EIGHT DAYS IN LONDON.
1839.
[Sidenote: _LONDON IS TOO LARGE._]
His first impression of London was not a pleasant one. The day was
wretched, raining heavily, and the streets were thick with mud. At the
Custom House Wagner was helped through the vexatious passport annoyance
by a German Jew--one of those odd men always to be found about the
stations and docks ready to perform any service for a trifling
consideration. He recommended Wagner to a small, uninviting hotel in Old
Compton Street, Soho, much resorted to by needy travellers from the
continent. The hotel, considerably improved, still exists. It is
situated a dozen doors or so from Wardour Street, and is opposite to a
public house known then, as now, as the “King’s Arms.” Wagner would have
gone straight away to a first-class hotel, but this time, feeling how
very uncertain the immediate future was, he asked to be recommended to a
cheap inn. He hired a cab, one of those curious old two-wheeled
vehicles, where the driver was perilously perched at the side, and with
his big dog, carefully sheltered from the weather under the large apron
which protected the forepart of the vehicle, they started for Old
Compton Street. Arrived there without incident, such of their luggage
as they had been able to bring with them at once was carried upstairs,
and Wagner and his wife sat down gloomily regarding each other. The room
was dingy and poorly furnished, and not of a kind to brighten weary,
seasick travellers. Wagner called his dog. No response. He opened the
door, rushed down the narrow, dark staircase to the street. Alas!
Neither dog nor cab were to be seen. He inquired of every one in broken
English, but could learn nothing hopeful or certain about his dumb
friend, the companion of his journey, and silent receiver of much of his
exuberant talk. Returning to Minna, they came to the conclusion that the
dog had leaped down from underneath the covering while the luggage was
being transported upstairs. But where was he now? They had not the
faintest clue, and knew not in which direction to seek for him. That
evening, their first in London, was one of sorrow and discomfort. The
next morning Wagner went back to the docks and gleaned tidings
sufficient only to dishearten him the more. The dog had been seen the
previous evening. Back to Old Compton Street, disconsolate; he had
scarcely ascended the first flight of stairs when, his step recognised,
loud barks of welcome greeted him from above. The dog was there. It had
found its way into the room where his wife had remained during his
absence. The poor beast was bespattered with mud, but this did not
prevent Wagner affectionately fondling him. To Wagner the return of the
dog was wonderful. How a dumb brute, that had seen absolutely nothing
during the journey from the docks to Old Compton Street, could find its
way back to the old starting-place, and then retrace its steps was a
marvellous instance of canine instinct, and one which endeared the race
to him deeper than ever, a love that endured to the last.
Wagner remained in London about eight days, time to look round and to
arrange for passage to Boulogne, where Meyerbeer was staying, and from
whom he hoped to receive introductions to Paris. Although Wagner could
read English he was not sufficient master of it to understand it when
spoken. This in some degree accounts for the slight interest he felt in
his London visit. But he made the best use of his time. He was living
within a quarter of an hour’s walk of the house in Great Portland Street
where his “adored idol,” Weber, had died. To that shrine he made his
first pilgrimage, to reverently gaze upon the hallowed house. He
traversed all London, determining to see everything. The vastness of the
metropolis with its boundless sea of houses oppressed him. He had
strong, decided opinions as to what the dimensions of a town should be,
attributing much of the poverty and misery of large towns to their
overgrowth, and felt that when a township exceeded certain limits it was
beyond the control of a governing body, and that neglect in some form or
another would soon make itself felt. No city, he used to argue, should
be larger than Dresden then was.
[Sidenote: _FASCINATED BY SHIPS._]
He was amazed and most disagreeably surprised with the bustle of the
city. It bewildered him, and, as he expressed it, “fretted his artistic
soul out of him.” The great extremes of poverty and riches, dwelling in
close proximity to each other, were a sad, unsolvable enigma. His
lodgings were perhaps in one of the worst neighbourhoods of London. Old
Compton Street abutted on the Seven Dials. There he saw misery under
some of its saddest aspects, and then, but a few minutes’ walk and he
found himself amidst the luxury of Oxford Street and Regent Street. The
feelings engendered by this glaring inequality in his radical spirit
were never effaced. He thought that the English in their character,
their institutions, and habits were strangely contradictory, and the
impressions of 1839 were confirmed on his subsequent visits to this
country. The grand, extensive parks, open to all, delighted him. In
Germany he had seen no parks, and where public walks or gardens had been
laid out, walking on the grass was prohibited, whilst here no officious
guardian attempted to interfere with the free perambulation of the
visitor. The bearing of the police, too, equally surprised him. Here
they were ready with information, acting as protectors of the public,
whereas in Germany at that period they were aggressive and bureaucratic.
It is curious, but at no time do I remember Wagner speaking of having
visited any of the London theatres in 1839, whilst in 1855, when he was
here for the second time, he went to almost every place of amusement
then open, even those of third-rate order. But if in London he fell upon
“sunny places,” compared with his German home, he also was sorely tried.
As I have remarked, his rooms were in a very unaristocratic quarter. The
bane of all studious Englishmen, especially musicians--the imported
organ-grinder, unknown in Germany--worried the excitable composer out of
all patience. The Seven Dials was a favourite haunt of the wandering
minstrel, and the man who retired at night, full of wild imaginings as
to his “Rienzi,” was worked into a state of frenzy by two rival organ
men grinding away, one at each end of the street.
The immensity of the shipping below London Bridge was a wonderful sight
to him. He had come into dock in a tiny, frail sailing craft, the cradle
of “The Flying Dutchman,” after a hazardous passage across the North
Sea. The size and number of the trading vessels appealed direct to his
largely developed imaginative faculty. He pictured the mysterious
Vanderdecken in this and that vessel, and was full of strange fancies of
the spectral crew. The sea of sail so fascinated him that he took a
special river trip to Greenwich, the closer to inspect the shipping, and
with the further intent to visit the Naval Pensioners’ hospital.
When it was known at the hotel in Old Compton Street that he was about
starting for Greenwich, he was advised to go over the _Dreadnought_
hospital-ship, then lying in the river just above Greenwich. He seized
at the suggestion. The _Dreadnought_ was one of the vessels of Nelson’s
conquering fleet in the famous battle of Trafalgar, in the year 1805.
Wagner was a devoted worshipper of great men. An opportunity now
presented itself to inspect one of the wooden walls of England. It is a
widely known fact that hero-worship was a salient feature of Wagner’s
character. He always referred to Weber as his “adored idol” or “adored
master,” and for Beethoven he was equally enthusiastic. The “Dutchman,”
that weird story of the sea, had taken possession of him, and a visit to
so celebrated a ship as the _Dreadnought_ was an occasion of some
importance. In his maturer age, when closer acquaintance with the
English people had given him the right to express an opinion as to
their nature, he said that in his judgment they were the most poetic of
European nations. Poetry, with them, lay not on the surface as with the
impetuous Gauls, nor was it sought after and cultivated as with the
Germans; but with the English it was deep in their hearts and associated
with their national institutions in a manner unknown among any other
modern people. No nation has produced such a galaxy of poetic
luminaries. The employment of the disabled battle-ship as a refuge for
worn-out seamen, men who had fought their country’s battles, was, he
thought, an incontestable proof of a poetic sentiment founded in the
heart of a nation and fostered by natural love. I am aware how much this
is in opposition to the judgment of the English by a man who enjoyed a
high social standing and intimate acquaintance with the best of Albion’s
intellect, viz. Lord Beaconsfield, whose famous dictum it was that the
“English people care for nothing but religion, politics, and commerce,”
but the thoughtful opinion of a poet of acknowledged celebrity, Wagner
himself, I have deemed it advisable to set forth.
[Sidenote: _IN POETS’ CORNER._]
The visit to the _Dreadnought_ left an indelible impression upon Wagner.
Arrived at the ship, he was in the act of ascending the pilot ladder put
over the side of the vessel, by which passengers came on board, when his
snuff-box fell out of his pocket into the water. The snuff-box was the
gift of Schroeder-Devrient. He prized it highly and attempted to clutch
it in its fall. In so doing, it seems he lost his hold of the ladder and
was himself only saved from immersion by his presence of mind and
gymnastic ability. The precious snuff-box was lost, but the composer of
“Parsifal” was saved. From the _Dreadnought_ he went with the nervous
Minna to the Greenwich hospital. Wagner had the habit of talking loudly
in public, and while walking about the building, seeing a pensioner
taking snuff, he said to Minna, “Could I speak English, I would ask him
for a pinch.” Wagner was an inveterate snuff-taker from early manhood.
Imagine Wagner’s surprise and delight when the Greenwich snuff-taker
accosted him with, “Here you are, my friend,” in good German. The
pensioner proved to be a Saxon by birth, and, delighted to hear his
native tongue, was soon at home with his interlocutor. He told him that
he was perfectly contented with his lot, but that his companions, the
English, were dissatisfied and were “a grumbling lot.”
Wagner was filled with admiration at the generosity and beneficence
displayed in the bounteous provision for the comfort of the pensioners.
He told me his thoughts sped back to the German sailors on the East
Prussian coast, their miserably poor and scanty food, their ill-clothed
forms, and the general poverty of their position, when he saw the
apparently unlimited supplies of good, wholesome provisions and
substantial clothing; and yet, he said, the poor Germans are contented,
while the Greenwich pensioners complain.
Wagner had been but two days in London in 1855, when he took me off to
Westminster. This was not his first visit to the national mausoleum; he
had been there in 1839, and recollections of that occasion induced him
at once to revisit the Abbey. We went specially to pay homage to the
great men in Poets’ Corner, Shakespeare’s monument being the main
attraction. It will be remembered that his first effort in English had
been a translation from Shakespeare, and I found that with increasing
years such an enthusiasm for the great dramatist had been developed as
was only possible in the ardent brain of an earnest poet. While
contemplating the Shakespeare monument on his first visit, it seems he
was led to a train of thought, the substance of which he related to me
in our 1855 visit. At the time I considered it noteworthy as an
important psychological feature and now relate it here. In reflecting
over the work done by the British genius, and its far-reaching influence
in creating a new form, he was carried back to the classic school of
ancient Greece and its Roman imitator.
The ancient classic and the modern romantic schools were opposed to each
other. The English founder of the modern school had cast aside all the
rigid rules of the classical writers, which even the powerful efforts of
the three Frenchmen, Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, had been unable to
revivify. In these reflections, referring to an antecedent period of
sixteen years, I have often thought I could discern the germ of his
daring revolution in musical form. Turning from the serious to the gay,
as was his wont at all times, he added that his reverie had a
commonplace ending. Minna plucked his sleeve, saying, “Komm, Lieber
Richard, du standst hier zwanzig minuten wie eine Bildsaule, ohne ein
Wort zusprechen” (Come, dear Richard, you have been standing here for
twenty minutes like one of these statues, and not uttered a word), and
when he repeated to her the substance of his meditations, he found as
usual she understood but little the serious import of his speech.
[Sidenote: _MINNA LIKES LONDON._]
Wagner’s anxiety to reach the goal of his ambition left him no peace,
and on the eighth day after his arrival in London he left by steamer for
Boulogne.
The London visit charmed Minna. The quiet, unobtrusive manner of the
English pleased her, but annoyed Wagner. He was irritated by their
stolidity, and complained always of a want of expansiveness in them.
Their stiff politeness he thought angular, and the impression did not
wear off during his second visit. These first eight days were not wholly
pleasant to him. He was anxious to get to Paris, and all his thoughts
were turned towards the city of the grand opera. Minna carried away
pleasant recollections, but Wagner thought his dog was the happiest of
all, for in London he had been provided daily with special dog’s fare,
an institution unknown in Germany.