1832-1836.
[Sidenote: _THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD._]
Had Wagner’s youthful enthusiasm been fired at the Dresden Kreuzschule
with love for Germany and hatred of the French oppressor, a feeling
which flew through the land like lightning, had the songs of Körner’s
“Lyre and Sword,” set to vigorous music by Weber, inspired him, his
patriotism was intensified tenfold when, returning to his native city,
he came into the midst of a population that had suffered all the horrors
and privations of actual war. His study of modern literature,
assimilated with surprising facility in a brain where all was order and
consecutiveness, gave him an insight into the deplorable state of his
beloved country, whilst indicating the direction in which future efforts
should be directed. He found that the revolutionary spasm of the end of
the eighteenth century had shattered time-honoured traditions, roughly
shaken the creeds of the past, and indeed had left nothing untouched,
infiltrating itself into every great and small item of human existence.
The impetus of the time was “revolution!” To throw down the trammels of
moral and physical slavery, to free man and raise him to the throne of
humanity, was the desire of all European peoples. All worked towards one
common goal; there was not one movement of importance then that was not
influenced by the revolution. In literature the tendency was to make
letters a concrete part of the national mind, just as the great French
revolution called into existence the first notion of national life by
investing the people with the controlling power of their country’s
interests. All the master-minds of the time of Louis the Fourteenth were
an some measure connected with the king; but with the nineteenth century
revolution a third state was developed, which enriched national life,
and, acting upon literature, drove the hitherto secluded savants and
their works into the vortex of popular life. Before this upheaval,
literature had been the exclusive property of the professional savant
and his high-born protector. The tendency of modern social life was to
enthrone mind and genius. The third state was actually breaking down
social barriers, the line of demarcation between them and so-called
“good society,” the monarch and aristocracy. That such a violent change
at the beginning of the century should have unsettled and bewildered
some otherwise remarkably gifted men is not surprising. The turbulent
state of society, and the confused investigation and awkward handling of
important moral questions, led to doubt and despair. Men like the
brothers Schlegel became Roman Catholics, hoping by so doing to cast the
responsibility of their life on a religion which closes every aperture
to the reasoning powers. Ludwig Tieck, another German savant, followed
their example, whilst men like Zacharias Werner, after having given
proofs of the highest capability, destroyed their mental being by
pursuing a most dissolute and reprehensible course; or, like Hoffman, by
an over-indulgence in wine, helped to create an unæsthetic phase in
German literature which, alas, serves only to show how sadly distorted
gifted brains can become. Kleist was driven to commit suicide. I could
cite more unhappy victims of that troublous epoch, existences blighted
by the powerful wave of romanticism and freedom that swept over the
land. The only man who remained unaffected by the movement was Goethe.
In his striving for plastic beauty and classicism, he never became
enthusiastic for the romantic school. He even stood somewhat aloof from
Shakespeare; nor would he, in his cold simplicity and placid grandeur,
see in all the romantic movement aught but a remnant of revolution
against his “legitimate” supremacy.
Those early years of Wagner were passed in a scene of unusual activity
and excitement. His native city a great battle-field the year of his
birth, people hardly recovered from the shock of the 1793 revolution,
when again they are startled by its reverberation in July, 1830. Then
Wagner was seventeen, of an age and thoughtful enough to be impressed by
the struggle carried on around him, or, to quote his own words, “all
that acted more and more on my mind, on my imagination and reason.” This
was the spirit which he brought to bear on his study of
orchestration,--ideality controlled by strong reasoning power. He had
studied under the first professor of Leipzic, had had an overture
performed in public, and now, in 1832, he essayed a grand symphony for
orchestra, which ever remained a pleasing work to him, and to which he
would refer with evident satisfaction. Its history is a curious one.
[Sidenote: _HIS ONLY SYMPHONY._]
Though not twenty, he, with his usual self-reliance, boldly took the
score and parts to Vienna. He wanted his work to be heard. His daring
ambition was not satisfied with a lesser centre than the Austrian
capital. Vienna was then, as it is now, the city of pleasure and light
Italian music. As Beethoven himself could command but a small section of
adherents among the pleasure-seeking Viennese, it is not surprising that
the untried and unknown young composer was ignored. But undaunted, he
took his treasure to Prague, where Dionys Weber, conductor of the
Conservatorium, performed it to Wagner’s unbounded delight. Returning
home, he had the proud satisfaction of hearing it played at the
classical Gewandhaus concerts and also at its rival but lesser
institution, the “Euterpe.” This was a promising augury, and to Wagner
amply sufficient for assuming that later his work would be repeated.
Therefore, when in 1834 Mendelssohn was appointed conductor at the
Gewandhaus, Wagner unhesitatingly took the symphony to him. For a long
time nothing was heard of it. Wagner became anxious, and applied to
Mendelssohn, when to his indignation he was informed that the score had
unfortunately been lost. Wagner never alluded to this incident without
indulging in one of those bitter ironical attacks upon Mendelssohn in
which he was such an adept. The incident rankled in the memory of the
over-sensitive composer, and no amount of external amiability at a later
period from Mendelssohn was ever able to efface it. This symphony was
Wagner’s first acknowledged work and acknowledged, too, by men of
weight, whose commendation had, not unnaturally, elated him. “My first
symphony!” How often have I heard that phrase? and spoken with such
satisfaction that on several occasions I tried to induce Wagner to play
some reminiscences of it to me. He could not; he had lost all
remembrance of it. Accident or fate willed it that shortly before his
death the orchestral parts were discovered at Dresden. A score was
arranged and the fifty-year-old work performed _en famille_ in 1882,
under the revered old man’s bâton at Venice.
[Sidenote: _DIRECTOR OF A CHORUS._]
Though proud of his success as a musician, the poetic side of his nature
was not repressed. He was a poet as well as musician. Suddenly the poesy
within him leaped forth and impelled him to write words already wedded
in his own heart to sounds. Its appearance was as a revelation
disclosing an allied power which was to exalt him to a pinnacle to which
no other composer in the whole history of art could possibly lay claim.
He wrote a libretto to “The Wedding.” This was to be his first opera,
and the same year, 1833, in which he wrote the words he also began the
music. However, he composed but three numbers, still in existence, the
introduction, a chorus, a sextet, and then was dissuaded by his sister
from proceeding further with it. The story and its treatment were both
pronounced ill-adapted for stage representation. The book was the
veriest hyper-romantic scum, a mixture of the gloomy fatalist Werner and
the wildly extravagant Hoffman. The opera was abandoned with regret, and
a living was sought in any form of musical drudgery. He was willing to
“arrange,” to “correct proofs,” or do anything but teaching, to which he
always had the strongest antipathy. To my knowledge, he never gave a
lesson in his life. When, therefore, the post of chorus master at the
Würzburg theatre was offered to him, he readily accepted it. His eldest
brother, Albert, was then engaged at Würzburg as singer, actor, and
stage manager. It was the practice of Albert all through life to assume
the rôle of mentor to his younger brother, but against this Richard
strongly rebelled, though at the same time readily admitting his
brother’s abilities as a manager and singer. Possessed of a remarkably
high tenor voice, Albert was unfortunately subject to intermittent
attacks of total loss of vocal power. But the singer’s loss was the
actor’s gain, for to compensate for this defect he exerted himself and
succeeded in shining as an actor.
This Würzburg engagement was Richard Wagner’s first real active
participation in stage life. He had entered upon his new duties but a
short time when an opportunity presented itself wherein he could exhibit
his practical skill as a musician. Albert was cast for the tenor part in
Marschner’s “Vampyre.” According to his notion, his chief solo finished
unsatisfactorily. Richard’s aid was invoked, and the result was
additional words, some forty lines and music, too, which enabled Albert
to display his unusually fine high tones.
The life to Wagner was novel, attractive, and full of bright promise.
The friendly relations that existed between the chorus and their
director, the habitual banter of the players, their studied posing,
their concealing home miseries beneath a simulated gaiety, attracted and
charmed the inexperienced neophyte. He was yet blind to all the wiles,
trickeries, and petty infamies that seem inseparable from stage life. In
the theatre the meannesses and jealousies that clog human existence
under all forms are focused and exposed to the glare of publicity,
whereas in the wide world they are lost among the crowd. It was not
long before Wagner began to hate the shams and petty meannesses of the
stage with ten-fold the intensity he had at first been bewitched by it.
During his stay at Würzburg, urged by his brother he again thought of
composing an opera. Casting about for a fitting subject, he alighted
upon a volume of legends by Gozzi. One, “La Donna Serpente,” attracted
him, and seemed to invite operatic treatment. He resolved to write his
own text, and within the year produced what was his first complete
opera, which he called “The Fairies.” The musical treatment was entirely
in the romantic style of Weber and Marschner, but Wagner frankly
confesses it did not realize his expectations. He had thought himself
capable of greater things than his powers were yet equal to.
Nevertheless, he strove to obtain a hearing for it, but without success.
French and Italian opera ruled the German stage, and native productions
were not encouraged. However, an ardent aspirant for fame like Wagner
was not to be discouraged by the cold slights offered to his first stage
work. He returned to Leipzic, 1834, again energetically endeavouring to
get it accepted, but only to be disappointed once more.
[Sidenote: “_DAS LIEBESVERBOT._”]
It was during this visit to Leipzic that an event occurred which was
destined to strongly influence his future career. He heard that great
dramatic artist, Schroeder-Devrient. The effect of her performance upon
him was startling, although the operas in which she appeared, “Romeo”
and “Norma” of Bellini, were of the weakest. He saw what a striking
impression could be produced by careful attention to dramatic detail.
The poorest work was elevated into the realms of high art by the grand
style of the inspired artist. For the first time he realized the immense
value of perfection of “style.” The lesson was not lost, and the high
point to which Wagner artists have subsequently carried it by the
master’s imperative insistence upon the most thorough and exhaustive
attention to every detail of art, has formed the undying Wagner school.
Fired by enthusiasm, he began the composition of a new opera, in which
he ambitiously hoped the great actress would perform the principal rôle.
This was his second music-dramatic work, “Das Liebesverbot” (“The Novice
of Palermo”), founded upon Shakespeare’s “Measure for Measure.” It took
him about two years to write it. To Wagner this period was one of
transition, alternately dominated by the serious Beethoven, the
“romantic” Weber, Auber, and even the popular Italian school. He was as
a tree through whose branches the winds rushed from all quarters, only
the more firmly to consolidate the roots. He, too, was young, and a not
unnatural desire to acquire some of the world’s riches induced him to
write his new work in a “popular” vein. The “Novice of Palermo” has but
very faint indications of the Wagner of after-life, and in the
composer’s own judgment was but an indifferent work, although comparing
favourably with the operas of its day.
[Sidenote: _ART AND NATIONALITY._]
After the termination of his Würzburg engagement Wagner went to
Magdeburg, 1834, where he was appointed music director, a post he held
for nearly two years, steadily working, meanwhile, at the “Novice of
Palermo.” The Magdeburg company was above the usual level of provincial
troupes. The conductor was young and energetic, and soon secured the
good will of his subordinates. But the Magdeburghers were apathetic in
musical matters, and in the spring of 1836 the theatre announced its
final performances. The “Novice of Palermo” was not then completed.
After some discussion it was decided to perform it. Wagner hurried on
his work, battling with innumerable difficulties which presented
themselves thick and fast. First the theatre was threatened with
bankruptcy. To escape this it was arranged to close the building a month
earlier than the time originally announced. It left Wagner ten days for
rehearsals. His book had not been submitted to the censor, and as it was
now the Lenten season, there was a dread that the title might subject
the libretto to vexatious pruning. The opera was given out as founded on
one of the serious plays of Shakespeare, and by this means escaped all
maltreatment. But what could be done in ten days? Little even where
friendly will was engaged. However, after rehearsal upon rehearsal, the
work was performed. Its reception was moderate. The tenor singer had
been unable to learn his part in the short time and resorted to
unlimited “gag.” Perhaps hardly one was perfect in his rôle, and the
whole work went badly enough. In after-life Wagner could afford to laugh
at this makeshift performance, but at that time it was terribly real. He
once gave me a representation of the tenor singer and other
impersonators in a manner so ludicrous and mirth-provoking that he said,
“You laugh now, but listen! A second performance was promised for my
benefit. We were assembled and about to begin, when suddenly a
hand-to-hand fight sprung up between two of the characters, and the
performance had to be given up.” This put him in sad straits. He had
hoped to receive such a sum of money from this “benefit” as would free
him from all monetary difficulties, but no performance taking place he
was worried in a most uncomfortable manner.
I suppose that if there be any feature in Wagner’s character about which
there is no difference of opinion it is his love for his native land. At
critical junctures, he has not hesitated, by speech or action, to
declare his pronounced feelings. At present, however, my purpose is not
to illustrate this point, but to emphasize a phase of thought in
Wagner’s early manhood, which, boldly proclaimed at the time, gathered
strength with increasing years, and forms one of the most important
factors in his art-workings. He contended that the national life of a
people was intimately entwined with their art productions. “The stage,”
said Wagner, “is the noblest arena of a nation’s mind.” This was a very
favourite theme of his. He would descant on it unceasingly. The stage
was the mirror of a people. Shakespeare he worshipped, and gloried that
such an intellect was counted in the republic of letters. England should
be proud of her great man. He thought Carlyle right when he said
Shakespeare was worth more to a nation than ten Indias. But poor
Germany! What could she show? Where was her race of literary giants? The
war of liberation had fired every German heart with the intensest
patriotism. Young Germany had fought with unexampled ardour, and the
hateful Napoleonic yoke was victoriously cast off. Liberty, patriotism,
and fraternity were the watchwords of every German, and they found
their art expression in the inspiriting strains of the soldier-poet,
Körner, and the vigorous melodies of the patriotic Weber. And German
potentates looked on bewildered. Where would this torrent of enthusiasm
end? Were they themselves secure on their thrones? Would it not sap the
foundations of their own rule? And, as history too sadly shows, fear
developed into despotism. The princes turned, and with the iron heel
trampled upon the very men who had valiantly defended them against the
ruthless invader. They were fearful of the German mind awakening to a
sense of its political and social shortcomings. They argued that this
uncontrolled enthusiasm for liberty of speech and person was a menace to
their thrones; therefore they strove to crush it out. Their conduct
Wagner later stigmatized as “replete with the blackest ingratitude,” and
their treatment of national art as dictated by “cold, calculating
cruelty.” For the stage, alien productions were imported. French
frivolity reigned supreme. Rossini’s operas, licentious ballets, were
patronized to the exclusion of Beethoven’s works, and now, though half a
century has elapsed, the baneful influence is still discernible. Such
feelings greatly agitated Wagner’s early manhood. By 1840 they had
assumed definite shape, and we find him through the public journals
deploring the want of a German national drama. It was his effort to
supply this want. He went to work with a fixed purpose. How far he has
succeeded posterity will judge.