1845.
The story of the composition of “Tannhäuser,” poem and music, is a
forcible illustration of the proverb, that the life of a man is
reflected in his works. Of the music and the performance of “Tannhäuser”
in October, 1845, at Dresden, I wrote a notice for a London periodical,
called the “English Gentleman.” This was the first time, I believe, that
Wagner’s name was mentioned in England. They were exciting times, and it
is of exceptional interest at this epoch to reflect upon the judgment of
the composer at the birth of “Tannhäuser.”
When the legend first engaged Wagner’s attention, with a view to its
composition, he was not thirty years old. It will be remembered that the
transformation from Paris poverty to a comparative Dresden luxury
infused new life into him. He tells me, “I resolved to throw myself into
a world of excitement, to enjoy life, and taste fully its pleasures.”
And he did. It was in this mood of feverish excitation that the Venus
love invaded him. His state was one of intense nervous tension. The poem
was worked out, but not in the shape we now have it. The end was
subsequently changed. The poetry and music simmered in his brain for
three years. He began elated, filled with sensations of ecstasy. He
ended dejected, fearing that death would intervene before the last notes
were written.
[Sidenote: _THE WRITING OF “TANNHÄUSER.”_]
Now wherein lies the explanation of this? Let me recount briefly his
life during these three years, and the reason will at once be perceived.
He had opened his Dresden career with brilliancy. “Rienzi” had proved a
great success; he had been appointed conductor to the court, a
competence of 1500 thalers or £ 225 yearly was guaranteed him, and his
horizon seemed brighter;--but the reverse soon began to show itself. The
“Dutchman,” by which he had hoped to increase his reputation, proved a
failure; even “Rienzi” was refused outside Dresden, and the press was
violently inimical. His excited sanguine temperament had received a
grievous shock. At Berlin, the “Dutchman” proved so abortive, that he
took counsel with himself, and resolved that this “Tannhäuser” should
not be written for the world, but for those who had shown themselves in
sympathy with him. As “Tannhäuser” neared its completion, his state grew
more morbid and desponding. His only solace, outside Roeckel, was his
dog. It was a common saying with Wagner that his dog helped him to
compose “Tannhäuser.” It seems that when at the piano, at which he
always composed, singing with his accustomed boisterousness, the dog,
whose constant place was at his master’s feet, would occasionally leap
to the table, peer into his face, and howl piteously. Then Wagner would
address his “eloquent critic” with, “What? it does not suit you?” and
shaking the animal’s paw, would say, quoting Puck, “Well, I will do thy
bidding gently.”
[Sidenote: _THE REVOLUTION OF 1849._]
During the composition Tichatschek, who was to impersonate the hero,
practised such portions as were already written. His enthusiasm was
unbounded, and with Roeckel, he urged the Dresden management to provide
special scenery. The appeal was responded to, and painters were even
brought from Paris. On the 19th October, 1845, the opera was performed,
Johanna Wagner, aged nineteen, the daughter of his brother Albert,
singing the part of Elizabeth. As an illustration of Richard Wagner’s
thoroughness and attention to detail, I would mention that for this
performance he wrote a prefatory notice to the book of words, in which
he explained the purport of the story, with the object of ensuring a
better understanding of the drama by the public. The performance, alas,
was only a partial success, nor was a second representation, given
within a fortnight, any more successful. The music was unlike anything
heard before. It was noised abroad that passages had been written for
the first violins which were unplayable, and the audience listened
expectantly for the “scramble.” No doubt there were violin passages as
difficult as original, but the heart of the leader, Lipenski, was in his
work, and he set himself so earnestly to teach individually each
violinist difficult phrases, even carefully noting the fingering, that
the performance was anything but a “scramble.” Then the critics
ridiculed the hundred and forty-two bars of repetition in the overture
for the violins. This confession of superficial intellect was not
confined to Dresden critics; a dozen years later, that sound musician,
Lindpaintner, expressed the opinion to me that the first eight bars of
the overture were “sublime,” but that the remainder was all “erratic
fiddling.” Such were the criticisms (?) passed upon the work. Wagner saw
there was no hope of its acceptation elsewhere, and thinking to bring it
prominently before Germany, wrote in the following year for permission
to dedicate the work to the king of Prussia. The reply was to the effect
that if he would arrange portions of it for military performance, it
might in that manner be brought to the notice of the king, and perhaps
his request complied with. It is needless to say Wagner did nothing of
the kind, and “Tannhäuser” sank temporarily into oblivion.
As the part which Richard Wagner played in the Revolution of 1848-49 is
of absorbing interest, the incidents which led up to it are of
importance to be carefully noted. The first sign of the coming
opposition to the government appeared in 1845. In itself it was slight,
when we think of the terrible struggle that was shortly to be carried on
with such desperation, but it shows the embers of revolt in Wagner,
which were later fanned into a glowing flame by the patriot, August
Roeckel. Wagner’s heart, as that of all men, revolted at the cause, but
had it not been for the “companion of my solitude,” as Wagner calls
Roeckel, he would never have taken so active a part in the struggle for
liberty. Upon this part, I cannot lay too much stress.
Throughout Saxony, a feeling had been growing against the restraint of
the Roman Catholic ritual. One Wronger, a Roman Catholic priest,
proposed certain revisions and modifications. To this the Dresden court,
steadfastly ultramontane, offered violent opposition, and Duke Johann,
brother of the king, showed himself a prominent defender of the faith.
The struggle was precipitated by the following incident. In his capacity
as general commandant of the Communal guard, the Duke entered Leipzic
one day in August, to review the troops. He and his staff were
received, on the parade ground, by a large concourse of spectators with
such chilling silence that, losing command of himself, the Duke at once
broke off the projected review. Later in the day, while at an hotel on
the city boulevard, some street urchins marched up and down singing,
“Long live Wronger.” In a moment a tumult arose, upon which the royal
guard stationed outside the hotel, by whose order is not known, fired
upon the citizens promenading in the town. “The street,” writes Roeckel,
“was bathed in blood.” This caused a tremendous stir throughout Saxony.
This wanton act of butchery was openly denounced by Roeckel and Wagner,
in terms so emphatic that they were called upon to offer some sort of
apology to the court. The two friends arranged a meeting with Reissiger,
Fisher, and Semper, when the subject was discussed, with the result that
it was deemed advisable, while holding service under the court, to
express regret at the exuberance of the language, and the matter was
allowed to drop. But it rankled in Wagner. His position of a servitor
was irksome; he became restive in his royal harness, and vented his
annoyance in anonymous letters to the papers. From this time his
interest in the political situation increased; continually stimulated by
Roeckel, his sympathies were always with the people, his pen ready to
support his feelings. And so the time wore on till the outbreak of 1848.
[Sidenote: _BEETHOVEN’S “NINTH SYMPHONY.”_]
In the spring of 1846 an event occurred which had a great deal to do
with my subsequent introduction of Wagner to the London public. It was
his conducting of the “Ninth Symphony.” A custom existed in Dresden, of
giving annual performances on Palm Sunday for the benefit of the
pension fund of the musicians of the royal opera. Two works were usually
produced, one a symphony, the two conductors dividing the office of
conductor. This year the symphony fell to Wagner, and he elected to
perform the “Choral.” When a youth he had copied it entirely at Leipzic,
knew it almost by heart, and regarded it as the greatest of Beethoven’s
works, the one in which the great master had felt the inadequacy of
instrumental music to express what he wished to convey, and that the
accents of the human voice were imperatively necessary for its full and
complete realization. When it became known what symphony had been
selected the orchestra revolted. They implored Wagner to produce
another. The ninth had been done under Reissiger and proved a failure,
in which verdict Reissiger had agreed, himself going so far as to
describe that sublime work as “pure nonsense.” But Wagner was
inexorable. The band, fearing poor receipts, sought the aid of Intendant
Luttichorn: to no purpose, however. Wagner’s mind was made up, and he
set to work with his usual thoroughness and earnestness. To avoid
expense he borrowed the orchestral parts from Leipzic, learned the
symphony by heart, and went through all the band parts himself, marking
the nuances and tempi. As to rehearsals, he was unrelenting. For the
double basses he had special meetings, would sing and scream the parts
at them. He increased the chorus by choir-boys from neighbouring
churches, and worked for the success of the performance with an energy
hitherto unknown. To Roeckel he detailed the practice of the best
portion of the band, whilst he persisted with the less skilful. The
result was a performance as successful financially as artistically.
More money was taken than at any previous concert, and the fame of
Richard Wagner increased mightily. This performance brings out
prominently certain features in Wagner’s character which enable us to
see how, through subsequent reverses, he was able to achieve success.
First, witness his courage and indomitable will in overcoming the
obstacles of Luttichorn’s opposition and the ill-will of the orchestra,
the want of funds; then his earnestness and care in committing the score
to memory, his energy at rehearsals, his forethought and wondrous grasp
of detail evident in the programme he wrote explaining the symphony, and
his untiring efforts to succeed. Such points of character show of what
material the man was made, how in all he did he was thorough, and how
firmly impressed with the conviction that he must succeed.
[Sidenote: _THE FASHIONABLE OPERA._]
The analytical remarks he appended to the symphony were not those that
the musical world now know as Richard Wagner’s programme, but a shorter
and more discursive exposition. The year was 1846, but two from the
revolution. The spirit of the brotherhood of nations was in the air, and
the references of Schiller to this world’s bond of union were seized by
Wagner as presenting the means of contemplating Beethoven’s work from a
more exalted elevation than that of an ordinary symphony. It was
currently known that the poet had originally addressed his “Ode to
Liberty! the beautiful spark of heaven,” but that the censor of the
press had struck out “Freiheit” (liberty), and Schiller had substituted
“Freude” (joy). The sentiment, then, was one shared by all, and there
can be no question that the success of the final chorus was as much
owing to the inspiriting language as to the tonal interpretation.
Of recent years much has been said of Wagner’s attitude towards the
opinions upon Italian opera. The years he served at the conductor’s desk
at Dresden, at the period when the sap of his art ambition was rising
rapidly, truly brought him into intimate acquaintance enough with the
fashionable works of French and Italian masters, but his resentment, I
can vouch, was not directed against the composer. He often and often
pointed out to me what, in his opinion, were passages which seemed to
betoken the presence of real gift. What he did regret was that their
faithful adherence to an illogical structure should have crippled their
natural spontaneity. That the talent of the orchestra, too, should be
thrown away on puerile productions annoyed him. But Wagner was nothing
if not practical, and after a season of light opera, the conducting of
which was shared by Reissiger and Roeckel, he writes, “After all, the
management are wise in providing just that commodity for which there is
demand.” When his own “Tannhäuser” was produced with its new ending, he
was charged in the press with being governed too much by reflection,
that his work lacked natural flow, that he was domineered by reasoning
at the expense of feeling. To this Wagner replied in very weighty words,
significant of the thought which always governed the earnest artist,
“The period of an unconscious productivity has long passed: an art work
to endure the process of time, and to satisfy the high culture which is
around us, must be solidly rooted in reason and reflection.” Such
utterances are clearly traceable to his elevated appreciation of poetry
and keen reasoning faculties.
“Lohengrin,” beyond contradiction the most popular of all Wagner’s
operas, or music-dramas, for it should be well remembered that Wagner in
all his literary works up to the last persistently applies the term
“opera” to “Lohengrin,” and its two immediate predecessors, whilst
music-drama was not employed until 1851, and then only for compositions
subsequent to that period. The popularity of “Lohengrin” is not confined
to its native soil, Germany, but all Europe, England, Russia, Italy,
Spain, Portugal, and Denmark (shameful to add, France alone excepted),
and America and Australia, have received it with acclamations. And why?
The secret of it? For learned musicians too, anti-Wagnerians though they
be, accepted it. From notes in my possession, I think the explanation
becomes clear. Wagner writes at that time, “Music is love, and in my
projected opera melody shall stream from one end to the other.” The
form, too, does not break from traditions. It is the border between the
old and new. When “Lohengrin” was composed, not one of his theoretical
works had been penned. He was untrammelled then. The principles upon
which his subsequent works were based can only be applied, he says, to
the first three operas “with very extensive limitations.” Hence he
satisfies the orthodox in their two fundamental principles, “form and
melody.” “Lohengrin” is a love-poem; to Wagner, then, music was love,
and he was intent on writing melody as then understood throughout the
new work.
[Sidenote: _AT WORK ON “LOHENGRIN.”_]
The network of connection that exists between Wagner’s opera texts, is
but one of the many examples which might be adduced of the sequential
thought characteristic of the composer. Each was suggested by its
predecessor. The contest of the Minnesingers’ “Tannhäuser” was naturally
followed by the story of the Mastersingers, first sketched in 1845, the
year of the “Tannhäuser” performance, and then Elsa the love-pendant of
innocence and purity to the material, voluptuous Venus.
In this story of “Lohengrin,” Wagner wavered for a time whether the hero
should not remain on earth with Elsa. This ending he was going to adopt,
Roeckel informs me, out of deference to friends and critics, but Wagner
told me that Roeckel argued so eloquently for the return of Lohengrin to
his state of semi-divinity, that to permit the hero to lead the life of
a citizen would clash harshly with the poetic aspect, and so Wagner,
strengthened in his original intention, reverted to his first
conception. Allusion is made to this by Wagner in “A Commutation to my
Friends,” written in Switzerland, 1851; the friend there referred to is
August Roeckel.
During the composition of “Lohengrin” Wagner was at deadly strife with
the world. He flattered where he despised. He borrowed money where he
could. Just then the world was all black to Wagner. Of no period of his
life can it be said that Wagner managed his finances with even ordinary
care. He always lived beyond his means. Though he was in receipt of £225
a year from the Dresden theatre, a respectable income for that period be
it remembered, he did not restrict his expenses. And so his naturally
irritable temperament was intensified and he resolutely threw himself
into the “Lohengrin” work, determined not to write for a public whose
taste was vitiated by “theatres having no other purpose but amusement,”
but to pour his soul out in the love-strains with which his heart was
bursting. The original score shows that the order of composition was Act
III, I, II, and the prelude last, the whole covering a period of eleven
months, from September, 1846, to August, 1847. It was unusual for Wagner
to compose in this manner; indeed, as far as I am aware, it was the only
work so written.
At the time Wagner was meditating upon the “Lohengrin” music, when it
was beginning to assume a definite shape in his mind, weighed down with
the feeling of being “rejected” by his countrymen and depressed in
general circumstances, the following letter, written to his mother,
throws a charming sidelight upon Wagner, the man. The deep filial
tenderness and poetic sentiment that breathe throughout it, touch and
enchant us.
[Sidenote: _A LETTER TO HIS MOTHER._]
MY DARLING MOTHER: It is so long since I have congratulated you on
your birthday, that I feel quite happy to remember it once at the
right time, which I have, alas, in the pressure of circumstances,
so often overlooked. To tell you how intensely it delights me to
know you body and soul among us; to press your hand from time to
time; and to recall the memory of my own youth so lovingly tended
by you. It is the consciousness that you are with us that makes
your children feel one family. Thrown hither and thither by fate,
forming new ties, they think of you, dearest mother, who have no
other ties in this world than those which bind you to your
children. And so we are all united in you: we are all your
children. May God grant thee this happiness for years yet to come,
and keep you in health and strength to see your children prosper
until the end of your time.
When I feel myself oppressed and hindered by the world, always
striving, rarely enjoying complete success, oft a prey to
annoyances through failure, and wounded by the rough contact with
the outer world, which, alas, so rarely responds to my inner wish,
nothing remains to me but the enjoyment of nature. I throw myself
weeping into her arms. She consoles me, and elevates me, whilst
showing how imaginary are all those sufferings that trouble us. If
we strive too high, Nature shows us that we belong to her, are her
outgrowth, like the trees and plants, which, developing themselves
from her, grow and warm themselves in the sun of heaven, enjoy the
strengthening freshness, and do not fade or die till they have
thrown out the seed which again produces germs and plants, so that
the once created lives an eternity of youth.
When I feel how wholly I belong also to nature, then vanishes every
selfish thought, and I long to shake every brother-man by the hand.
How can I then help yearning for that mother from whose womb I came
forth, and who grows weaker while I increase in strength? How do I
smile at those societies which seek to discover why the loving ties
of nature are so often bruised and torn asunder.
My darling mother, whatever dissonances may have sounded between
us, how quickly and completely have they disappeared. It is like
leaving the mist of the city to enter into the calm retreat of the
wooded valley, where, throwing myself upon mossy earth, with eyes
turned towards heaven, listening to the songsters of the air, with
heart full, the tear unchecked starts forth, and I involuntarily
stretch my hand towards you, exclaiming, “God protect thee, my
darling mother; and when He takes thee to Himself, may it be done
mildly and gently.” But death is not here: you live on through us;
and a richer and more eventful life perhaps awaits you through us
than yours ever could have been. Therefore, thank God who has so
plentifully blessed you.
Farewell, my darling mother,
Your son,
RICHARD.
DRESDEN, 19th September, 1846.
It was well for Wagner that his mind was occupied with the composition
of “Lohengrin” during 1846-47, for by the summer of the latter year the
pressure of circumstances had become so acute that notwithstanding his
exceptional elasticity of spirits the mental worry must have resulted in
a more distressing depression than that which we know did take hold of
him. This exuberance of youthful frolic is an important characteristic
of Wagner. It was his sheet anchor, a refuge from annoyances that would
have incisively irritated or crushed another. True, he would burst into
a passion at first,--there is no denying his passionate nature,--but it
was of short duration and once over the boisterous merriment of a
high-spirited school-boy succeeded. Though deeply wounded, as only
finely strung sensitive natures can be, he was quick to recover, and
whilst animadverting upon the denseness of those who slighted his art,
he distorted the incident and treated it as worthy of affording fun
only. Wagner identified himself with his art body and soul, his breath
of life was art, his pulse throbbed for art, and to wound him was
insulting art. His success was the triumph of art, and the sacrifices
his friends made of mental energy, wealth, and time were regarded by him
but as votive offerings to the altar of the divine art, honouring the
donor. Then when his scores of “Rienzi,” the “Dutchman,” and
“Tannhäuser” were returned unopened by managers, he turned with
undiminished ardour upon “Lohengrin,” doubting his capacity to realize
in tones his feelings, but with dauntless fortitude to write his
“love-music” for the glory of art, conscious that its scenic
interpretation was, for the present at least, a very improbable
circumstance.
[Sidenote: _PUBLISHING THREE OPERAS._]
What, in Wagner’s character at all times, inspires our admiration is his
courage. “He never knew when he was beaten.” Weighed down with monetary
difficulties,--though his poor means were made rich by the wealth of
love and ready invention of Minna, whose patience and self-denial he was
always ready to extol,--with a cloudy art horizon, he sought to approach
the great public in a more direct manner than by stage representations,
by publishing the three operas already composed. It was not a difficult
matter; he was a local celebrity, and on the strength of his reputation
he entered into an engagement with a Dresden firm, Messrs. Meser and Co.
The large initial cost was borne by the firm, but the liability was
Wagner’s. Messrs. Meser and Co. predicted a success, and risking
nothing, or comparatively nothing, urged the issue of “Rienzi,”
“Dutchman,” and “Tannhäuser.” The contract was signed, the works were
produced, but alas, the forecast was pleasant to the ear but breaking in
the hope. There was absolutely no sale, and claims were soon preferred
on the luckless composer for the cost of production. Of course they
could not be met. Wagner had no available funds, his income was
insufficient for his daily needs, and so he borrowed, borrowed where he
could, sufficient to temporarily appease the publishers. This debt, paid
by instalments, hung over him as a black cloud for years, always
breaking when he was least equal to meet it. How he has stormed at his
folly, and regretted his heedlessness of the future, but the demand met,
his tribulation was immediately forgotten. A brother of mine, passing
through Dresden in 1847, wrote to me of his surprise at the state of
Wagner’s finances, and of the sum that was necessary to keep him afloat,
which under my direction was immediately supplied.
It was then that Wagner wrote to me: “Try and negotiate for the sale of
my opera ‘Tannhäuser’ in London. If there be no possibility of
concluding a bargain, and gaining a tangible remuneration for me,
arrange that some firm shall take it so as to secure the English
copyright.” I went off at once to my friend Frederick Beale, the head of
the house Cramer, Beale and Co., now Cramer and Co. Though Frederick
Beale was an enthusiast in art, with a sense beyond that of the ordinary
speculator in other men’s talent, yet “he could not see his way to
publishing ‘Tannhäuser.’” I knew Beale would have done much for me, our
relations being of so intimate a character, but the times “were out of
joint,” his geniality had just then led him to accept much that proved a
financial loss to the firm, and so the work which, as time now shows,
would have produced a future, was rejected, yes, rejected, though on
behalf of Wagner I offered it _for nothing_. It is the old, old story;
Carlyle offering his “Sartor Resartus” for nothing, Schubert his songs,
etc., etc., and rejected as valueless by the purblind publisher. The
publisher invariably is the man of his period; he is incapable of seeing
beyond his age, and thrusts aside the genius who writes for futurity.
“Wouldst thou plant for eternity?” asks Carlyle, “then plant into the
deep, infinite faculties of man, his fantasy and heart; wouldst thou
plant for a year and a day? then plant into his shallow, superficial
faculties, his self-love and arithmetical understanding.”