1822-1827.
His first visit to Eisleben--the going among strange people, new
scenery, and for the first time sleeping away from his mother’s
home--was the first great event of his life, and left an indelible
impression on him. The details he remembered in connection with this
early visit, at a time when he was not nine years old, point to the
vividness of the picture of the whole journey in his mind and his strong
retentive memory.
The story I had from Wagner in one of our rambles at Zurich in 1856.
[Sidenote: _HIS VISIT TO EISLEBEN._]
“My first journey to Eisleben,” said Wagner to me, “was in the beginning
of 1822. Can one ever forget a first impression? And my first long
journey was such an event! Why, I seem even to remember the physiognomy
of the poor lean horses that drew the jolting ‘postkarre.’ They were
being changed at some intermediate station, the name of which I have now
forgotten, when all the passengers had to alight. I stood outside the
inn eating the ‘butterbrod,’ with which my dear little mother (‘mein
liebes Mütterchen’ was the term of endearment invariably used by Wagner,
when referring to his mother) had provided me, and as the horses were
about to be led away, I caressed them affectionately for having brought
me so far. How every cloud seemed to me different from those of the
Dresden sky! How I scrutinized every tree to find some new
characteristic! How I looked around in all directions to discover
something I had not yet seen in my short life! How grand I felt when the
heavy car rolled into the town of Eisleben! Even then Eisleben had a
halo of something great for my boyish imagination, since I knew it to be
the birthplace of Luther, one of the heroes of my youth, and one that
has not grown less with my increasing years. Nor was it without a reason
that, at so early a period, religion should occupy the attention of a
boy of my age. It was forced upon my family when we came to Dresden. The
court was Roman Catholic, and in consequence, no inconsiderable pressure
was brought to bear upon all families who were connected in any manner
with the government to compel them to embrace the court-religion. My
family had been among the staunchest of Lutherans for generations. What
attracted me most in the great reformer’s character, was his dauntless
energy and fearlessness. Since then I have often ruminated on the true
instinct of children, for I, had I not also to preach a new Gospel of
Art? Have I not also had to bear every insult in its defence, and have I
not too said, ‘Here I stand, God help me, I cannot be otherwise!’
“My good uncle tried his best to put me through some regular educational
training. It was intended that he should prepare me as far as he could
for school, as the famous Kreuzschule was talked of for me. Yet, I must
confess I did not profit much by his instruction. I preferred rambling
about the little country town and its environs to learning the rules of
grammar. That I profited little was, I fear, my own fault. Legends and
fables then had an immense fascination over me, and I often beguiled my
uncle into reading me a story that I might avoid working. But what
always drew me towards him was his strong affection for my own loved
step-father. Whenever he spoke of him, and he did so very often, he
always referred to his loving good-nature, his amiability, and his gifts
as an artist, and then would murmur with a tearful sigh ‘that he had to
die so young!’
“It was arranged that I should enter the Dresden school in December,
1822, just at a time when my sisters were busy with the exciting
preparations for the family Christmas-tree. How good it was of my mother
then to let us have a tree, poor as we were! I was not pleased to go to
school just three days before Christmas Day, and probably would have
revolted had not my mother talked me over and made me see the advantages
of entering so celebrated an academy as the Kreuzschule, pacifying my
disappointment by allowing me to rise at early dawn to do my part to the
tree. Now I cannot see a lighted Christmas-tree without thinking of the
kind woman, nor prevent the tears starting to my eyes, when I think of
the unceasing activity of that little creature for the comfort and
welfare of her children.”
[Sidenote: _MENTAL ACTIVITY.--STATURE._]
Wagner was deeply moved when, on Christmas Day, he found amongst the
usual gifts, such as “Pfefferkuchen” (ginger-bread) and “Stolle” (butter
cake), a new suit of clothes for himself, a present from his thoughtful
mother for him to go to school with. Throughout his life Wagner was
always remarkably prim and neatly dressed, caring much for his personal
appearance. The low state of the widow’s exchequer was well known to
Richard, and he could appreciate the effort made for him. He was no
sooner at school than he attracted to himself a few of the cleverest
boys by his early developed gift of ready speech and sarcasm. “Die
Dummer haben mich immer gehasst” (the stupid have ever hated me) was a
favourite saying of his in after-life. The study of the dead languages,
his principal subject, was a delight to him. He had a facility for
languages. It was one of his gifts. History and geography also attracted
him. He was an omnivorous reader, and his precise knowledge on any
subject was always a matter of surprise to the most intimate. It could
never be said what he had read or what he had not read, and here perhaps
is the place to note a remarkable feature in Wagner’s disposition, viz.
his modesty. Did he require information on any subject, his manner of
asking was childlike in its simplicity. He was patient in learning and
in mastering the point. But it should be observed that nothing short of
the most complete and satisfactory explanation would satisfy him. And
then would the thinking-power of the man declare itself. The information
he had newly acquired would be thoroughly assimilated and then given
forth under a new light with a force truly remarkable.
In stature Wagner was below the middle size, and like most undersized
men always held himself strictly erect. He had an unusually wiry,
muscular frame, small feet, an aristocratic feature which did not extend
to his hands. It was his head, however, that could not fail to strike
even the least inquiring that there he had to do with no ordinary
mortal. The development of the frontal part, which a phrenologist would
class at a glance amongst those belonging only to the master-minds,
impressed every one. His eyes had a piercing power, but were kindly
withal, and were ready to smile at a witty remark. Richard Wagner lacked
eyebrows, but nature, as if to make up for this deficiency, bestowed on
him a most abundant crop of bushy hair, which he carefully kept brushed
back, thereby exposing the whole of his really Jupiter-like brow. His
mouth was very small. He had thin lips and small teeth, signs of a
determined character. The nose was large and in after-life somewhat
disfigured by the early-acquired habit of snuff-taking. The back of his
head was fully developed. These were according to phrenological
principles power and energy. Its shape was very similar to that of
Luther, with whom, indeed, he had more than one point of character in
common.
In answer to my inquiries about his school period at Dresden, he told me
that he was remarkably small, a circumstance not unattended with good
fortune, since it served to increase the favour of his school
professors, who looked upon his unusual mental energy in comparison with
his pigmy frame as nothing short of wonderful.
As a boy he was passionate and strong-headed. His violent temper and
obstinate determination were not to be thwarted in anything he had set
his mind to. Among boys such wilfulness of character was the cause of
frequent dissensions. He rarely, however, came to blows, for he had a
shrewd wit and was winningly entreating in speech, and with much
adroitness would bend them to his whims.
[Sidenote: _HIS YOUTHFUL ESCAPADES._]
Erysipelas sorely tried the boy during his school life. Every change in
the weather was a trouble to him. As regards the loss of his eyebrows,
an affliction which ever caused him some regret, Wagner attributed it to
a violent attack of St. Anthony’s fire, as this painful malady is also
called. An attack would be preceded by depression of spirits and
irritability of temper. Conscious of his growing peevishness, he sought
refuge in solitude. As soon as the attack was subdued, his bright animal
spirits returned and none would recognize in the daring little fellow
the previous taciturn misanthrope.
Practical joking was a favourite sport with him, but only indulged in
when harm could befall no one, and incident offered some funny
situation. To hurt one willingly was, I think, impossible in Wagner. He
was ever kind and would never have attempted anything that might result
in real pain.
His superabundance of animal spirits, well-seconded by his active frame,
led him often into hairbrained escapades which threatened to terminate
fatally. But his fearless intrepidity was tempered and dominated by a
strong self-reliance, which always came to the rescue at the critical
moment.
On one occasion when the boys of the Kreuzschule were assembled in class
for daily work, an unexpected holiday was announced for that day. A
chance like that was a rare thing at schools on the continent. The boys,
wild with excitement, rushed pell mell from the building, and showed
their delight in the usual tumultuous manner of school-boys freed from
restraint. Caps were thrown in the air, when Wagner, seizing that of one
of his companions, threw it with an unusual effort on to the roof of
the school-house, a feat loudly applauded by the rest of the scholars.
But there was one dissentient, the unlucky boy whose cap had been thus
ruthlessly snatched. He burst into tears. Wagner could never bear to see
any one cry, and with that prompt decision so characteristic of him at
all periods of his life, decided at once to mount the roof for the cap.
He re-entered the school-house, rushed up the stairs to the cock-loft,
climbed out on the roof through a ventilator, and gazed down on the
applauding boys. He then set himself to crawl along the steep incline
towards the cap. The boys ceased cheering at the sight and drew back in
fear and terror. Some hurriedly ran to the “custodes.” A ladder was
brought and carried up stairs to the loft, the boys eagerly crowding
behind. Meanwhile Wagner had secured the cap, safely returned to the
opening, and slid back into the dark loft just in time to hear excited
talking on the stairs. He hid himself in a corner behind some boxes,
waited for the placing of the ladder, and “custodes” ascending it, when
he came from his hiding-place, and in an innocent tone inquired what
they were looking for, a bird, perhaps? “Ja, ein Galenvogel” (yes, a
gallows bird), was the angry answer of the infuriated “custodes,” who,
after all, were glad to see the boy safe, their general favourite. He
did not go unrebuked by the masters this time, and was threatened with
severe chastisement the next time he ventured on such a foolhardy
expedition.
[Sidenote: _HIS ACROBATIC FEATS._]
Wagner told me that whilst on the roof, which, like all roofs of old
houses in Germany, was extremely steep, he felt giddy, and was seized
with a dread of falling. Bathed in a fever of perspiration, he uttered
aloud, “liebe mütterchen,” upon which he felt transformed. It acted on
his frame with the power of magic, and helped him to retrace his steps
from a position which would appall a practised gymnast. Many years after
this, Wagner’s eldest brother, Albert, when referring to Richard having
taken part in the rising of the people of Saxony in 1849, which he
personally strongly deprecated, told me the above story in illustration
of Richard’s extreme foolhardiness. The episode was fully confirmed by
Wagner, who then told me of his fears on the roof.
It was not in climbing only that Richard excelled. He was known as the
best tumbler and somersault-turner of the large Dresden school. Indeed,
he was an adept in every form of bodily exercise; and as his animal
spirits never left him, he still performed boyish tricks even when
nearing threescore and ten. The roof of the Kreuzschule was not
infrequently referred to by me, and when Wagner proposed some
venturesome undertaking, I would say, “You are on the roof again.”
“Ah, but I shall get safely down again, too,” was the answer,
accompanied with his pleasant boyish laugh.
Richard early began to exhibit his love of acrobatic feats. When as
young as seven, he would frighten his mother by sliding down the
banisters with daring rapidity and jumping down stairs. As he always
succeeded in his feats, his mother and the other children took it for
granted that he would not come to grief, and sometimes he would be asked
to exhibit his unwonted skill to visitors. This no doubt increased the
boy’s confidence in himself--a self-reliance which never left him to the
time of his death.
Wagner’s affection for his mother was of the tenderest. It was the love
of a poet infused with all his noblest ideality. The dear name, whenever
uttered by Richard Wagner, was spoken in tones so soft and tender as to
bespeak at once the sympathy and affection existing between the two. A
halo of glory ever encircled “mein leibe mütterchen.” Nothing can give a
better idea of this gentle love than the passages in “Seigfried,” the
child of the forest, where the hero demands of the ugly dwarf, Mime, who
had brought him up, “Who was my mother?” an inquiry he repeated after he
had killed the hideous dragon, Fafner, and thereby became able to
understand the song of the birds. If ever music could give an idea of
love, here in these passages we have it. In what touching accents comes,
“How may my mother have looked? Surely her eyes must have shone with the
radiant sparkle of the hind, but much more beautiful!” Every allusion to
his mother in this scene is expressed in the orchestra with an ethereal
refinement and originality of conception to which one finds no parallel
in the whole range of music of the past. I verily believe that Richard
Wagner never loved any one so deeply as his “liebe mütterchen.” All his
references to her of his childhood period were of affection, amounting
almost to idolatry. With that instinctive power of unreasoned yet
unerring perception possessed by women, she from his childhood felt the
gigantic brain-power of the boy, and his love for her was not unmixed
with gratitude for her tacit acknowledgment of his genius.
[Sidenote: _HIS LOVE FOR ANIMALS._]
One of his early developed affections was a strong love for animals. On
this point, and what I know of its strong sway with him in his dramas,
I shall have something to say hereafter. Now I shall confine myself to
the recital of an incident of his boyhood. To see a helpless beast
ill-treated was to rouse all the strong passion within him. Anger would
overcome all reason, and he would as a child fly at the offender.
One of his first impressions was a chance visit he paid with some of his
school-fellows to a slaughter yard. An ox was about to be killed. The
butcher, stripped, stood with uplifted axe. The horrible implement
descended on the head of the stately animal, who gave a low, deep moan.
The blows and moans were repeated. The boy grew wild, and would have
rushed at the butcher had not his companions forcibly held him back and
taken him away from the scene. For some time after he could not touch
meat, and it was only when other impressions effaced this scene that he
became reconciled by his mother reasoning that animals must be killed,
and that it was perhaps preferable to dying slowly by sickness and old
age. When a man, he could not refer to this incident without a shudder.
In after-life he rarely missed an opportunity of pleading for better
treatment of animals, drawing the attention of the municipal authorities
to the prevention of wanton cruelty, and arguing that animals, to be
killed for human food, should be despatched with the minimum of pain.