PARIS, 1839-1842. _Continued._
Viewed from an art standpoint, those dreary years of misery, spent in
the centre of European gaity, were the crucial epoch of Richard Wagner’s
career. Then, for the first time, was he filled with the consciousness
of the complete impossibility of the French operatic stage and its
kindred institutions outside France, ever becoming the platform from
which he could preach his doctrine of earnestness and truth. The Paris
grand opera was the hothouse of spurious art. The master who would
succeed there must abandon his inspiration and make concessions to
artists and to managers. He found the so-called grand opera tainted, an
unreal thing which dealt not with verities, but was the handmaid of
fashion. It had no heart, no living, free-flowing blood, but was a
patchwork of false sentiment rendered attractive by its gorgeous
spectacular frame.
But it was not at one bound that Wagner arrived at this conclusion. The
turning-point was not reached until after he had himself essayed a grand
opera success, and found how inadequate and imperfect fettered
utterances were to free thoughts. Indeed, by degrees he discovered that
realism, the prime element of the grand historic opera, was completely
antagonistic to the tenderness of his own poetic instinct, idealism. He
looked too, to the grand opera for expression of the feelings of a
people, and found works manacled by a rigid conventionality.
He had come to Paris with the “Das Liebesverbot” (the manuscript of
which, by the by, I believe passed into the possession of King Ludwig of
Bavaria: it would be interesting to see the score of this early work
written in 1834) and a portion of “Rienzi.” His aspirations were to
complete this latter in a manner worthy of the Paris stage. He attended
much the productions of the opera house. He heard Auber, Halévy,
Meyerbeer, Rossini, and Donizetti, and, as the months rolled by he grew
sick in heart at seeing the sumptuous settings devoted to works that
were paltry, mean, and artificial compared with his own.
[Sidenote: _A CHAMPION OF AUBER._]
Wagner was now a young man rapidly nearing thirty winters of life. He
was in a foreign land, earning a bare existence, but withal full of
earnest enthusiasm and vigorous work. A thinker always, he set himself
the problem in the midst of pinching poverty, why was it that an
unmistakable and growing aversion for the grand opera had been awakened
in him? He pondered over it. For months it exercised his mind and then,
suddenly, the revolutionary spirit of the age took possession of him,
and he threw over once for all preconceived operatic notions, and
resolved to be no longer the slave of a form walled in by
conventionality, nor the puppet of an institution like the grand opera
house, controlled by innumerable anti-artistic influences. It is from
this time that we date that glorious change in his art work which has
made music an articulate language understood by all, whereas hitherto it
had been but a lisping speech, with occasional beautiful moments
undoubtedly, but for all that, an imperfect art.
Poor Wagner, what sorrows did he not pass through in 1840 and 1841! Now
he has stolen into the opera house to listen to the sensuous melodies of
Rossini and Meyerbeer, and afterwards wended his way home dejected and
disconsolate, with his heart a prey to the bitterest pangs. He could
vent a little of his imprisoned indignation in the “Gazette Musicale,”
and availed himself of this channel of publicity. He fell upon Rossini
and Donizetti. Why should they, aliens, dominate the French stage to the
exclusion of superior native worth and pure national sentiment? In his
opinion Auber was badly treated by the Parisians, “La Muette de
Porticci” (Masaniello), contained germs of a real national French opera.
It was a work of excellence and merited a better reception at the hands
of the composer’s countrymen. “Poor Wagner!” I feel myself again and
again unconsciously uttering, when I remember that his championship of
Auber nearly cost him the little emolument his newspaper articles
brought him, for Schlesinger administered a sharp rebuke, and told him
that if he wished to enter the political arena he must write for a
political and not a musical journal. That Wagner’s attitude toward Auber
was based on purely artistic grounds will be admitted, I think, when it
is known that during these three years of Paris life the two men never
met.
But if the grand opera procured him no pleasure he was compensated by
the orchestral performances at the Conservatoire de Musique. Wagner has
often related an incident connected with one of his visits to the
miserable rooms of the Conservatoire in the Rue Bergère, that will never
fail to make affection’s chords vibrate with compassionate sympathy for
the beloved master. I remember well Wagner telling the story to me. It
was during his worst hours of poverty. Disappointments had fallen thick
around him. For two whole days his food had been almost nothing.
Hungered and wearied, he silently and unobtrusively entered the
Conservatoire. The orchestra were playing the “Ninth Symphony.” What
thoughts did it not recall! It was more than ten years since he had
heard the symphonies of Beethoven. Then he was in his Leipzic home. How
changed were all things now! But the music was the same! The old
enchantment overcame him. The genius of Beethoven again dazzled his
senses, and he left the concert-room broken down with grief, but more
determined and with a fixity of purpose more resolute than he had had at
any time during the Paris period. “It was,” he says, “as a blessed
reality in the midst of a maze of shifting, gloomy dreams.” He went home
invigorated with the healthy, refreshing draughts of the “Ninth
Symphony,” bent upon pouring out the feelings of his early manhood, but
falling sick, his original intentions were abandoned.
[Sidenote: _HIS OPINION OF THE FRENCH._]
The concerts at the Conservatoire afforded him genuine pleasure. The
director, Habeneck, seems to have been a zealous, painstaking artist,
all works conducted evidencing the very careful study they had received
at his hands. It was at the Conservatoire that Wagner’s soul of music
was fed, his heart and mind satisfied, the eye was gratified by the
magnificent mise-en-scene of the grand opera. These two institutions
exercised a vast and wholesome influence over him, though he rebelled
wholly against the dicta of the grand opera. Perhaps had it not been for
the violent antagonism the Paris opera excited within him, and the deep
feeling of revulsion that it engendered, Richard Wagner would not so
soon have come to that invaluable knowledge of himself, nor the art-fire
within have glowed with such clearness and intensity.
To Wagner the Gallic character was at once the source of attraction and
repulsion. He admired the light-hearted gaiety, the racy wit, and
agreeable tact which seems to be the birthright of even the lowest and
least educated. Such qualities were akin to his own being. At all times
he sparkled with witty remarks, and as for tact, the times are without
number when I have seen him display a discretion and dexterity of tact
which belong only to the born diplomat. It was not tact in the common
understanding of the term, but a keen sense of perceiving when to
conciliate, when to hit hard, and when to stop. I have been present on
occasions when his language has been so intemperate and severely
sarcastic that I have expected as the only possible consequence an
unpleasant dénouement; but his fine discernment, aided by undoubted
skill and adroitness of speech, have produced a marvellous change, and I
am convinced that the happy termination was only arrived at because of
the tone of conviction in which he expressed himself. His words bore so
plainly the stamp of unadulterated truth, that those who could not agree
with him were captivated by his enthusiasm and earnestness. On the other
hand, he was repelled by the frivolous tone with which the Parisians
characteristically treated serious topics. There was a want of causality
in them. His conception of the world with its duties and obligations was
in complete contrast to theirs. Moreover, he felt they lacked true
poetic sentiment. Their poesy was superficial. It was replete with grace
and charm, nor was beauty occasionally wanting. But it did not well up
from their hearts. They associated it closely with every action of life
but it was more often the veneer than the thing itself that shone. And
again, their proclivities were in favour of realism, whereas his own
sentiments were entwined round a poetic ideal. It was during this Paris
period that the aspiration for the ideal burst forth with an intensity
that never afterwards dimmed. The longing for the ideal was no new
sensation. Flashes had been observed earlier at Leipzic when under the
fascination of Beethoven’s symphonies, but, ambition, love of fame, and
a not unnatural youthful desire to acquire wealth had diverted him from
the ideal to the real, and it was not till saddened with disappointments
and sorely tried in the crucible of misfortune that he emerged purified,
with a vision of his ideal beautified and enthroned on high, resolved
henceforth never to tire in his efforts to achieve his purpose.
[Sidenote: _THE REVOLUTIONARY SPIRIT._]
I should not omit to refer to certain observations Wagner made upon the
military and police element in these early Paris years. He was a keen
scrutinizer of men and manners, and failed not to observe the power
wielded by the army. The French were a pageant-loving people, but were
heavily burdened to maintain their large military force. Poverty was a
natural result, and bitter feelings were engendered towards a
government which employed the army as an awe-inspiring power towards
peaceful citizens. Though the soldier was drawn from the people, yet as
the unit of an army he came to be regarded as an enemy of his class. Nor
was Wagner more satisfied with the police. He said he never could be
brought to regard them as custodians of the peace and protectors of the
rights of citizens. Instead of being well-disposed, they assumed a
hostile attitude towards civilians. Perhaps these may seem items of no
great importance, but to me the shrewd, perceptive Wagner of 1840-41,
with his revolt against an overbearing military and police is the father
of the revolutionist of 1848. It is but a short space of seven years.
With all its attendant suffering and weariness Wagner was accustomed to
regard his first sojourn in Paris as the most eventful period of his
life in the cause of art. There he burnt the ships of the youthful
aspirant for public renown. Worldly tribulation tried and proved him,
and the art genius emerged from the conflict purified and strengthened.
As he says in his short autobiographical sketch, “The spirit of
revolution took possession of me once forever.” As it is not an uncommon
fact in history that great events have often been brought about by most
trifling incidents, so now did the first step in this wondrous
development arise out of an apparently unimportant conversation to which
I shall shortly refer. He had come to Paris sustained by an
over-sanguine conviction of compelling French admiration by a rich
display of its own art proclivities. Omitting for the moment his “Faust”
overture, he first completed “Rienzi,” in the all-spectacular spirit
suited to the grand opera house. Then, as far as actual production went,
ensued nearly a year of sterility, only to be followed by the advent of
the poetic ideal which, when once cherished, was never afterwards cast
aside. It was the poet who was now asserting his power. Poesy was
claiming its birthright with the tonal art, and as the holy union of the
twin arts manifested itself before his seer-like vision, so the artist,
Wagner, the creator of a music whose every phase glows with the blood of
life, so the poet-musician clearly perceiving his ideal, strove towards
its attainment and never abated his efforts to realize his object, nor
turned aside from its pursuit.
It is a matter of vast interest to learn how he was led in this
direction. Some months after he had been in Paris, with little prospect
of obtaining a hearing at the grand opera house, and suffering the
keenest pangs of poverty, he heard the “Ninth Symphony” at the
Conservatoire. He had heard it years ago, but now its story, its
“programme,” was clear before him. He too would write a symphony. He
would speak the feelings within him, and music should be a “reality” and
not the language of mysticism.
[Sidenote: _“EINE FAUST” OVERTURE._]
Overburdened with such feelings as these, a few days later he entered
the music shop of Schlesinger. There was news for him. The publisher had
a proposition which he thought promised well for Wagner. Deeply
interested in his penniless, enthusiastic compatriot, he had almost
brought to a successful conclusion an arrangement by which Wagner was to
write a piece for a boulevard theatre. The conditions were that the
trifle should be light and showy, nothing serious, but attractive. Such
an offer at any other period prior to this, Wagner said he would have
gladly welcomed. The time, however, was inopportune. Unfortunately for
him, but to the incalculable gain of the art, just now he was under the
magnetic influence of the “Ninth Symphony.” He seems to have burst into
an uncontrollable onslaught upon the trivialities that ruled the French
stage. He would have none of them. Music now for him was a “blessed
reality,” and the hollow fictions of the boulevard theatres were
unworthy of a true artist. Schlesinger reasoned with him, urged the
wisdom of accepting the offer, though at the same time uncompromising in
his demand that the proposed piece must not be serious, and must be
written to suit the tastes of the uneducated public. But Wagner was not
to be won over, quoting the dictum of Schiller, a great favourite with
him, that “the artist should not be the bantling of his period, but its
teacher.” No arrangement come to, Wagner went home. It was raining
heavily. Excited and wet through, he talked wildly to Minna, the result
being that he was put to bed with a severe attack of erysipelas.
Brooding over his position, angered with the world and himself, caring
not for life, his thoughts reverted to the “Ninth Symphony,” and he,
with the energy of a sick, strong-willed man, resolved to write
forthwith that which should be the expression of his pent-up rage with
the world, and, as by magic, he fell upon the story of Faust. To Wagner,
then, as to the aged student, “Life was a burden, and death a desired
consummation.” And so he plunged with his woes thick upon him into the
composition, superscribing his work with the words of Faust:--
Thou God, who reigns within my heart,
Alone can touch my soul.
[Sidenote: _HEINE’S “FLYING DUTCHMAN.”_]
While writing this, Wagner told me, that then for the first time did
music speak to him in plain language. The subjects poured hot out of his
heart as molten metal from a furnace. It was not music he wrote, but the
sorrows of his soul that transformed themselves into sounds. His illness
lasted for about a week, the erysipelas attacking his face and head. The
forced reflection upon the past that his confinement induced was bitter,
but his floating ideas about the poetic drama were cemented. That
sick-chamber was the hothouse of the “romantic” Wagner. There the
revolutionary views first gathered strength and the germs of the “art of
the future” consolidated themselves. All his thoughts and feelings upon
the future he communicated to his gentle nurse, Minna, who was always a
ready listener to his seemingly random talk. This quality of “a good
listener,” of always lending a sympathetic ear, was perhaps more
soothing and valuable than a criticising, discerning companion might
have been to him, especially during his days of sickness. He had also
another ever-ready and attentive auditor, his dog, the companion of his
voyage from Riga to London and thence to Paris. How fond he was of that
dumb brute! The innumerable times he addressed it as if it were a human
being! And Wagner was not forgetful of its memory. During the worst
hours of want he wrote for a newspaper a short story entitled, “The end
of a German Musician in Paris”; in that one sees with what affection he
regarded his devoted friend. The principal character in this realistic
romance is himself, whom he causes to die through starvation. In that
the sorrow and suffering endured by Wagner are set forth in a manner
that touches one to the quick. As soon as he was sufficiently
recovered, he did not, as the majority of natures would have done, rest
from all active mental work, but at once vigorously attacked his
unfinished “Rienzi,” the remaining acts of which were completed by the
end of the year 1840. A curious fate Wagner’s. He had embarked upon a
hazardous voyage to the French capital with the view of producing
“Rienzi” there, and yet no sooner was the work quite finished than he
despatched it to Germany, hoping to get it performed at Dresden. A
glance at the music reveals the gulf that separates the Wagner of the
first two acts--composed before he came to Paris--from the writer of the
remaining three. Yet another composition, a complete opera, was given to
the world in Paris in the end of 1841. It has the unique distinction of
being the work of Wagner that occupied the shortest time in writing.
From the time of its inception--I am now speaking only of the music--to
its completion, about seven weeks sufficed for the work. The poem had
been completed some months earlier. He had submitted “Rienzi” to the
director of the grand opera, who gave him no tangible hope of its being
accepted, but promised to do his best in producing a shorter opera by
him. This engagement on the part of the director, though not couched in
unequivocal terms, was not to be allowed to drop. Wagner went to Heine
and discussed the situation. Among the subjects proposed for an opera
was Heine’s own treatment of the romantic legend of “The Flying
Dutchman” and his spectral crew. The story was not new to Wagner. He had
heard it for the first time from the lips of the sailors on his voyage
to London. Then it had impressed him. Now it took hold of him.
How this legend of the ill-fated mariner came to form the basis of an
opera text is curious and interesting. There are few, perhaps, who have
any notions from what crude material the significant “Dutchman,” as we
know it, was fashioned.
There existed in England, and a copy can still be obtained from French,
the Strand theatrical publisher, a melodramatic burlesque by Fitzball, a
prolific writer for the English stage, entitled “Vanderdecken, or The
Phantom Ship.” To mention the names of three of the original dramatis
personae, Captain Peppersal, the father of the Senta, Von Swiggs, a
drunken Dutchman in love with Senta, and Smutta, a black servant, the
character and mode of treatment of the story will be at once perceived.
Vanderdecken retains much of the legendary lore with which we are
accustomed to surround him, except that Fitzball causes him occasionally
to appear and disappear in blue and red fire. Vanderdecken too is under
a spell; the utterance of a single word though it be joy at his
acceptance by Senta, will consign him again to his terrible fate for
another thousand years.
[Sidenote: _WAGNER’S “FLYING DUTCHMAN.”_]
It was a perusal of this medley, of the spectral and burlesque, which
led Heine to treat the story after his own heart, and it was the
discussion with the poet that determined Wagner in his choice of
subject. The libretto was finished and delivered to the director, who,
whilst expressing entire satisfaction at the work, only asked its price
so that he might deliver it to a composer to whom a text had been
promised, and whose opera had the next right of being accepted. The poem
was not sold, and Wagner turned again to his “arranging” drudgery.
Later, however, he retook his text. The subject-legend was in the
highest manner adapted for musical treatment. Whilst writing the poem he
had felt in a very different mood than when writing the “Rienzi” text.
In the latter, his object was a story so arranged as would admit of the
then orthodox operatic treatment with its set forms of solos, choruses,
ensembles, etc., etc. Wagner was a man of thought. He did not perform
things in a haphazard manner. He saw his mark and flew to it. The
historic opera, he reasoned, demanded a precise and careful treatment of
detail incidents. This was not the province of music. The tonal art was
a medium for the expression of feelings, to illustrate the workings of
the heart. Now with legend the conditions are entirely opposite to those
demanded by the historic opera. It is of no consequence among what
people a particular legend originated. Place and period are equally
unimportant. Romantic legends possess this superlative advantage over
historical subjects; no matter when the period, or where the place, or
who the people, the legends are invested with none of the trammelling
conditions of nationality or epoch, but treat exclusively of that which
is human. This is an immense gain to both poet and musician. By this
process of reasoning, Wagner gradually came to exclude word-repetition.
In the “Dutchman” much verbal reiteration is still indulged in; but the
story and treatment show us the real Wagner of the future.
As to the composition of the music, I have heard so much from Wagner on
this particular opera, to convince me that, though it occupied but a few
weeks, it was not done without much careful thought. The scaffolding
upon which it was constructed is very clear. Indeed, the “make” of the
whole work is most transparent. There are three chief subjects. (1)
Senta’s song, (2) Sailor’s and (3) Spinning chorus, and those have been
woven into an organic whole by thoughtful work.
In the summer of 1866, I was sitting with Wagner at dinner in his house
at Munich. It chanced that the conversation turned upon the weary
mariner, his yearning for land and love, and Wagner’s own longing for
his fatherland at the time he composed the “Dutchman,” when going to a
piano that stood near him, he said, “The pent-up anguish, the
homesickness that then held complete possession of me, were poured out
in this phrase,”--playing the short cadence of two bars thrice repeated
that preludes Vanderdecken’s recital to Daland of his woeful wanderings.
“At the end of the phrase, on the diminished seventh, in my mind I
paused and brooded over the past, the repetitions, each higher,
interpreting the increased intensity of my sufferings,” and, Wagner went
on, that with each note he originally intended that Vanderdecken should
move but one step, and move only in time with the music. Now this
careful premeditated tonal working in the young man of twenty-eight is
indicative, as much as any portion of Wagner is, of his _style_, a word
of pregnant meaning when used in relation to Wagner’s works.
[Sidenote: _HE LEAVES PARIS._]
The “Dutchman” was written at Mendon, a village about five miles from
Paris. It was composed at the piano. This incident is of importance,
since for several months he had not written a note, and knew not whether
he still possessed the power of composing. He had left Paris because of
the noise and bustle, and to his horror discovered that his new landlord
was a collector of musical instruments, so there was little likelihood
of securing the quietude he so much desired. When the work was finished,
conscious that realistic France was not the place where he could produce
his poetic ideal, he despatched it to Meyerbeer, then in Germany, whose
aid he solicited in getting it performed. Replies were not encouraging.
Meanwhile, sorely harassed how to provide life’s necessities, he sold,
under pressure, his manuscript of the poem for £20.
The sole ray of hope, the one chance of rescue from this sad plight, lay
in “Rienzi.” It had been accepted at Dresden and in the spring of 1842
he was informed that it was about to be put into preparation and his
presence would be desirable. He therefore left Paris for Germany after
nearly three years of absence.