distinctness I at once

composed the principal part of the Overture in C major.

Under the influence of these last impressions I arrived in Vienna in a

very cheerful frame of mind. I at once announced my return to Cornelius

by sending him a small Venetian gondola, which I had bought for him in

Venice, and to which I added a canzona written with nonsensical Italian

words. The communication of my plan for the immediate composition of

the Meistersinger made him almost frantic with delight, and until my

departure from Vienna he remained in a state of delirious excitement.

I urged my friend to procure me material for mastering the subject of

the Meistersinger. My first idea was to make a thorough study of

Grimm's controversy on the Song of the Meistersinger; and the next

question was how to get hold of old Wagenseil's Nuremberg Chronicle.

Cornelius accompanied me to the Imperial Library, but in order to

obtain a loan of this book, which we were fortunate enough to find, my

friend was obliged to visit Baron Munch-Bellinghausen (Halm), a visit

which he described to me as very disagreeable. I remained at my hotel,

eagerly making extracts of portions of the Chronicle, which to the

astonishment of the ignorant I appropriated for my libretto.

But my most urgent task was to secure some means of livelihood during

the composition of my work. I applied first to the music publisher

Schott at Mayence, to whom I offered the Meistersinger if he would make

me the necessary advance. Being animated by the desire to provide

myself with money for as long a time as possible, I offered him not

only the literary rights, but also the rights of performance for my

work, for the sum of twenty thousand francs. A telegram from Schott

containing an absolute refusal at once destroyed all hope. As I was now

obliged to think of other means, I decided to turn to Berlin. Bulow,

who was always kindly exerting himself on my behalf, had hinted at the

possibility of being able to raise a considerable sum of money there by

means of a concert, which I should conduct; and as I was at the same

time longing to find a home amongst friends, Berlin seemed to beckon me

as a last refuge. At noon, just before the evening of my intended

departure, a letter came from Schott, following on his telegram of

refusal, which certainly held out some more consoling prospect. He

offered to undertake the publication of the pianoforte edition of the

Walkure at once and to advance me three thousand marks to be deducted

from a future account. The joy of Cornelius at what he called the

salvation of the Meistersinger knew no bounds. From Berlin Bulow, in

great indignation and evident low spirits, wrote to me of his dreadful

experiences in attempting to organise my concert. Herr von Hulsen

declared that he would not countenance my visit to Berlin, while as to

giving a concert at the great Kroll Restaurant, Bulow found after much

deliberation that it would be quite impracticable.

Whilst I was busily engaged on a detailed scenic sketch of the

Meistersinger, the arrival of Prince and Princess Metternich in Vienna

seemed to create a favourable diversion on my behalf.

The concern expressed by my Paris patrons about me and my position was

undoubtedly real; therefore, in order to show myself gratefully

disposed towards them, I induced the management of the Opera to allow

me to invite their splendid orchestra for a few hours one morning to

play some selections from Tristan in the theatre by way of rehearsal.

Both the orchestra and Frau Dustmann were quite ready to grant my

request in the most friendly manner, and Princess Metternich, with some

of her acquaintances, was invited to this rehearsal. With the orchestra

we played through two of the principal selections, namely, the prelude

to the first act, and the beginning of the second act, as far as the

middle, while the singing part was sustained by Frau Dustmann, the

whole being so brilliantly executed that I felt fully justified in

believing I had created a most excellent impression. Herr Ander, too,

had appeared on the scene, but without knowing a single note of the

music or attempting to sing it. Both my princely friends, as well as

Fraulein Couqui, the premiere danseuse, who singularly enough had

attended the rehearsal on the sly, overwhelmed me with enthusiastic

marks of admiration. Hearing of my ardent desire for retirement in

order to go on with the composition of a new work, the Metternichs one

day suggested that they were in a position to offer me just such a

quiet retreat in Paris. The Prince, who had now completely arranged his

spacious embassy, could place at my disposal a pleasant suite of rooms

looking on to a quiet garden, just like the one I had found in the

Prussian embassy. My Erard was still in Paris, and if I could arrange

to go there at the end of the year, I should find everything ready for

me to begin my work. With unconcealed joy I most gratefully accepted

this kind invitation, and my only care now was so to arrange my affairs

that I could take my departure from Vienna and effect my removal to

Paris in a proper manner. The arrangement that had been made through

Standhartner's mediation, that the management should pay me a part of

the stipulated fee for Tristan, would be a great help in this. But as I

was only to get one thousand marks, and even this was to be subject to

so many clauses and conditions as to suggest a desire to renounce the

whole transaction, I at once rejected the offer. This fact, however,

did not prevent the press, which was always in touch with the

theatrical management, from publishing that I had accepted an indemnity

for the non-performance of Tristan. Fortunately I was able to protest

against this calumny by producing proof of what I had actually done in

the matter. Meanwhile, the negotiations with Schott dragged out to some

length, because I would not agree at present to his suggestions about

the Walkure. I adhered to my first offer of a new opera, the

Meistersinger, and at last received three thousand marks as an

instalment on this work. As soon as I had received the cheque, I packed

up my things, when a telegram from Princess Metternich reached me, in

which she begged of me to put off my departure until the 1st of

January. I decided not give up my plan, being anxious to get away from

Vienna, so I determined to go straight to Mayence to pursue further

negotiations with Schott. My leavetaking at the station was made

particularly gay by Cornelius, who whispered to me with mysterious

enthusiasm a stanza of 'Sachs' which I had communicated to him. This

was the verse:

'Der Vogel der heut' sang, Dem war der Schnabel hold gewachsen; Ward

auch den Meistern dabei bang, Gar wohl gefiel er doch Hans Sachsen.'

[Footnote: 'The bird who sang this morn From Nature's self had learned

his singing; Masters that song may scorn, For aye Hans Sachs will hear

it singing.' (Translation of the Meistersinger, by Frederick

Jameson.)--Editor.]

In Mayence I got to know the Schott family, with whom I had only had a

casual acquaintance in Paris, more intimately. The young musician

Weisheimer, who was just then beginning his career as musical director

at the local theatre, was a daily visitor at their house. At one of our

dinners another young man, Stadl, a lawyer, proposed a remarkable toast

in my honour in a most eloquent and astonishing speech. Notwithstanding

all this I had to recognise that in Franz Schott I was dealing with a

very singular man, and our negotiations proceeded with extraordinary

difficulty. I insisted emphatically on carrying out my first proposal,

namely, that he should provide me for two successive years with funds

necessary for the undisturbed execution of my work. He excused his

unwillingness to do this by pretending it was painful to his feelings

to drive a bargain with a man like myself by purchasing my work for a

certain sum of money, including also the profits of my author's rights

in the theatrical performances; that, in a word, he was a music

publisher, and did not want to be anything else. I represented to him

that he need only advance me the necessary amount in proper form, and

that I would guarantee him the repayment of that proportion of it which

might be considered due payment for the literary property, out of my

future theatrical takings, which would thus be his security.

After a long time he agreed to make advances on 'musical compositions

still to be delivered,' and to this suggestion I gladly acceded,

insisting, however, that I must be able to depend on a total gradual

payment of twenty thousand francs. As, after settling my Vienna hotel

bill, I was in immediate want of money, Schott gave me a draft on

Paris. From that city I now received a letter from Princess Metternich,

which mystified me, inasmuch as it merely announced the sudden death of

her mother, Countess Sandor, and the consequent change in her family

circumstances. Once more I deliberated whether it would not be better,

after all, to take at random a modest lodging in or near Karlsruhe,

which in time might develop into a peaceful and permanent dwelling.

Owing to my difficulty in providing Minna's allowance, which according

to our agreement was three thousand marks a year, it struck me as more

reasonable and certainly more economical to ask my wife to share my

home. But a letter which just then reached me from her, and the main

contents of which were nothing less than an attempt to incite me

against my own friends, scared me away from any thought of reunion with

her, and determined me to adhere to my Paris plans and keep as far away

from her as possible.

So towards the middle of December I started for Paris, where I alighted

at the dingy-looking Hotel Voltaire, situated on the quay of the same

name, and took a very modest room with a pleasant outlook. Here I

wished to remain unrecognised (preparing myself meanwhile for my work)

until I could present myself to Princess Metternich at the beginning of

the new year, according to her wish. In order not to embarrass the

Metternich's friends, Pourtales and Hatzfeld, I pretended that I was

not in Paris, and looked up only those of my old acquaintances who did

not know these gentlemen, such as Truinet, Gasperini, Flaxland, and the

painter Czermak. I met Truinet and his father regularly at supper time

in the Taverne Anglaise, to which I used to make my way unobserved

through the streets at dusk. One day, on opening one of the papers

there I read the news of the death of Count Pourtales. My grief was

great, and I felt particularly sorry that, out of my singular regard

for the Metternichs, I had neglected to visit this man who had been a

real friend to me. I at once called on Count Hatzfeld, who confirmed

the sad news and told me the circumstances of the sudden death, which

was the result of heart disease, the existence of which the doctor had

not discovered till the very last moment. At the same time I learned

the true significance of the events which had taken place at the Hotel

Metternich. The death of Countess Sandor, of which Princess Pauline had

informed me, had produced the following developments: the Count, who

was the famous Hungarian madman, had up to that time, in the general

interest of the family, been strictly guarded by his wife as an

invalid. At her death the family lived in fear of the most terrible

disturbances from her husband, now no longer under control, and the

Metternichs therefore thought it necessary to take him at once to

Paris, and keep him there under proper supervision. For that purpose

the Princess found that the only suitable suite of apartments at her

command was the one previously offered to me. I at once saw it was

useless to think any more of taking up my residence at the Austrian

embassy, and I was left to reflect on the strange freak of fortune that

had again cast me adrift in this ill-omened Paris.

At first the only course open to me was to stay in my inexpensive

lodging in the Hotel Voltaire until I had finished the libretto of the

Meistersinger, and meanwhile set to work to find the refuge so

earnestly sought for the completion of my new work. It was not an easy

matter; my name and person, which everybody involuntarily regarded in

the doubtful light of my Paris failure, seemed surrounded by a cloud of

mist, which made me unrecognisable even to my old friends. The

Olliviers also appeared to receive me with an air of distrust; at any

rate, they thought it very strange to see me again so soon in Paris. I

was obliged to explain the extraordinary circumstances that had brought

me back, and told them that I did not contemplate a long stay. Apart

from this probably deceptive impression, I soon noticed the great

change that had taken place in the home life of the family. The

grandmother was laid up with a broken leg, which at her age was

incurable. Ollivier had taken her into his very small flat for more

efficient nursing and care, and we all met for dinner at her bedside in

the tiny room. Blandine had greatly changed since the previous summer,

and wore a sad and serious expression, and I fancied that she was

enceinte. Emile, although dry and superficial, was the only one who

gave me any sound advice. When the fellow Lindau sent me a letter

through his lawyer demanding the compensation awarded him by the law

for his imaginary co-operation in the translation of Tannhauser, all

that Emile said on reading the letter was, 'Ne repondez pas,' and his

advice proved as useful as it was easy to follow, for I never heard

anything more of the matter. I sorrowfully made up my mind not to

trouble Ollivier any more, and it was with an inexpressibly sad look

that Blandine and I parted.

With Czermak, on the other hand, I entered into almost daily

intercourse. I used to join him and the Truinet family of an evening at

the Taverne Angiaise, or some other equally cheap restaurants which we

hunted out. Afterwards we generally went to one of the smaller

theatres, which, owing to pressure of work, I had not troubled about on

my former visits. The best of them all was the Gymnase, where all the

pieces were good and played by an excellent company. Of these pieces a

particularly tender and touching one-act play called Je dine chez ma

Mere remains in my memory. In the Theatre du Palais Royal, where things

were not now so refined as formerly, and also in the Theatre Dejazet, I

recognised the prototypes of all the jokes with which, in spite of poor

elaboration and unsuitable localisation, the German public is being

entertained all the year round. Besides this I occasionally dined with

the Flaxland family, who still refused to despair of my eventual

success with the Parisians. For the present my Paris publisher

continued to issue the Fliegender Hollander as well as Rienzi, for

which he paid me tifleen hundred francs as a small fee, which I had not

bargained for on the first edition.

The cause of the almost cheerful complacency with which I managed to

regard my adverse situation in Paris, and which enabled me afterwards

to look back on it as a pleasant memory, was that my libretto of the

Meistersinger daily increased its swelling volume of rhyme. How could I

help being filled with facetious thoughts, when on raising my eyes from

the paper, after meditating upon the quaint verses and sayings of my

Nuremberg Meistersinger, I gazed from the third-floor window of my

hotel on the tremendous crowds passing along the quays and over the

numerous bridges, and enjoyed a prospect embracing the Tuileries, the

Louvre, and even the Hotel de Ville!

I had already got far on into the first act when the momentous New

Year's Day of 1862 arrived, and I paid my long-delayed visit to

Princess Metternich. I found her very naturally embarrassed, but I

quite cheerfully accepted her assurances of regret at being obliged to

withdraw her invitation owing to circumstances with which I was already

acquainted, and I did my utmost to reassure her. I also begged Count

Hatzfeld to inform me when Countess Pourtales would feel equal to

receiving me.

Thus through the whole month of January I continued working on the

Meistersinger libretto, and completed it in exactly thirty days. The

melody for the fragment of Sachs's poem on the Reformation, with which

I make my characters in the last act greet their beloved master,

occurred to me on the way to the Taverne Anglaise, whilst strolling

through the galleries of the Palais Royal. There I found Truinet

already waiting for me, and asked him to give me a scrap of paper and a

pencil to jot down my melody, which I quietly hummed over to him at the

time. I usually accompanied him and his father along the boulevards to

his flat in the Faubourg St. Honore, and on that evening he could do

nothing but exclaim, 'Mais, quelle gaite d'esprit, cher maitre!'

The nearer my work approached its termination, the more earnestly had I

to think about a place of abode. I still imagined that something

similar to what I had lost by Liszt's abandonment of the Altenburg was

in store for me. I now remembered that in the previous year I had

received a most pressing invitation from Mme. Street, to pay her and

her father a long visit in Brussels; on the strength of which I wrote

to the lady and asked if she could put me up for a time without any

ceremony. She was en desolation at being obliged to deny my wish. I

next turned to Cosima, who was in Berlin, with a similar request, at

which she seemed to be quite alarmed, but I quite understood the reason

of this when, on visiting Berlin later on, I saw the style of Bulow's

quarters. It struck me as very strange, on the other hand, that my

brother-in-law Avenarius, who, I heard, was very comfortably settled in

Berlin, begged me most earnestly to go to him, and judge for myself

whether I could not pay him a long visit. My sister Cecilia, however,

forbade me to take Minna there, although she thought she could find her

a lodging in the immediate neighbourhood if she wanted to visit Berlin.

Unfortunately for herself, poor Minna could find nothing better to do

than to write me a furious letter about my sister's cruel behaviour to

her, so the possibility of a renewal of our old squabbles deterred me

at once from accepting my brother-in-law's proposal. At last I

bethought me of looking out for a quiet retreat in the neighbourhood of

Mayence, under the financial protection of Schott. He had spoken to me

about a pretty estate there belonging to the young Baron von Hornstein.

I thought I was conferring an honour upon the latter when I wrote to

him at Munich asking permission to take up my abode for a time at his

place in the Rhine district, and was therefore greatly perplexed when I

received an answer expressing terror at my suggestion. I now determined

to go at once to Mayence, and ordered all our furniture and household

goods, which had been stored in Paris for nearly a year, to be sent

there. Before leaving Paris, after coming to this decision, I had the

consolation of receiving a sublime exhortation to face everything with

resignation. I had previously informed Frau Wesendonck of my situation

and the chief source of my trouble, though of course only as one writes

to a sympathetic friend; she answered by sending me a small

letter-weight of cast-iron which she had bought for me in Venice. It

represented the lion of San Marco with his paw on the book, and was

intended to admonish me to imitate this lion in all things. On the

other hand, Countess Pourtales granted me the privilege of another

visit to her house. In spite of her mourning, this lady did not wish to

leave her sincere interest in me unexpressed on account of her sad

bereavement; and when I told her what I was then doing, she asked to

see my libretto. On my assuring her that in her present frame of mind

she could not enter into the lively character of my Meistersinger, she

kindly expressed a great wish to hear me read it, and invited me to

spend an evening with her. She was the first person to whom I had the

opportunity of reading my now completed work, and it made such a lively

impression upon us both, that we were many times compelled to burst out

into fits of hearty laughter.

On the evening of my departure on the first of February, I invited my

friends Gasperini, Czermak, and the Truinets to a farewell meal in my

hotel. All were in capital spirits, and my good-humour enhanced the

general cheerfulness, although no one quite understood what connection

it could have with the subject on which I had just completed a

libretto, and from the performance of which I anticipated so much.

In my anxiety to choose a suitable residence, which was now so

necessary to me, I directed my steps once more to Karlsruhe. I was

again received in the kindest manner by the Grand Duke and Duchess, who

inquired about my future plans. It turned out, however, that the

residence I so earnestly desired could not be provided for me in

Karlsruhe. I was much struck by the sympathetic concern of the Grand

Duke as to how I could meet the cost of my arduous life, or even my

travelling expenses. I cheerfully endeavoured to set his mind at rest

by telling him of the contract I had made with Schott, who had bound

himself to provide me with the necessary funds in the form of advances

on my Meistersinger. This seemed to reassure him. Later on I heard from

Alwine Frommann that the Grand Duke had once said that I had been

somewhat cold towards him, considering that he had been kind enough to

place his purse at my disposal. But I was certainly not conscious of

his having done so. The only point raised in our discussion had been

whether I should go to Karlsruhe again to rehearse one of my operas

there, possibly Lohengrin, and conduct it in person.

At any rate I started for Mayence, which I reached on the 4th February,

and found the whole place flooded. Owing to the early breaking up of

the ice, the Rhine had overflowed its banks to an unusual extent, and I

only reached Schott's house at some considerable risk. Nevertheless, I

had already arranged to read the Meistersinger on the evening of the

5th of that month, and had even made Cornelius promise to come from

Vienna, and had sent him a hundred francs from Paris for that purpose.

I had not received any answer from him, and as I now learned that the

floods had spread to all the river districts of Germany, and impeded

the railway traffic, I had already ceased to count upon him. I waited

until the last moment and--in fact, just as the clock struck

seven--Cornelius appeared. He had met with all sorts of adventures, had

even lost his overcoat on the way, and reached his sister's house in a

half-frozen condition only a few hours before. The reading of my

libretto put us all into excellent humour, but I was very sorry I could

not shake Cornelius's determination to start on his return journey the

next day. He wished me to understand that his sole object in coming to

Mayence was for this one reading of the Meistersinger, and as a matter

of fact, in spite of floods and floating ice, he left for Vienna on the

following day.

As we had already arranged, I began in company with Schott to search

for a residence on the opposite bank of the Rhine. We had had Biebrich

in our mind's eye; but as nothing suitable seemed to present itself

there, we thought of Wiesbaden. At last I decided to stay at the

'Europaischer Hof' at Biebrich, and continue my search from there. As I

had always been most particular to keep aloof as far as possible from

the noise of music, I decided to rent a small but very suitable flat in

a large summer residence newly built by the architect Frickhofer, and

situated close to the Rhine. I was obliged to await the arrival of my

furniture and household effects from Paris before I could get it in

order. At last they came, and at endless trouble and expense were duly

unloaded at the Biebrich custom-house, where I took possession only of

those things which I required most.

I kept only what was absolutely necessary in Biebrich, intending to

send the greater part to my wife in Dresden. I had already informed

Minna of this, whereupon she immediately assumed that with my clumsy

unpacking I should lose half the things or ruin them all. About a week

after I had fairly settled down with my newly arrived Erard grand,

Minna suddenly appeared in Biebrich. At first I felt nothing but

sincere pleasure at her healthy appearance and untiring energy in the

practical management of affairs, and even thought the best thing I

could do was to let her remain with me. Unfortunately my good

resolutions did not last long, as the old scenes were soon renewed.

When we went to the custom-house, intending to separate her things from

mine, she could not contain her anger that I had not waited for her

arrival before removing on my own account the articles I required for

myself. Nevertheless, she thought it only proper that I should be

provided with certain household effects, and gave me four sets of

knives, forks and spoons, a few cups and saucers, with plates to match.

She then superintended the packing of the remainder, which was not

inconsiderable, and, after arranging everything to her satisfaction,

took her departure to Dresden a week later.

She now flattered herself that her establishment there would be

sufficiently furnished to receive me, as she hoped, very shortly. With

this idea she had taken the necessary steps with regard to the superior

government officials, and these latter had been successful in obtaining

a declaration from the minister that I might now send in a formal

petition to the King to grant me an amnesty, and that nothing would

then stand in the way of my return to Dresden.

I deliberated with considerable hesitation as to what I should do in

this matter. Minna's presence had greatly increased the mental discord

arising from my recent anxieties. Rough weather, defective stoves, my

badly managed household, and my unexpectedly heavy expenses,

particularly for Minna's establishment, all combined to mar the

pleasure I had taken in pursuing the work I had started at the Hotel

Voltaire. Presumably to distract my thoughts, the Schott family invited

me to witness a performance of Rienzi at Darmstadt, with Niemann in the

title-role. The ex-minister, Herr von Dalwigk, fearing that a

demonstration at the theatre in my favour in the presence of the Grand

Duke, might wound the latter's susceptibilities, introduced himself to

me at the station and accompanied me to his own box, where he cleverly

thought he could play the part of presenting me to the public on behalf

of the Grand Duke. Thus everything went off pleasantly. The performance

itself, in which Niemann played one of his best parts, interested me

greatly; I also noticed that they cut out as much of the opera as they

could, presumably in deference to the tastes of the Grand Duke, so as

to extend the ballet as much as possible by repeating the lighter parts

of it.

From this excursion I had again to return home through the floating ice

on the Rhine. As I was still in very low spirits, I tried to introduce

a few comforts into my home, and for this purpose engaged a

maid-servant to prepare my breakfast; my other meals I took at the

'Europaischer Hof.'

When I found, however, that I could not recover my working mood, and

feeling somewhat restless, I offered to redeem my promise and pay

another visit to the Grand Duke of Baden, suggesting that I should give

him a reading of the Meistersinger. The Grand Duke replied by a very

kind telegram signed by himself, in response to which I went to

Karlsruhe on the 7th March and read my manuscript to him and his wife.

A drawing-room had been specially selected for this reading, in which

hung a great historical picture by my old friend Pecht, portraying

Goethe as a young man reading the first fragments of his Faust before

the Grand Duke's ancestors. My work received very kind attention, and

at the conclusion of the reading I was exceedingly pleased to hear the

Grand Duchess recommend me particularly to find a suitable musical

setting for the excellent part of Pogner, which was a friendly

admission of regret that a citizen should be more zealous in the

interests of art than many a prince. A performance of Lohengrin, under

my conductorship, was once more discussed, and I was advised to make

fresh terms with Eduard Devrient. Unfortunately the latter made a

terrible impression on me by his production of Tannhauser at the

theatre. I was obliged to witness this performance seated by his side,

and was astonished to realise that this 'Dramaturge,' whom I had

hitherto so highly recommended, had now sunk to the most vulgar

practices of the theatrical profession. To my amazement at the

monstrous mistakes made in the performance, he replied, with great

surprise and a certain haughty indignation, that he could not

understand why I made so much fuss about such trifles, as I must know

very well that in theatres it was impossible to do otherwise.

Nevertheless, a model performance of Lohengrin was arranged for the

following summer, with the co-operation of Herr Schnorr and his wife.

A much pleasanter impression was made upon me by a play I saw at the

Frankfort theatre, where, in passing through that town, I saw a pretty

comedy, in which the delicate and tender acting of Friederike Meyer,

the sister of my Vienna singer, Mme. Dustmann, impressed me more than

any German acting had ever done. I now began to calculate on the

possibility of making suitable friends in the neighbourhood of

Biebrich, so as not to be entirely dependent on the Schott family or on

my hotel-keeper for society. I had already looked up the Raff family in

Wiesbaden, where Frau Raff had an engagement at the court theatre. She

was a sister of Emilie Genast, with whom I had been on friendly terms

during my stay in Weimar. One excellent piece of information I heard

about her was that by extraordinary thrift and good management she had

succeeded in raising her husband's position of careless wastefulness to

a flourishing and prosperous one. Raff himself, who by his own accounts

of his dissipated life under Liszt's patronage, had led me to regard

him as an eccentric genius, at once disabused me of this idea when, on

a closer acquaintance, I found him an uncommonly uninteresting and

insipid man, full of self-conceit, but without any power of taking a

wide outlook on the world.

Taking advantage of the prosperous condition to which he had attained,

thanks to his wife, he considered he was entitled to patronise me by

giving me some friendly advice in regard to my position at the time. He

thought it advisable to tell me that I ought in my dramatic

compositions to pay more attention to the reality of things, and to

illustrate his meaning he pointed to my score of Tristan as an abortion

of idealistic extravagances.

In the course of my rambles on foot to Wiesbaden I sometimes liked to

call on Raff's wife, a rather insignificant woman, but Raff himself was

a person to whom I soon became perfectly indifferent. Still, when he

came to know me a little better, he lowered the tone of his sagelike

maxims, and even appeared to be rather afraid of my chaffing humour,

against the shafts of which he knew he was defenceless.

Wendelin Weisheimer, whom I had known slightly before, often called on

me in Biebrich. He was the son of a rich peasant of Osthofen, and to

the astonishment of his father refused to give up the musical

profession. He was particularly anxious to introduce me to his parent,

that I might influence the old man's mind in favour of his son's choice

of an artistic career. This involved me in excursions into their

district, and I had an opportunity of witnessing young Weisheimer's

talent as an orchestral conductor at a performance of Offenbach's

Orpheus in the theatre at Mayence, where he had hitherto occupied a

subordinate position. I was horrified that my sympathy for this young

man should make me descend so low as to be present at such an

abomination, and for a long time I could not refrain from letting

Weisheimer see the annoyance I felt.

In my search for a more dignified entertainment I wrote to Friedericke

Meyer in Frankfort and asked her to let me know when the performance of

Calderon's comedy, Das offentliche Geheimniss, would be repeated, as

the last time I had seen an announcement of it, I had been too late.

She was much pleased at my sympathetic inquiry, and informed me that

the comedy was not likely to be revived in the immediate future, but

that there was a prospect of Calderon's Don Gutierre being produced. I

again paid a visit to Frankfort to see this play, and made the personal

acquaintance of this interesting actress for the first time. I had

every reason to be highly satisfied with the performance of Calderon's

tragedy, although the talented actress who played the leading part was

thoroughly successful only in the tenderer passages, her resources

being insufficient to depict the more passionate scenes. She told me

she very often visited some friends of hers in Mayence, and I followed

up this communication by expressing a wish that when doing so she would

look me up at Biebrich, to which she replied that I might hope on some

future occasion for the fulfilment of my wish.

A grand soiree given by the Schotts to their Mayence acquaintances was

the occasion of my making friends with Mathilde Maier, whom Frau

Schott, at least so she informed me, had specially selected for her

'cleverness' to be my companion at the supper table; her highly

intelligent, sincere manner and her peculiar Mayence dialect

distinguished her favourably from the rest of the company; nor was this

distinction accompanied by anything outre. I promised to visit her, and

thus became acquainted with an idyllic home such as I had never met

before. This Mathilde, who was the daughter of a lawyer who had died

leaving only a small fortune behind, lived with her mother, two aunts

and a sister in a neat little house, while her brother, who was

learning business in Paris, was a continual source of trouble to her.

Mathilde, with her practical common-sense, attended to the affairs of

the whole family, apparently to every one's complete satisfaction. I

was received among them with remarkable warmth whenever, in the pursuit

of my business, I chanced to come to Mayence. This happened about once

a week, and on each occasion I was made to accept their hospitality.

But as Mathilde had a large circle of acquaintances, among others an

old gentleman in Mayence who had been Schopenhauer's only friend, I

frequently met her in other people's houses, as for instance at the

Raffs in Wiesbaden. From there she and her old friend Luise Wagner

would often accompany me on my way home, and I would sometimes go with

them further on the way to Mayence.

These meetings were full of agreeable impressions, to which frequent

walks in the beautiful park of Biebrich Castle contributed. The fair

season of the year was now approaching, and I was once more seized with

a desire for work. As from the balcony of my flat, in a sunset of great

splendour, I gazed upon the magnificent spectacle of 'Golden' Mayence,

with the majestic Rhine pouring along its outskirts in a glory of

light, the prelude to my Meistersinger again suddenly made its presence

closely and distinctly felt in my soul. Once before had I seen it rise

before me out of a lake of sorrow, like some distant mirage. I

proceeded to write down the prelude exactly as it appears to-day in the

score, that is, containing the clear outlines of the leading themes of

the whole drama. I proceeded at once to continue the composition,

intending to allow the remaining scenes to follow in due succession. As

I was feeling in a good temper I thought I would like to pay a visit to

the Duke of Nassau. He was my neighbour, and I had so often met him on

my lonely walks in the park, that I considered it polite to call on

him. Unfortunately there was not much to be got out of the interview

which took place. He was a very narrow-minded but amiable man, who

excused himself for continuing to smoke his cigar in my presence

because he could not get on without it, and he thereupon proceeded to

describe to me his preference for Italian opera, which I was quite

content he should retain. But I had an ulterior motive in trying to

prepossess him in my favour. At the back of his park stood a tiny

castle of ancient appearance on the borders of a lake. It had grown

into a sort of picturesque ruin, and at the time served as a studio for

a sculptor. I was filled with a bold desire to acquire this small,

half-tumbledown building for the rest of my life; for I had already

become a prey to alarming anxiety as to whether I should be able to

hold out in the quarters I had so far tenanted, as the greater part of

the storey, on which I occupied only two small rooms, had been let to a

family for the approaching summer, and I heard that they would enter

into possession, armed with a piano. I was soon dissuaded, however,

from further attempts to induce the Duke of Nassau to favour my views,

for he told me that this little castle, on account of its damp

situation, would be thoroughly unhealthy.

Nevertheless, I did not allow myself to be deterred from setting to

work to find some lonely little house with a garden, for which I still

longed. In the excursions I repeatedly undertook for this purpose I was

frequently accompanied not only by Weisheimer but also by Dr. Stadl,

the young lawyer who at Schott's house had proposed the charming toast

which I have already mentioned. He was an extraordinary man, and I

could only explain his very excitable nature by the fact that he was a

passionate gambler at the roulette tables in Wiesbaden. He it was who

had introduced me to another friend, a practised musician, Dr. Schuler

from Wiesbaden. With both these gentlemen I now weighed all the

possibilities of acquiring, or at least of discovering, my little

castle for the future. On one occasion we visited Bingen with this

object, and ascended the celebrated old tower there in which the

Emperor Henry IV. was imprisoned long ago. After going for some

distance up the rock on which the tower was built, we reached a room on

the fourth storey occupying the entire square of the building, with a

single projecting window looking out upon the Rhine.

I recognised this room as the ideal of everything I had imagined in the

way of a residence for myself. I thought I could arrange for the

necessary smaller apartments in the flat by means of curtains, and thus

prepare for myself a splendid place of refuge for ever. Stadl and

Schuler thought it possible they might help me in the fulfilment of my

wishes, as they were both acquainted with the proprietor of this ruin.

Shortly afterwards, in fact, they informed me that the owner had no

objection to letting me this large room at a low rent, but at the same

time they pointed out the utter impracticability of carrying out my

plan; nobody, they said, would be either able or willing to act as my

servant there, for, amongst other things, there was no well, and the

only water obtainable was from a cistern lying at a frightful depth

down in the keep, and even this was not good. Under such circumstances

it did not require more than one such obstacle to deter me from the

pursuit of such an extravagant scheme. I had a similar experience with

a property in Rheingau belonging to Count Schonborn. My attention had

been drawn to it, because it was unoccupied by the proprietor. Here I

certainly found a number of empty rooms, out of which I should have

been able to arrange something suitable for my purpose. After obtaining

further details from the land agent, who wrote on my behalf to Count

Schonborn, I had to content myself with a refusal.

A strange incident that occurred about this time seriously threatened

to interrupt me to some extent in the work I had begun. Friederike

Meyer kept her promise and called on me one afternoon on her return

from her usual excursion to Mayence. She was accompanied by a lady

friend. Shortly after her arrival she was suddenly overwhelmed with

fear, and to the terror of all present declared she was afraid she had

caught scarlet fever. Her condition soon became alarming, and she had

to find accommodation immediately in the 'Europaischer Hof' hotel and

send for a doctor. The certainty with which she had immediately

recognised the symptoms of a disease, which in most cases can only be

caught from children, could not fail to impress me strangely. But my

amazement was increased when on the following morning, at a very early

hour, Herr von Guaita, the manager of the Frankfort theatre, who had

heard of her illness, paid a visit to the patient and expressed for her

an anxiety, the intensity of which it was impossible to ascribe

entirely to his interest as a theatrical manager. He took Friederike at

once under his protection, and treated her with the greatest care, thus

relieving me from the pangs of anxiety aroused by this strange case. I

spent some time with Herr von Guaita, talking with him about the

possibility of producing one of my operas in Frankfort. On the second

day I was present when the sick lady was conveyed to the railway

station by Guaita, who evinced towards her what appeared to me the most

tender paternal solicitude. Soon after this, Herr Burde (the husband of

Madame Ney, a famous singer), who was at that time an actor at the

Frankfort theatre, paid me a call. This gentleman, with whom amongst

other things I discussed Friederike Meyer's talents, informed me that

she was supposed to be the mistress of Herr von Guaita, a man who was

held in great respect in the town on account of his noble rank, and

that he had presented her with a house in which she was now living. As

Herr von Guaita had not made an agreeable impression upon me, but on

the contrary had struck me as a strange creature, this news filled me

with a certain uneasiness. My other acquaintances who lived near my

place of refuge in Biebrich were kind and friendly when, on the evening

of my birthday on the 22nd of May, I entertained this little company in

my flat. Mathilde Maier with her sister and her lady friend were very

clever in utilising my small stock of crockery, and in a certain sense

she did the honours as mistress of the house.

But my peace of mind was soon disturbed by an interchange of letters

with Minna, which grew more and more unsatisfactory. I had settled her

in Dresden, but wanted to spare her the humiliation of a permanent

separation from me. In pursuance of this idea I had at last found

myself compelled to adopt the plan she had initiated, by communicating

with the Saxon Minister of Justice; and I finally petitioned for a

complete amnesty from the government, and received permission to settle

in Dresden. Minna now thought herself authorised to take a large flat,

in which it would be easy to arrange the furniture allotted to her,

assuming that after a little while I would share the abode with her, at

least periodically. I had to try to meet cheerfully her demands for the

wherewithal to carry out her wishes, and especially to procure the two

thousand seven hundred marks she required for the purpose. The more

calmly I acted in this matter, the more deeply she seemed to be

offended by the quiet frigidity of my letters. Reproaches for supposed

injuries in the past and recriminations of every kind now poured in

from her faster than ever. At last I turned to my old friend Pusinelli.

Out of affection for me he had always been a loyal helper of my

intractable spouse. Through his mediation I now prescribed the strong

medicine which my sister Clara a short while ago had recommended as the

best remedy for the patient, and asked him to impress upon Minna the

necessity for a legal separation. It seemed to be no easy task for my

poor friend to carry out this proposal in earnest, but he had been

asked to do it, and obeyed. He informed me that she was very much

alarmed, but that she definitely refused to discuss an amicable

separation, and, as my sister had foreseen, Minna's conduct now changed

in a very striking manner; she ceased to annoy me and seemed to realise

her position and abide by it. To relieve her heart trouble, Pusinelli

had prescribed for her a cure at Reichenhall. I obtained the money for

this, and apparently she spent the summer in tolerable spirits in the

very place in which a year ago I had met Cosima undergoing a cure.

Once more I turned to my work, to which I always had recourse as the

best means of raising my spirits so soon as interruptions were removed.

One night I was disturbed by a strange event. The evening had been

pleasant, and I had sketched out the pretty theme for Pogner's Anrede,

'Das schone Fest Johannistag,' etc., when, while I was dozing off and

still had this tune floating in my mind, I was suddenly awakened to

full consciousness by an unrestrained outburst of a woman's laughter

above my room. This laughter, growing madder and madder, at last turned

into a horrible whimpering and frightful howling. I sprang out of bed

in a terrified condition, to discover that the sound proceeded from my

servant Lieschen, who had been attacked with hysterical convulsions as

she lay in bed in the room overhead. My host's maid went to help her,

and a doctor was summoned. While I was horrified at the thought that

the girl would soon die, I could not help wondering at the curious

tranquillity of the others who were present. I was told that such fits

were of common occurrence in young girls, especially after dances.

Without heeding this, I was riveted to the spot for a long time by the

spectacle, with the horrible symptoms it presented. Several times I saw

what resembled a childish fit of merriment pass, like the ebb and flow

of the tide, through all the different stages, up to the most impudent

laughter, and then to what seemed like the screams of the damned in

torture. When the disturbance had somewhat subsided, I went to bed

again, and once more Pogner's 'Johannistag' rose to my memory, and

gradually banished the fearful impressions that I had undergone.

One day, when I was watching young Stadl at the gambling-table in

Wiesbaden, I thought he was rather like the poor servant-girl. I had

taken coffee with him and Weisheimer in the Kur garden, and we had

enjoyed one another's company, when Stadl disappeared for a time.

Weisheimer led me to the gambling-table to find him. Seldom have I

witnessed a more horrible change of expression than that now stamped on

the man who was a prey to the gambling mania. As a demon had possessed

poor Lieschen, so now a demon possessed this man. As folk say, the

devils 'pursued their evil lusts in him.' No appeal, no humiliating

admonitions could prevail upon the man tortured by his losses in the

game to summon up his moral powers. As I remembered my own experiences

of the gambling passion, to which I had succumbed for a time when I was

a youth, I spoke to young Weisheimer on the subject, and offered to

show him how I was not afraid to make a stake on pure chance, but that

I had no belief in my luck. When a new round of roulette began, I said

to him in a voice of quiet certainty, 'Number 11 will win'; and it did.

I added fuel to the fire of his astonishment at this stroke of good

luck by predicting Number 27 for the next round. Certainly I remember

being overcome by a spell as I spoke, and my number was in fact again

victorious. My young friend was now in a state of such astonishment,

that he vehemently urged me to stake something on the numbers which I

foretold. Again I cannot but call to mind the curious, quiet feeling of

being spellbound which possessed me as I said, 'As soon as I introduce

my own personal interests into the game, my gift of prophecy will

disappear at once.' I then drew him away from the gambling-table, and

we took our way back to Biebrich in a fine sunset.

I now came into very painful relations with poor Friederike Meyer. She

wrote and told me of her recovery and requested me to visit her,

because she felt it her duty to apologise to me for the trouble in

which she had involved me. As the short drive to Frankfort often helped

to entertain me and distract my thoughts, I gladly fulfilled her

wishes, and found her in a state of convalescence but still weak, and

obviously preoccupied with the effort to fortify my mind against all

disagreeable surmises about herself. She said that Herr von Guaita was

like an anxious, almost hypersensitive father to her. She told me that

she was very young when she left her family, and that with her sister

Luise in particular she had severed all connection. She had thus come

quite friendless to Frankfort, where the chance protection of Herr von

Guaita, a man of mature age, had been very welcome to her.

Unfortunately she had to suffer much that was painful under this

arrangement, for she was most bitterly persecuted, chiefly on the score

of her reputation, by her patron's family, who feared he might want to

marry her. As she told me this, I could not refrain from drawing her

attention to some of the consequences of the antagonism I had noticed,

and I went so far as to speak of the house which people said had been

given her as a present. This seemed to produce an extraordinary effect

upon Friederike, who was still an invalid. She expressed the greatest

annoyance at these rumours, although, as she admitted, she had long

been obliged to suspect that slander of this kind would be disseminated

about her; more than once she had considered the advisability of giving

up the Frankfort stage, and now she was more determined than ever to do

so. I saw nothing in her demeanour to shake my confidence in the truth

of her story; moreover, as Herr von Guaita became more and more

unintelligible to me both as a man and in the light of his incredible

conduct on the occasion of Friederike's illness, my attitude towards

this highly gifted girl was henceforth unconditionally on the side of

her interests, which were being prejudiced by an obvious injustice. To

facilitate her recovery I advised her, without delay, to take a long

holiday for a tour on the Rhine.

In accordance with the instructions conveyed to him by the Grand Duke,

Eduard Devrient now addressed me in reference to the appointed

performance of Lohengrin in Karlsruhe under my superintendence. The

angry and arrogant disgust expressed in his letter at my desire to see

that Lohengrin was produced without 'cuts,' served admirably to expose

to me the profound antipathy of this man whom I had once so blindly

overestimated. He wrote that one of the first things he had done was to

have a copy of the score made for the orchestra with the 'cuts'

introduced by Conductor Rietz for the Leipzig performance, and that it

would consequently be a tiresome business to put back all the passages

which I wished to have restored. He regarded my request in this

particular as merely malicious. I now remembered that the only

performance of Lohengrin, which had been taken off almost immediately

on account of its complete failure, was the one in Leipzig produced by

Conductor Rietz. Devrient, regarding Rietz as Mendelssohn's successor

and the most solid musician of 'modern times,' had concluded that this

mutilation of my work was a suitable one for production in Karlsruhe.

But I shuddered at the misguided light in which I had so long persisted

in regarding this man. I informed him briefly of my indignation and of

my decision to have nothing to do with Lohengrin in Karlsruhe. I also

expressed my intention to make my excuses to the Grand Duke at a

suitable time. Soon after this I heard that Lohengrin was, after all,

to be produced in Karlsruhe in the usual way, and that the newly wedded

Schnorrs had been specially engaged for it. A great longing at last

filled me to make the acquaintance of Schnorr and his achievements.

Without announcing my intentions, I travelled to Karlsruhe, obtained a

ticket through Kaliwoda, and heedless of all else went to the

performance. In my published Memoirs I have described more accurately

the impressions I received on this occasion, more particularly of

Schnorr. I fell in love with him at once, and after the performance I

sent him a message to come and see me in my room at the hotel and have

a little chat. I had heard so much of his delicate state of health that

I was genuinely delighted to see him enter the room with a lively step

and a look of joy in his eyes. Although it was late at night, and he

had undergone a considerable strain, he met my anxiety to avoid all

dissipation out of regard to his welfare, by willingly accepting my

offer to celebrate our new acquaintance with a bottle of champagne. We

spent the greater part of the night in the best of spirits, and among

our discussions those on Devrient's character were especially

instructive to me. I undertook to stay another day, so as to avail

myself of an invitation to lunch with Schnorr and his wife. As by this

lengthy stay in Karlsruhe I knew my presence would become known to the

Grand Duke, I took advantage on the following day to inform him of my

arrival, and he made an appointment to meet me in the afternoon. After

talking at lunch to Frau Schnorr, in whom I had recognised a great and

well-developed theatrical talent, and after making the most astonishing

discoveries about Devrient's behaviour in the Tristan affair, I had my

interview at the ducal palace. It was marked by uneasiness on both

sides. I openly stated my reasons for withdrawing my promise with

regard to the Lohengrin performance, and also my unalterable conviction

that a conspiracy to interfere with the production of Tristan

originally proposed had been the work of Devrient. As Devrient, by his

ingenious attitude, had led the Grand Duke to believe in his profound

and genuinely solicitous friendship for me, my communications obviously

pained the Grand Duke a great deal. Still, he seemed eager to assume

that the matter turned on artistic differences of opinion between me

and his theatrical manager, and in bidding me good-bye he expressed the

hope of seeing these apparent misunderstandings give way to a

satisfactory explanation. I replied with indifference that I did not

think it likely I should ever come to an agreement with Devrient. The

Grand Duke now gave vent to genuine indignation; he had not thought, he

said, that I could so easily treat an old friend with such ingratitude.

To meet the keenness of this reproach I could at first only tender my

apologies for not having expressed my decision with the emphasis he had

a right to expect, but as the Grand Duke had taken this matter so

seriously and had thereby seemed to justify me in expressing my real

opinion of this supposed friend with equal seriousness, I was bound,

with all the earnestness at my command, to assure him that I did not

wish to have anything more to do with Devrient. At this the Grand Duke

told me, with renewed gentleness, that he declined to regard my

assurance as irrevocable, for it lay in his power to propitiate me by

other means. I took my departure with an expression of serious regret

that I could not help regarding as fruitless any effort made in the

direction contemplated by my patron. Later on I ascertained that

Devrient, who, of course, was informed by the Grand Duke of what had

taken place, looked upon my behaviour as an attempt on my part to ruin

and supplant him. The Grand Duke had not abandoned his desire to

arrange for the performance of a concert consisting of selections from

my most recent works. Devrient had afterwards to write to me again in

his official capacity on this subject. In his letter he took occasion

to make it clear that he regarded himself as victorious over the

intrigues I had practised against him, assuring me at the same time

that his distinguished patron nevertheless wished to carry out the

concert in question, as from his lofty point of view he knew very well

how to distinguish 'the art from the artist.' My answer was a simple

refusal.

I had many a conversation with the Schnorrs over the episode, and I

made an arrangement with them to visit me soon in Biebrich. I returned

there now, to be in time for Bulow's visit, of which I had already been

informed. He arrived at the beginning of July to look for lodgings for

himself and Cosima, who followed two days later. We were immensely

pleased to meet again, and utilised the occasion to make excursions of

all sorts for the benefit of our health in the pleasant Rheingau

country. We took our meals together regularly in the public dining-room

of the Europaischer Hof (where the Schnorrs also came to stay), and we

were generally as merry as possible. In the evening we had music in my

rooms. Alwine Frommann, on her way through Biebrich, also came to the

reading of the Meistersinger. All present seemed to be struck with

surprise on hearing my latest libretto, and especially by the

vernacular gaiety of the style, of which until now I had not availed

myself. Frau Dustmann also, who had a special engagement for a

performance at Wiesbaden, paid me a visit. Unfortunately I noticed in

her a lively antipathy to her sister Friederike, a fact which, among

others, strengthened my conviction that it was high time for Friederike

to dissociate herself from all ties in Frankfort. After I had been

enabled, with Bulow's support, to play my friends the completed parts

of the composition of the Meistersinger, I went through most of

Tristan, and in this process the Schnorrs had an opportunity of showing

the extent to which they had already made themselves acquainted with

their task. I found that both were a good deal lacking in clearness of

enunciation.

The summer now brought more visitors into our neighbourhood, and

amongst them several of my acquaintances. David, the Leipzig concert

director, called on me with his young pupil, August Wilhelmj, the son

of a Wiesbaden lawyer. We now had music in the true sense of the word,

and Conductor Alois Schmitt from Schwerin contributed an odd share by

performing what he called a worthless old composition of his. One

evening we had a crowded party, the Schotts joining the rest of my

friends, and both the Schnorrs delighted us keenly with a performance

of the so-called love-scene in the third act of Lohengrin. We were all

deeply moved by the sudden apparition of Rockel in our common

dining-room at the hotel. He had been released from Waldheimer prison

after thirteen years. I was astounded to find absolutely no radical

change in the appearance of my old acquaintance, except for the faded

colour of his hair. He himself explained this to me by observing that

he had stepped out of something like a shell in which he had been

ensconced for his own preservation. As we were deliberating about the

field of activity on which he ought now to enter, I advised him to seek

some useful employment in the service of a benevolent and

liberal-minded man like the Grand Duke of Baden. He did not think he

would succeed in any ministerial capacity, owing to his want of legal

knowledge; on the other hand, he was eminently qualified to undertake

the supervision of a house of correction, as he had obtained not only

the most accurate information on this subject, but at the same time had

noted what reforms were necessary. He went off to the German shooting

competition taking place at Frankfort. There, in recognition of his

martyrdom and his unwavering conduct, he was accorded a flattering

ovation, and he stayed in Frankfort and its neighbourhood for some time.

Casar Willig, a painter who had received a commission from Otto

Wesendonck to paint my portrait at his expense, worried me and my

intimate friends at this time. Unfortunately the painter was utterly

unsuccessful in his attempt to make a good likeness of me. Although

Cosima was present at nearly all the sittings, and tried her utmost to

put the artist on the right track, the end of it was that I had to sit

for a sharp profile, to enable him to produce anything that could be in

the least recognisable as a likeness. After he had performed this task

to his satisfaction, he painted another copy for me out of gratitude. I

sent this at once to Minna in Dresden, through whom it ultimately went

to my sister Louisa. It was a horrible picture, and I was confronted

with it once afterwards when it was exhibited by the artist in

Frankfort.

I made a pleasant excursion with the Bulows and the Schnorrs to Bingen

one evening, and availed myself of the opportunity to cross over to

Rudesheim to bring back Friederike Meyer, who had been enjoying her

holiday there. I introduced her to my friends, and Cosima especially

took a friendly interest in this uncommonly gifted woman. Our gaiety as

we sat over a glass of wine in the open air was heightened by our being

unexpectedly accosted by a traveller who approached us respectfully

from a distant table; he held his glass filled, and at once greeted me

politely and with the utmost warmth. He was a native of Berlin and a

great enthusiast of my work. He spoke not only for himself, but also on

behalf of two of his friends, who joined us at our table; and our

good-humour led us ultimately to champagne. A splendid evening with a

wonderful moon-rise shed its influence over the gladness of our spirits

as we returned home late in the evening after this delightful

excursion. When we visited Schlangenbad (where Alwine Frommann was

staying) in equally high spirits, our reckless humour beguiled us into

making an even longer excursion to Rolandseck. We made our first halt

at Remagen, where we visited the handsome church, in which a young monk

was preaching to an immense crowd, and we afterwards lunched in a

garden on the bank of the Rhine. We remained that night in Rolandseck,

and next morning we went up the Drachenfels. In connection with this

ascent, an adventure happened which had a merry sequel. On the return

journey, after getting out of the train at the railway station and

crossing the Rhine, I missed my letter-case containing a note for two

hundred marks; it had slipped out of my overcoat pocket. Two gentlemen

who had joined us on the way from the Drachenfels immediately offered

to retrace their steps, a somewhat arduous undertaking, to hunt for the

lost object. After a few hours they returned, and handed me the

letter-case with its contents intact. Two stone-cutters at work on the

summit of the mountain had found it. They restored it at once, and the

honest fellows were presented with a handsome reward. The happy issue

to this adventure had, of course, to be celebrated by a good dinner

with the best wine. The story was not completed for me until a long

time afterwards. In 1873, on my entering a restaurant in Cologne, the

host introduced himself to me as the man who, eleven years previously,

had catered for us at the inn on the Rhine, and had changed that very

two-hundred-mark note for me. He then told me what had happened to that

note. An Englishman, to whom he had related the adventure of the note

on the same day, offered to buy it from him for double its value. The

host declined any such transaction, but allowed the Englishman to have

the note on the promise of the latter to stand champagne to all those

present at the time. The promise was fulfilled to the letter.

An invitation to Osthofen from the Weisheimer family was the origin of

a less satisfactory excursion than the one described above. We put up

there for one night after being compelled on the previous day to take

part at all hours in the frolics of a peasant wedding-feast which was

simply interminable. Cosima was the only one who managed to keep in a

good temper throughout the proceedings. I supported her to the best of

my abilities. But Bulow's depression, which had increased during the

preceding days, grew deeper and deeper, was aggravated by every

possible incident, until at last it developed into an outbreak of fury.

We tried to console ourselves with the reflection that a similar

infliction could never again fall to our lot. The following day, while

I was preparing for my departure, and brooding over other sources of

dissatisfaction at my position, Cosima induced Hans to continue the

journey as far as Worms in the hope of finding something refreshing and

cheering in a visit to the ancient cathedral there, and from that place

they followed me later to Biebrich.

One little adventure we had at the gaming-table at Wiesbaden still

lingers in my memory. Within the last few days I had received a royalty

of twenty louis d'or from the theatre for an opera. Not knowing what to

do with so small a sum (as my situation, on the whole, was growing

worse and worse), I ventured to ask Cosima to risk half the sum at

roulette in our joint interest. I observed with astonishment how,

without even the smallest knowledge of the game, she staked one gold

piece after another on the table, throwing it down so that it never

definitely covered any particular number or colour. In this way it

gradually disappeared behind the croupier's rake. I grew alarmed, and

hurriedly went to another table in the hope of counteracting the effect

of Cosima's unguided and misguided efforts. In this very economical

pursuit luck befriended me so substantially, that I at once recovered

the ten louis d'or which my fair friend had lost at the other table.

This soon put us into a very merry mood. Less cheering than this

adventure was our visit to a performance of Lohengrin in Wiesbaden.

After we had been pretty well satisfied and put into a fairly good

humour by the first act, the representation turned, as it proceeded,

into a current of maddening misrepresentation such as I should never

have believed possible. In a fury I left the theatre before the end,

while Hans, urged by Cosima's reminder of the proprieties (though they

were both as much infuriated as I was), endured the martyrdom of

witnessing the performance to a close.

On another occasion I heard that the Metternichs had arrived at their

Castle Johannisberg. Still preoccupied with my main anxiety to obtain a

peaceful domicile in which to conclude the Meistersinger, I kept an eye

on this castle, which was generally unoccupied, and announced my

intention of calling on the Prince. An invitation soon followed, and

the Bulows accompanied me to the railway station. I could not fail to

be satisfied with the friendly reception accorded to me by my patrons.

They, too, had been considering the question of finding a temporary

resting-place for me in the Johannisberg Castle, and found they could

give me a small flat in the house of the keeper of the castle for my

sole use, only they drew my attention to the difficulty of obtaining my

board. The Prince, however, had busied himself more actively with

another matter, that of creating a permanent position for me in Vienna.

He said that on his next stay in Vienna he would have a discussion

about my affairs with Schmerling the minister, whom he thought it was

most suitable to consult on such a matter. He was a man who would

understand me, and perhaps be able to discover a proper position for me

in the higher sense of the word, and arouse the Emperor's interest in

me. If I went to Vienna again, I was simply to call on Schmerling, and

he would receive me as a matter of course on account of the Prince's

introduction. As the result of an invitation to the ducal court, the

Metternichs had repaired without loss of time to Wiesbaden, to which

city I accompanied them, and again fell in with the Bulows.

Schnorr had left us after a fortnight's stay, and now the time had also

come for the Bulows to depart. I accompanied them as far as Frankfort,

where we spent two more days together to see a performance of Goethe's

Tasso. Liszt's symphonic poem Tasso was to precede the play. It was

with odd feelings that we witnessed this performance. Friederike Meyer

as the Princess and Herr Schneider as Tasso appealed to us greatly, but

Hans could not get over the shameful execution of Liszt's work by the

conductor, Ignaz Lachner. Before going to the theatre Friedrike gave us

a luncheon at the restaurant in the Botanical Gardens. In the end the

mysterious Herr von Guaita also joined us there. We now noticed with

astonishment that all further conversation was carried on between them

as a duologue which was quite unintelligible to us. All that we could

make out was the furious jealousy of Herr von Guaita and Friederike's

witty, scornful defence. But the excited man became more composed when

he suggested I should arrange for a performance of Lohengrin in

Frankfort under my own direction. I was favourably disposed to the

suggestion, as I saw in it an opportunity for another meeting with the

Bulows and the Schnorrs. The Bulows promised to come, and I invited the

Schnorrs to be in the cast. This time we could take leave of one

another cheerfully, although the increasing and often excessive

ill-humour of poor Hans had drawn many an involuntary sigh from me. He

seemed to be in perpetual torment. On the other hand, Cosima appeared

to have lost the shyness she had evinced towards me when I visited

Reichenhall in the previous year, and a very friendly manner had taken

its place. While I was singing 'Wotan's Abschied' to my friends I

noticed the same expression on Cosima's face as I had seen on it, to my

astonishment, in Zurich on a similar occasion, only the ecstasy of it

was transfigured into something higher. Everything connected with this

was shrouded in silence and mystery, but the belief that she belonged

to me grew to such certainty in my mind, that when I was under the

influence of more than ordinary excitement my conduct betrayed the most

reckless gaiety. As I was accompanying Cosima to the hotel across a

public square, I suddenly suggested she should sit in an empty

wheelbarrow which stood in the street, so that I might wheel her to the

hotel. She assented in an instant. My astonishment was so great that I

felt all my courage desert me, and was unable to carry out my mad

project.

On returning to Biebrich I was at once confronted with grave

difficulties, for Schott, after keeping me some time in suspense, now

definitely refused to pay me any further subsidies. The advances I had

already received from my publisher had, it is true, until quite

recently, served to defray all my expenses since leaving Vienna,

including my wife's removal to Dresden and my own migration to Biebrich

by way of Paris, where I had to satisfy more than one lurking creditor.

But in spite of these initial difficulties, which, I suppose, took

about half the money I was to have for the Meistersinger by agreement,

I had counted upon finishing my work in peace with the remainder of the

sum stipulated. But since then Schott had put me off with vain promises

about a fixed date for balancing accounts with the bookseller. I had

already been put to great straits, and now everything seemed to depend

on my being able to hand over a complete act of the Meistersinger to

Schott quickly. I had got as far as the scene where Pogner is about to

introduce Walther von Stolzing to the meistersingers, when--about the

middle of August, while Bulow was still there--an accident occurred

which, though slight in itself, made me incapable of writing for two

whole months.

My surly host kept a bulldog named Leo chained up, and neglected him so

cruelly that it excited my constant sympathy. I therefore tried one day

to have him freed from vermin, and held his head myself, so that the

servant who was doing it should not be frightened. Although the dog had

learned to trust me thoroughly, he snapped at me once involuntarily and

bit me--apparently very slightly--in the upper joint of my right-hand

thumb. There was no wound visible, but it was soon evident that the

periosteum had become inflamed from the contusion. As the pain

increased more and more with the use of the thumb, I was ordered to do

no writing until my hand was quite healed. If my plight was not quite

so terrible as the newspapers--which announced that I had been bitten

by a mad dog--made out, it was still conducive to serious reflection on

human frailty. To complete my task, therefore, I needed, not only a

sound mind and good ideas, irrespective of any required skill, but also

a healthy thumb to write with, as my work was not a libretto I could

dictate, but music which no one but myself could write down.

On the advice of Raff, who considered a volume of my songs to be worth

one thousand francs, I decided to offer my publisher, by way of

temporary compensation, five poems by my friend Frau Wesendonck which I

had set to music (consisting chiefly of studies for Tristan with which

I was occupied at the time), so that he should at least have something

on the market. The songs were accepted and published, but they seemed

to have produced no softening effect on Schott's mood. I was obliged to

conclude that he was acting on some one else's instigation, and I

betook myself to Kissingen (where he was staying for his 'cure') in

order to get to the bottom of it and shape my next moves accordingly.

An interview with him was obstinately denied me, and Frau Schott, who

was posted outside his door in the role of guardian angel, informed me

that a bad liver attack prevented him from seeing me. I now realised my

position with regard to him. For the moment I drew on young Weisheimer

for some money, which he gave me most willingly, supported as he was by

a wealthy father, and then set to work to consider what I could do

next. I could no longer count on Schott, and had in consequence lost

all prospect of an unopposed performance of the Meistersinger.

At this juncture I was much surprised to receive a renewed official

invitation to Vienna for the performance of Tristan at the Opera, where

I was informed all obstacles had been removed, as Ander had completely

recovered his voice. I was genuinely astonished to hear this, and on

further inquiry arrived at the following elucidation of the

transactions that had been taking place on my behalf in Vienna during

the interval. Before I left there the last time Frau Luise Dustmann,

who seemed to take a real pleasure in the part of Isolde, had tried to

clear away the real impediment to my undertaking by persuading me to go

to an evening party, where she intended to introduce me again to Dr.

Hanslick. She knew that unless this gentleman could be brought round to

my side nothing could be accomplished in Vienna. As I was in a good

temper that evening I found it easy to treat Hanslick as a superficial

acquaintance, until he drew me aside for an intimate talk, and with

sobs and tears assured me he could not bear to be misunderstood by me

any longer. The blame for anything that might have been extraordinary

in his judgment of me was to be laid, not on any malicious intention,

but solely on the narrow-mindedness of an individual who desired

nothing more ardently than to learn from me how to widen the boundaries

of his knowledge. All this was said in such a burst of emotion that I

could do nothing but soothe his grief and promise him my unreserved

sympathy with his work in future. Just before leaving Vienna I actually

heard that Hanslick had launched forth into unmeasured praise of myself

and my amiability. This change had so affected both the singers at the

Opera and also Councillor Raymond (the Lord High Steward's adviser)

that at last, working from high circles downwards, it came to be

regarded as a point of honour with the Viennese to have Tristan

performed in their city. Hence my summons!

I heard at the same time from young Weisheimer, who had betaken himself

to Leipzig, that he was sure he could arrange a good concert there if I

could assist him by conducting my new prelude to the Meistersinger as

well as the Tannhauser Overture. He believed it would make so great a

sensation that the probable sale of all the tickets would enable him to

place a not inconsiderable sum at my disposal after the bare expenses

had been deducted. In addition to this, I could hardly go back on my

promise to Herr von Guaita with respect to a performance of Lohengrin

at Frankfort, although the Schnorrs had been obliged to decline to take

part in it. After weighing all these offers I decided to put the

Meistersinger aside, and try to earn enough by enterprises abroad to

enable me in the following spring to take up and finish my interrupted

work on the spot, unaffected by Schott's humours. I therefore decided

at all costs to keep on the house at Biebrich, which I really liked.

Minna, on the other hand, had been pressing me to send some of the

furniture which I had kept, to complete her own establishment at

Dresden, namely, my bed and a few other things to which I was

accustomed, 'so that when I went to see her,' she said, 'I should find

everything in proper order.' I did not want to act contrary to the

established fiction which was to make the parting from me easier for

her; I therefore sent her what she wanted, and bought new furniture for

my home on the Rhine with the assistance of a Wiesbaden manufacturer,

who allowed me fairly long credit.

At the end of September I went to Frankfort for a week to take over the

rehearsals of Lohengrin. Here again I went through the same experience

as I had so often done before. I no sooner came into contact with the

members of the opera company than I felt a desire to throw up the

undertaking on the spot; then the general consternation and the

entreaties that I would persevere caused a reaction, under the

influence of which I held out until I at last became interested in

certain things for their own sake, and quite apart from any

consideration of the wretched singers. The things that pleased me were

the effect of an uncurtailed performance, and the employment of correct

tempi and correct staging. Yet I suppose Friederike Meyer was the only

one who completely realised these effects. The usual 'animation' of the

audience was not lacking, but I was told later on that the subsequent

performances fell off, so that the opera had to be curtailed in the old

way to keep it going. (They were conducted by Herr Ignaz Lachner of

Frankfort, a smart, sleek man, but a wretchedly bad, muddle-headed

conductor.)

I was the more prostrated by the effect of all this because even the

Bulows had failed to pay me their expected visit. Cosima, as I was now

informed, had passed me by in haste on her way to Paris to offer her

support for a short time to her grandmother, who was suffering from a

tedious illness, and had now received a most painful blow by the news

of the death of Blandine after her confinement, which had taken place

at St. Tropez.

I now shut myself up for some time in my house at Biebrich, the weather

having suddenly turned cold, and prevailed on my thumb to prove itself

capable of writing down the instrumentation of some extracts for

immediate concert purposes from the Meistersinger, which was now

complete. I sent the prelude to Weisheimer at once to be copied at

Leipzig, and also set the Versammlung dor Meistersinger and Pogner's

Anrede for orchestra.

By the end of October I was at last ready to start on my journey to

Leipzig, in the course of which I was induced in a strange way to enter

the Wartburg once more. I had alighted for a few minutes at Eisenach,

and the train had just begun to move as I was hurriedly trying to catch

it. I ran after the vanishing train involuntarily with a sharp cry to

the guard, but naturally without being able to stop it. A considerable

crowd, which had gathered on the station to watch the departure of a

prince, thereupon broke into loud outbursts of laughter, and when I

said to them, 'I suppose you are glad that this happened to me?' they

replied, 'Yes, it was very funny.' On this incident I based my axiom

that you can please the German public by your misfortunes if by nothing

else. As there was no other train to Leipzig for five hours I

telegraphed to my brother-in-law, Hermann Brockhaus (whom I had asked

to put me up), telling him of my delay, and allowed a man who

introduced himself as a guide to persuade me to visit the Wartburg.

There I saw the partial restoration made by the Grand Duke, and also

the hall containing Schwind's pictures, to all of which I was quite

indifferent. I then turned into the restaurant of this show-place of

Eisenach, and found several women there engaged in knitting stockings.

The Grand Duke of Weimar assured me some time afterwards that

Tannhauser enjoyed great popularity throughout the whole of Thuringia

down to the lowest peasant boy, but neither the host nor my guide

seemed to know anything about it. However, I signed the visitors' book

with my full name, and described in it the pleasant greeting I had

received at the station, though I have never heard that any one noticed

it.

Hermann Brockhaus, who had aged rather and grown stout, gave me a most

cheerful reception when I arrived, late at night, at Leipzig. He took

me to his house, where I found Ottilie and her family, and was

installed in comfort. We had much to talk about, and my

brother-in-law's remarkably good-natured way of entering into our

conversation often kept us up fascinated until all hours of the

morning. My connection with Weisheimer, a young and quite unknown

composer, aroused some misgivings. His concert programme was in fact

filled with a great number of his own compositions, including a

symphonic poem, just completed, entitled Der Ritter Toggenburg. I

should probably have raised a protest against carrying out this

programme in its entirety had I attended the rehearsals in an

undisturbed frame of mind, but it so happened that the hours I spent in

the concert-room proved to be among the most intimate and pleasant

recollections of my life, for there I met the Bulows again. Hans seemed

to have felt it his duty to join me in celebrating Weisheimer's debut,

his contribution being a new pianoforte concerto by Liszt. To enter the

old familiar hall of the Gewandhaus at Leipzig was enough in itself to

cause me an uneasy feeling of depression, which was increased by my

reception by the members of the orchestra--of whose estrangement I was

keenly conscious--and to whom I had to introduce myself as an entire

stranger. But I felt myself suddenly transported when I discovered

Cosima sitting in a corner of the hall, in deep mourning and very pale,

but smiling cheerfully at me. She had returned shortly before from

Paris--where her grandmother now lay hopelessly bedridden--filled with

grief at the inexplicably sudden death of her sister, and she now

seemed, even to my eyes, to be leaving another world to approach me.

Our emotions were so genuinely deep and sincere that only an

unconditional surrender to the enjoyment of meeting again could bridge

the chasm. All the incidents of the rehearsal affected us like a

magic-lantern show of peculiarly enlivening character, at which we

looked on like merry children. Hans, who was in an equally happy

mood--for we all seemed to each other to be embarked on some Quixotic

adventure--called my attention to Brendel, who was sitting not far from

us, and seemed to be expecting me to recognise him. I found it

entertaining to prolong this suspense thus occasioned, by pretending

not to know him, whereat, as it appears, the poor man was much

offended. Recalling my unjust behaviour on this occasion, I therefore

made a point of alluding specially to Brendel's services when speaking

in public some time afterwards on Judaism in Music, by way of

atonement, as it were, to this man, who had died in the meantime. The

arrival of Alexander Ritter with my niece Franziska helped to enliven

us. My niece, indeed, found constant entertainment and excitement in

the enormity of Weisheimer's compositions, while Ritter, who was

acquainted with the text of my Meistersinger, described a highly

unintelligible melody given to the basses in Ritter Toggenburg as 'the

lonely gormandiser mode.' [Footnote: Meistersinger (English version),