1855. _Continued._
On the “Ninth Symphony,” that colossal work, Richard Wagner expended
commensurate pains. I remember how surprised the vocalists were at the
rehearsal, when he stopped them, inquiring did they understand the
meaning of what they were singing, and then he briefly explained in
emphatic language what he thought about it. The bass solo was especially
odd: the vocalist was taking it as though it were an ordinary ballad,
when Wagner burst in fiery song, natural and falsetto, illustrating how
it should go, singing the whole of the solo of Mr. Weiss (the bass
vocalist) in such a decided, clean cut manner that it was impossible for
the singer to help imitating him, and with marked effect too. As for the
band, that rehearsal was a revelation to them. That symphony was a
stupendous work, yet the conductor knew it by heart and was conducting
without score. They felt they were in the hands of a man whose artistic
soul was fired with enthusiasm; his earnestness infected them; they
caught it quickly and responded with a zealousness that only sympathetic
artists can put forth, ably supported by Sainton, whom the Prince
Consort complimented to Wagner as a splendid “Chef d’attaque.” The
concert performance created, too, such a stir that even the most violent
of all the anti-Wagner critics spoke of it as an “intellectual and
elevated conception.” This concert placed Wagner permanently in the
heart of his band; they loved to be under the command of such an earnest
art worker and yielded willingly to his inspirations.
That evening after the concert, at our now established gathering, Wagner
was positively jubilant. He had been able to produce the “Ninth
Symphony” in London as he wished, and he hoped the “traditions” would
remain. He emphasized “traditions” in a slyly sarcastic manner, and well
had he reason to do so. Traditions of Mendelssohn and Spohr were
omnipotent, and omnipotent with the orchestra, and Wagner hoped the
conservative English mind would retain “his” traditions of the “Choral
Symphony,” among which would be found how he had sung the long
recitative for the strings,--double-basses,--that ushers in the choral
portion of the work. When Wagner first sang this part to the orchestra,
they all engaged in a good-humoured titter, which speedily gave way to
respect; for Wagner certainly was marvellously successful in explaining
how he wanted a phrase played by first singing it,--a gift it
undoubtedly was.
[Sidenote: _A VISIT TO ST. PAUL’S._]
He said he would not do any work next day, and arranged that we should
visit the city. We went first to the Guildhall. It was astonishing how
he absorbed everything to himself, to his purposes, how his fancy freely
exercised itself. Gog and Magog! they were his Fafner and Fasolt; then
his humour leaped in advance of the period, and he laughingly asked me
whether there was a “Götterdämmerung” in store for the City Fathers, and
whether Guildhall, their Walhalla, supported by the giants Gog and
Magog, would also crumble away through the curse of gold. We next went
to the Mint. There, too, the central figure was Wagner; the main theme
of discussion, Wagner. When the attendant put into his hands, as was the
custom, a roll of cancelled bank notes, amounting to thousands of pounds
sterling, he turned to me and said, “The hundredth part of this would
build my theatre, and posterity would bless me.” His speech certainly
savoured of the consciousness of genius. I do not think this is a
euphemistic way of saying he had a good opinion of himself. I say it,
because I feel it to be the truth. It was through this very
consciousness that he triumphed over the many difficulties that beset
him. Without it he could not have achieved what he did. The buoyancy of
hope begotten of conscious strength is a powerful factor in the securing
of success. The theatre he had in his mind then, I thought to be that
which he had urged the Saxon authorities to establish, the scheme for
which I was then well acquainted with, but his latter discourse showed
how, during his exile, that original thought had amplified itself. Of
our visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral I can recall but one observation of
Wagner, to the effect that it was as cold and uninspiring as the
Protestant creed--a strange remark from one whose own religious
tendencies were Lutheran, and who could express his religious
convictions so powerfully and poetically in his last work, “Parsifal.”
Richard Wagner’s intense attachment to the canine species led him to
make friends with our dog, a large, young, black Norwegian beast, given
me by Hainberger, the companion of Wagner in the forward movement of
1848-9, and sharer of his exile. The dog showed in return a decided
affection for his newly made acquaintance. After a few days, when Wagner
found that the dog was kept in a small back yard, he expostulated
against such “cruelty,” and proposed to take the dog’s necessary
out-door exercise under his own special care--a task he never shirked
during the whole of his London stay. Whenever he went for his daily
promenade, a habit never relinquished at any period of his life, the dog
was his companion, no matter who else might be of the party. Nor was the
control of the dog an easy task. It was a curious sight to witness
Wagner’s patience in following the wild gyrations of the spirited
animal, who, in his exultation of that semi-freedom, tugged at his
chain, dragging the Nibelung composer hither and thither.
[Sidenote: _ANIMALS ON THE STAGE._]
Part of Wagner’s daily constitutional was to the Regent’s Park, entering
by the Hanover Gate. There, at the small bridge over the ornamental
water, would he stand regularly and feed the ducks, having previously
provided himself for the purpose with a number of French rolls--rolls
ordered each day for the occasion. There was a swan, too, that came in
for much of Wagner’s affection. It was a regal bird, and fit, as the
master said, to draw the chariot of Lohengrin. The childlike happiness,
full to overflowing, with which this innocent occupation filled Wagner,
was an impressive sight never to be forgotten. It was Wagner you saw
before you, the natural man, affectionate, gentle, and mirthful. His
genuine affection for the brute creation, united to a keen power of
observation, gave birth to numberless anecdotes, and the account of the
Regent’s Park peregrinations often formed a most pleasant subject of
after-dinner conversation. I should explain that though Wagner had rooms
in Portland Place, St. John’s Chapel, Regent’s Park, he only took his
breakfast there, and did such work in the matter of scoring in the
morning, coming directly after to my house for his dog and rolls,
returning for dinner and to spend the rest of the day under my roof,
where also a room was provided for him.
[Sidenote: _THAT UNHAPPY DRAGON._]
In our friendly talks upon the animal kingdom, we soon came to a decided
dissension. I casually remarked on the ludicrous effects animals produce
at times, and under all circumstances on the stage; here I found myself
in direct opposition to Wagner’s notions on the subject. Had he not the
dragon Fafner, the young bear in “Siegfried,” the Gräne, the steed of
the Valkyrie, even the fluttering bird in the tetralogy? Was not the
swan in “Lohengrin” another proof of his predilection for realistic
representation of animals on the stage? It was in vain that I cited the
lamentable failure of the serpent in Mozart’s “Magic Flute,” which, even
at the best theatres in Germany, never produced other than a burst of
hilarity at its wriggling in the pangs of death, when pierced by the
three donnas; or again the two lions in the same opera which are rolled
on to the stage like children’s wooden horses; or Weber’s mistake of
introducing a serpent in his “Euryanthe,” which always mars that scene!
But I found myself obliged to cease quoting examples, and seek a basis
for establishing principles for my argument against the introduction of
animals on the stage. Here more success awaited me on the strength of
Wagner’s own exalted notion of the histrionic art; viz. that an actor,
to be worthy of the name, must possess the creative power of a poet, and
become, as it were, inspired into the state impersonated, which might
not inaptly be likened to that of mesmerism. The actor must believe
himself another being, must be unconscious of aught else. One such
artist, he asserted, was Garrick, in the delivery of monologues, when
the great tragedian was said to have isolated himself to such a degree,
that though with his eyes wide open, he became, as it were, visionless.
It was on this ground that I attempted my argument against Wagner’s
illogical and intemperate introduction of the brute creation into his
dramas. If, I argued, you will not accept an actor properly so-called, a
reasoning man, unless his poetic creative fancy can enable him to
transport his identity into a character entirely different from his own,
how still less can you expect any animal to impersonate a set rôle in
any performance? Whatever actions may be required from it, a dog will
always represent a dog; a horse, a horse. Wagner saw the argument, but
reluctant as at all times to confess himself beaten, he advanced
“training” as a defence. This, however, served only to destroy his case
the more; for he had previously reasoned, and with much force, that all
training for the stage as a profession was useless, and but so much
mis-directed effort and waste of time, unless the student had given
evidence of a genius, which nature, alas! is chary in bestowing. So much
for the introduction of real animals upon the stage; there the case is
bad enough, and the results occasionally disastrous and ludicrous; but
when one has to make shift with imitation, the matter is still worse.
Here, too, however, Wagner was reluctant to forego the semblance as
much as he was the reality. Yet, let the case be tested by oneself.
Recall the bear Siegfried brings with him into the smithy, think of the
ridiculous effect produced by the actor’s antics in his vain efforts to
worthily perform his part and seem a real bear. There is no margin left
for the imagination, and the sad attempt at a mistaken realism defeats
its own purpose. It is an extraordinary feature in a poetic brain like
that of Wagner, that he would cling persistently to such a realism. This
subject remained always one on which we dissented, and I never failed to
prognosticate a failure for his pets in the Nibelung tetralogy, which to
my mind was fully proved even under his own supervision, and on the
hallowed ground of Bayreuth at the performances there, which were, in
all other respects, so marvellously perfect. Who is there that was
terribly impressed by the sight of the dragon, or who could divest
himself of the thought that a recital of the combat would have proved
infinitely more impressive than the slaying of the snorting monster,
however well Siegfried bears himself towards the pasteboard pitiful
imitation of a fabulous beast? Who, again, would not sooner have heard a
description of the wild, spirited steed, Gräne, than witness the nervous
anxiety of Brünhilde in mounting and dismounting a funeral charger,
which is the cynosure of all eyes while on the stage, to the loss of the
music-dramatic setting? The attention of the dramatis personæ and
audience is distracted from the action of the drama, and centred on the
probable next movement of an animal unable to grasp the situation. This
question of realism is a debatable point; but if it be not kept within
strictly defined limits, I fear there will be danger of the ludicrous
triumphing over the serious.
An inquiry into the probable causes of an exaggerated tendency to
realism, in a man like Wagner, cannot but be interesting to those who,
without bias, accept him as a master-mind. After many years of an ardent
study of his character, compelled by his commanding genius, I am forced
to a conclusion, the key to many of his actions, which is equally the
explanation in the present instance, is the lack of self-denial. He
yearned for unlimited means to achieve his purpose, and would have the
most gorgeous and costly trappings, to set off his pictures of the
imagination. It was the same in every-day matters of life. Nor, must I
add, did he ever care from whence the means came. That this was the case
in real life, all who know him will testify. How much more, then, would
such a tendency be fed in realizing the vivid impressions with which his
active poetical fancy so freely provided him. Unlimited means! that was
the dream of his life, and up to a late period, when these means at last
realized themselves by the astounding success of his works and the
enormous sums they produced, his inability to curb his wants down to his
actual means kept him in a state of constant trouble and yearning for
freedom from those shackles.
[Sidenote: _THE THIRD LONDON CONCERT._]
He accepted his humble descent, fully convinced from earliest time of
having the patent of nobility in his brain--in his genius! He ever bore
himself with the consciousness of superiority, but as for titles and
decorative distinctions, he disdained them all. Were they not bestowed
on numskulls? therefore, he has loudly proclaimed genius should not
dishonour its lofty intelligence in accepting empty baubles. But riches
and the profuse luxurious splendour that can be purchased thereby would
not have seemed too much for him, had they equalled the fabulous
possessions of a Monte Cristo. The traditional humble state of the great
composers, if not actual poverty, as compared with the fortunes amassed
in other arts, was a continual source of complaint with him.
The programme of the third concert was as follows:--
THIRD CONCERT, 16TH APRIL.
Symphony in A Mendelssohn.
Aria from “Faust” Spohr.
Concerto, pianoforte Beethoven.
Aria Mozart.
Overture (“Euryanthe”) Weber.
Symphony in C minor, No. 5 Beethoven.
Recitative and Aria Spohr.
Overture (“Les deux journées”) Cherubini.
That evening, the 16th April, there was a stir among the Mendelssohnian
supporters. They mustered in force; for it had been rumoured that at the
rehearsal Wagner had not stopped the orchestra once. But however Wagner
may have regarded the works of the composer of “Elijah,” he was
straightforward enough to do with all his might what he put his hand to,
as the sequel proved, since the “Daily News” reported that it “never
heard the ‘Italian’ Symphony go so well.” That there were some whose
prejudice was not appeased, is to be accepted as a matter of course, and
Wagner was taunted in the “Times,” “with a coarse and rigorously frigid”
performance.
As for the overture to “Euryanthe,” it is not too much to say the
audience was startled out of itself; there was a dead silence for a
moment on the work being brought to a close, and the enthusiasm,
vigorous and hearty, burst forth. It was a new reading. Such was the
surprise with which we witnessed the rapturous applause, that at the
convivial gathering after the concert Wagner set himself at the piano,
and from memory poured forth numerous excerpts from “Euryanthe.” Then we
learned that that opera was intensely admired by Wagner. He thought it
“logical” and “philosophical,” and throughout showed that Weber was a
reflective musician, and, as he himself forcibly argued, that only works
of reflection could ever be immortal. The plot, its treatment, and the
language employed were, he felt, the causes of the opera’s
non-popularity, and that these wretched drawbacks dreadfully changed the
intrinsically beautiful music.
[Sidenote: _A FONDNESS FOR SNUFF._]
Reflections upon the habits and customs of a past generation sometimes
introduce us to situations that produce in the mind wonder and perhaps a
feeling of disgust. Who can picture the composer of that colossal work
of intellect, the “Nibelung Ring,” sitting at the piano, in an elegant,
loose robe-de-chambre, singing, with full heart, snatches and scenes
from his “adored” idol, Weber’s “Euryanthe,” and at intervals of every
three or four minutes indulging in large quantities of scented snuff.
The snuff-taking scene of the evening is the deeper graven on my memory,
because Wagner abruptly stopped singing, on finding his snuff-box empty,
and got into a childish, pettish fit of anger. He turned to us in
deepest concern, with “Kein schnupf tabac mehr also Kein gesang mehr”
(no more snuff, no more song); and though we had reached the small hours
of early morn, would have some one start in search of this “necessary
adjunct.” When singing, the more impassioned he became, the more
frequent the snuff-taking. Now, this practice of Wagner’s, one
cultivated from early manhood, in my opinion pointedly illustrates a
phase in the man’s character. He did not care for snuff, and even
allowed the indelicacy of the habit, but it was that insatiable nature
of his that yearned for the enjoyment of all the “supposed” luxuries of
life. It was precisely the same with smoking. He indulged in this, to
me, barbarous acquirement more moderately, but experienced not the
slightest pleasure from it. I have seen him puffing from the mild and
inoffensive cheroot, to the luxurious hookah--the latter, too, as he
confessed, only because it was an Oriental growth, and the luxury of
Eastern people harmonized with his own fondness for unlimited profusion.
“Other people find pleasure in smoking; then why should not I?” This is,
briefly, the only explanation Wagner ever offered in defence of the
practice--a practice which he was fully aware increased the malignity of
his terrible dyspepsia.
There was in Wagner a nervous excitability which not infrequently led to
outbreaks of passion, which it would be difficult to understand or
explain, were it not that there existed a positive physical cause.
First, he suffered, as I have stated earlier, from occasional attacks of
erysipelas; then his nervous system was delicate, sensitive,--nay, I
should say, irritable. Spasmodic displays of temper were often the
result, I firmly feel, of purely physical suffering. His skin was so
sensitive that he wore silk next to the body, and that at a time when
he was not the favoured of fortune. In London he bought the silk, and
had shirts made for him; so, too, it was with his other garments. We
went together to a fashionable tailor in Regent Street, where he ordered
that his pockets and the back of his vest should be of silk, as also the
lining of his frock-coat sleeves; for Wagner could not endure the touch
of cotton, as it produced a shuddering sensation throughout the body
that distressed him. I remember well the tailor’s surprise and
explanation that silk for the back of the vest and lining of the sleeves
was not at all necessary, and that the richest people never had silk
linings; besides, it was not seen. This last observation brought Wagner
up to one of his indignant bursts, “Never seen! yes; that’s the tendency
of this century; sham, sham in everything; that which is not seen may be
paltry and mean, provided only that the exterior be richly gilded.”
On the matter of dress he had, as on most things, decided opinions! The
waistcoat he condemned as superfluous, and thought a garment akin to the
mediæval doublet in every way more suitable and comely, and was strongly
inclined at one time to revert to that style of costume himself. He did
go so far as to wear an uncommon headgear, one sanctioned by antiquity,
the _biretta_, which few people of to-day would have courage to don.
Thus it was that from physical causes Wagner preferred silks and
velvets, and so a constitutional defect produced widespread and
ungenerous charges of affected originality and sumptuous luxuriousness.
[Sidenote: _TOO MUCH GOOD MUSIC._]
Wagner was greatly amused at the references to him in the London
Charivari “Punch,” wherein his “music of the future” was described as
“Promissory Notes,” and on a second occasion when it was asserted that
“Lord John Russell is in treaty with Dr. Wagner to compose some music of
the future for his Reform Bill.”
The fourth concert on the 30th April nearly led to a rupture between
Wagner and the directors. The programme was as follows:--
Symphony in B flat Lucas.
Romanza (“Huguenots”) Meyerbeer.
Nonetto for string and wind instruments Spohr.
Recitative and Aria Beethoven.
Overture (“Ruler of the Spirits”) Weber.
Symphony No. 7 Beethoven.
Duetto (“cosi fan Tutti”) Mozart.
Overture (“l’Alcade de la Velga”) Onslow.
Wagner had a decided objection to long programmes. The London public, he
said, “overfeed themselves with music; they cannot healthily digest the
lengthy menu provided for them.” This programme was distasteful, and
what a scene did it produce! During the aria from “Les Huguenots,” the
tenor, Herr Reichardt, after a few bars’ rest, did not retake his part
at the proper moment, upon which Wagner turned to him,--of course
without stopping the band,--whereupon the singer made gestures to the
audience indicating that the error lay with Wagner. At the end of the
vocal piece a slight consternation ensued. Wagner was well aware of the
unfriendliness of a section of the critics, and in all probability
capital would be made out of this. At the end of the first part of the
concert I went to him in the artists’ room. His high-pitched excitement
and uncontrolled utterances, it was easy to foresee, boded no good. And
so when we reached home after the concert there ensued a positive storm
of passion. Wagner at his best was impulsive and vehement; suffering
from a miserable insinuation as to his incapacity, he grew furious. On
one point he was emphatic,--he would return to Switzerland the next day.
All entreaties and protestations were unavailing. Sainton, Lüders, and
myself actually hung upon him, so ungovernable was his anger. He knew
how I had suffered in the press for championing his cause.
“Chef-de-claque,” “madman,” and “tutto quanti” were the elegant epithets
bestowed upon me in print; and if Wagner left now, the enemy would have
some show of truth in charging him with admitted incompetence: however,
after two or three hours’ talking he engaged to stay and see whether he
could not win success with the “Tannhäuser” overture, which was to be
performed at the next concert.
A distorted report of this event appearing in certain German musical
papers, he wrote an explanatory letter to Dresden, in which he stated,
“I need not tell you that it was only the entreaties of Ferdinand
Praeger and those friends who accompanied me home, that dissuaded me
from my somewhat impulsive determination.”
At the fifth concert, 14th May, the “Tannhäuser” overture was performed.
It came at the end of the first part of another of those long programmes
which Wagner disliked so much. In a letter to me to Brighton, where I
had gone for a few days, he writes: “These endless programmes, with
these interminable masses of instrumental and vocal pieces, torture me.”
The programme of the fifth concert was:--
[Sidenote: _THE “TANNHÄUSER” OVERTURE._]
Symphony Mozart.
Aria Paer.
Concerto (pianoforte) Chopin.
Aria Mozart.
Overture (“Tannhäuser”) Wagner.
Symphony (“Pastorale”) Beethoven.
Romance Meyerbeer.
Barcarola (vocal) Ricci.
Overture (“Preciosa”) Weber.
How those violin passages on the fourth string in the “Tannhäuser”
overture worried the instrumentalists! But as Lipinski had done at
Dresden, so Sainton did now in London, and fingered the passages for
each individual performer. The concert room was well filled. At the
close of the overture tumultuous applause followed, the audience rising
and waving handkerchiefs; indeed, Mr. Anderson informed me that he had
never known such a display of excitement at a Philharmonic concert where
everything was so staid and decorous. As this overture has become
perhaps one of the most popular of Wagner excerpts, it will be
interesting to read what the two acknowledged leading musical critics in
London, i.e. of the “Musical World” (who was also the critic of the
“Times”) and the “Athenæum,” said with reference to it. The former
wrote: “The instrumentation is always heavy and thick”; and the
“Athenæum” said: “Yawning chromatic progressions ... a scramble; ... a
hackneyed eight-bar phrase, the commonplace of which is not disguised by
an accidental sharp; ... the instrumentation is ill-balanced,
ineffective, thin, and noisy.”
On the morning of the 22d May, Wagner came to Milton Street very early.
It was his birthday; he was forty-two, and the good, devoted Minna had
so carefully timed the arrival of her congratulatory letter, that Wagner
had received it that morning. He was informed that her gift was a
dressing-gown of violet velvet, lined with satin of similar colour,
headgear--the _biretta_, so well known--to match,--articles of apparel
which furnished his enemies with so much opportunity for charges of
ostentation, egregious vanity, etc. Minna knew her husband well; the
gift was entirely after his heart. He read us the letter. The only
portion of it which I can remember referred to the animal world,--the
dog, Peps, who had been presented with a new collar; and of his parrot,
who had repeated unceasingly, “Richard Wagner, du bist ein grosser mann”
(Richard Wagner, you are a great man). Wagner’s imitation of the parrot
was very amusing. That day the banquet was spread for Richard Wagner.
How he did talk! It was the never-ending fountain leaping from the rock,
sparkling and bright, clear and refreshing. He told us episodes of his
early career at Magdeburg and Riga. How he impressed me then with his
energy! Truly, he was a man whose onward progress no obstacles could
arrest. The indomitable will, and the excision of “impossible” from his
vocabulary, were prominent during the recital of the stirring events of
his early manhood. Certainly it was but a birthday feast, and the talk
was genial and merry; yet there went out from me, unbidden and
unchecked, “Truly, that is a great man.” Yes, though it was but
after-dinner conversation, the reflections were those of a man born to
occupy a high position in the world of thought and to compel the
submission of others to his intellectual vigour.
[Sidenote: “_THE PHILHARMONIC OMNIBUS._”]
At the sixth concert, 28th May, another of those lengthy programmes was
gone through, and comprised--
Symphony in G minor C. Potter.
Aria (“Il Seraglio”) Mozart.
Concerto, violin, Mr. Sainton Beethoven.
Sicilienne Pergolesi.
Overture (“Leonora”) Beethoven.
Symphony, A minor Mendelssohn.
Aria (“Non mi dir”) Mozart.
Song, “O ruddier than the cherry” Handel.
Overture (“Der Berg-geist”) Spohr.
Think of the anger of Wagner! two symphonies and two overtures in the
same evening, besides the vocal music and concerto! This was the fourth
concert at which a double dose of symphony and overture was administered
to an audience incapable of digesting such a surfeit; it was these
“full” programmes, reminding him of the cry of the London omnibus
conductors, “full inside,” which led him humorously to speak of himself
as “conductor of the Philharmonic Omnibus.” In the subjoined letter
addressed to my wife, anent their daily promenade for the “banquetting,”
as he called it, of the ducks in the Regent’s Park, he subscribes
himself as above.
CARISSIMA SORELLA: Croyez-vous le temps assez bon, pour
entreprendre notre promenade? Si vous avez le moindre doute, et
comme l’affaire ne presse pas du tout, je vous prie de vous en
dispenser pour aujourd’hui. Faites-moi une toute petite reponse si
je dois venir vous chercher dans un Hansom, ou non?
En tous cas je gouterai des 4 heures des delices de votre table!
Votre cordialement, dévoúé frère,
RICHARD WAGNER,
_Conductor d’omnibus de la Société
Philharmonique, 1855_.
The letter was sent by hand, as his rooms were but ten minutes from my
house. Perhaps I may here reproduce another short note from Wagner to my
wife, with no other intention than showing the degree of close
friendship that existed between him and us:--
MA TRÈS CHÈRE SŒUR LÉONIE: Si vous voulez je viendrai demain
(Samedi) diver avec vous à 6 heures le soir. Pour Dimanche il m’a
fallu accepter une invitation pour Camberwell, que je ne pouvais
absolument pas refuser. Serez-vous contente de me voir demain?
Votre très obligé frère,
RICHARD WAGNER.
VENDREDI SOIR, 1865.
[Sidenote: _MR. POTTER MADE HAPPY._]
Reverting to the concert, the universal criticism was that Wagner had
achieved great things with Cipriani Potter’s symphony. The music Wagner
thought the exact reflection of the man, antiquated but respectable.
Potter was a charming man in daily intercourse, of short stature, thin,
ample features, huge shaggy eyebrows, stand-up collars behind whose
points the old man could hide half his face, and a coat copied from a
Viennese pattern of last century. Wagner was genuinely drawn to the man;
and as the inimical “Musical World” said, “took great pains with the
symphony” (p. 347). Wagner used to declaim greatly against
Mendelssohnian tradition, in the orchestra,--that no movement should be
taken too slow, for fear of wearying the audience. However, being a man
of strong independent character, he would have his way, and movements
were taken as slow as the spirit appeared to require. The critics abused
him heartily; indeed, to such an extent that when the Mozart symphony in
E flat was to be done, the directors implored Wagner to allow the
orchestra to take the slow movement in the quick _tempo_ taught by
Mendelssohn. Similarly, when Potter’s symphony was to be done, Mr.
Potter particularly requested Wagner to take the _andante_ somewhat
fast, otherwise he feared a failure. But Wagner, who, with his
accustomed earnestness had almost the whole by heart, told the composer
that the _andante_ was an extremely pretty, naïve movement, and that no
matter the speed, if the expression were omitted or slurred, the whole
would fall flat; but, added Wagner, it should go thus: Then he sang part
to Mr. Potter, who was so touched that he grasped Wagner’s hand, saying,
“I never dreamed a conductor could take a new work so much to heart as
you have; and as you sing it, just so I meant it.” After the concert Mr.
Potter was very delighted.
But the work of the evening was the “Leonora” overture. Here again
Wagner had his reading, one which the orchestra fell in with
immediately, for they perceived the truth, the earnestness of what
Wagner taught.
At the seventh concert, 11th June, the “Tannhäuser” overture was
repeated, by royal command. The programme, again “full,” included three
overtures and two symphonies.
Overture (“Chevy Chase”) Macfarren.
Air (“Jessonda”) Spohr.
Symphony (“Jupiter”) Mozart.
Scena (“Oberon”) Weber.
Overture (“Tannhäuser”) Wagner.
Symphony (No. 8) Beethoven.
Song (“Ave Maria”) Cherubini.
Duet Paer.
Overture (“Anacreon”) Cherubini.
The press did Wagner the justice to state that he showed himself earnest
in the matter of Macfarren’s “Chevy Chase.” His own overture,
“Tannhäuser,” was again a brilliant success. The queen sent for him into
the royal salon, and, congratulating him, said that the Prince Consort
was “a most ardent admirer of his.” Richard Wagner was pleased at the
unaffected and “winning” manner of Her Majesty, who spoke German to him,
but as his own account of the interview, written to a friend at Dresden
two days after the concert, is now before me, I will reproduce it.
...It was therefore the more pleasing to me that the queen (which
very seldom happens, and not every year) had signified her
intention of being present at the seventh concert, and ordered a
repetition of the overture. It was in itself a very pleasant thing
that the queen overlooked my exceedingly compromised political
position (which with great malignity was openly alluded to in the
“Times”), and without fear attended a public performance which I
directed. Her further conduct towards me, moreover, infinitely
compensated for all the disagreeable circumstances and coarse
enmities which hitherto I had encountered. She and Prince Albert,
who sat in front before the orchestra, applauded after “Tannhäuser”
overture, which closed the first part, with such hearty warmth that
the public broke forth into lively and sustained applause. During
the interval the queen sent for me into the drawing-room, receiving
me in the presence of her suite with these words: “I am most happy
to make your acquaintance. Your composition has charmed me.” She
thereupon made inquiries, during a long conversation, in which
Prince Albert took part, as to my other compositions; and asked if
it were not possible to translate my operas into Italian. I had, of
course, to give the negative to this, and state that my stay here
could only be temporary, as the only position open was that of
director of a concert-institute which was not properly my sphere.
At the end of the concert the queen and the prince again applauded
me....
[Sidenote: _BURLESQUE OF HIS OWN SONG._]
That evening after the concert our usual meeting included Berlioz and
his wife. Berlioz had arrived shortly before this concert. Between him
and Wagner I knew an awkward constraint existed, which I hardly saw how
to bridge over, but I was desirous to bring the two together, and
discussing the matter with Wagner, he agreed that perhaps the convivial
union after the concert afforded the very opportunity. And so Berlioz
came. But his wife was sickly; she lay on the sofa and engrossed the
whole of her husband’s attention, causing Berlioz to leave somewhat
early. He came alone to the next gathering.
After such a triumph as Wagner had had that evening with the overture,
he was unusually excited. Hector Berlioz, too, was of an excitable
temperament, but could repress it. Not so Wagner. He presented a
striking contrast to the polished, refined Frenchman, whose speech was
almost classic, through his careful selection of words. Wagner went to
the piano, and sang the “Star of Eve,” with harmonies which Chellard, a
German composer of little note (he had composed “Macbeth” as an opera),
said “must be intended.” The effect was extremely mirth-provoking, for
Wagner could ape the ridiculous with irresistible humour.
That evening Wagner, who was always fond of “tasty” dinners, spoke so
glowingly of the French, and their culinary art powers, that we arranged
a whitebait dinner at Greenwich at the Ship, one such as the ministers
sat down to. Edward Roeckel, the brother of August, came up from Bath
for the occasion, and was the giver of the feast. We went by boat. I
remember well the journey, for poor Wagner had an attack of
_malde-mer_, as though he actually were at sea; the wind was blowing
hard, and the water rough. He appreciated highly the whitebait,
especially the dish of devilled ones, and the much-decried cooking of
the British ascended several degrees in his opinion.
The attitude of the bulk of the London press towards Wagner I have
spoken of as unfriendly; they condemned him, indeed, before he was
heard. Not content with writing bitterly against him, some persons were
in the habit of sending him every scurrilous article that appeared about
him. Who was the instigator I could not positively say. On one occasion,
a letter was addressed to Wagner by an English composer, whom I will not
do the honour of naming, who had sought by every possible means to
achieve notoriety, stating that it was said Wagner had spoken
disparagingly of his name and music, and desiring an explanation with
complete satisfaction. Wagner was excessively angry. He had never heard
the name of the composer, wanted to write an indignant remonstrance, but
was dissuaded by me, for I saw both in this and the regular receipt of
the anonymously sent papers, an attempt to draw Wagner into a dispute.
Of course the writer was but the tool of others. In these matters Wagner
yielded himself entirely into my hands, though he was often desirous of
wielding a fluent and effective pen against his ungenerous enemies.
[Sidenote: _HIS FONDNESS FOR LUXURY._]
At that time I had in London a friend on a visit from Paris, a musical
amateur of gift, named Kraus. He was in the confidence of the emperor of
the French, holding the position of steward to a branch of the Bonaparte
family. I invited him to meet Wagner, of whom he was an admirer. Now
listen to what took place. Wagner did all that was possible by
persuasive language to induce Kraus to move the emperor to do something
for Berlioz. It was to no purpose that we were told the emperor was not
enthusiastic for music, and that so many impossible difficulties were in
the way. Wagner kept to his point; Berlioz was poor, had been compelled
to resort to pledging trinkets, etc., whereby to live, and that it was a
crime to the art which he, Kraus, professed to love, that Berlioz should
be in want. I have thought this incident worthy of notice, as showing
the good-will of Wagner for a brother artist was stronger than the icy
restraint that existed between them when they met.
Much has been written and said of Wagner’s extravagance, his prodigality
of luxury. Well, ‘tis true, Wagner knew not self-denial, and that his
taste was ever for the beautiful and costly. With such characteristics,
his indulgence in the choice and elegant can be understood. Should
something pretty attract his attention in the street, say in a shop
window, he would stop suddenly and exclaim aloud what he thought,
heedless of the people standing by. Wagner was not wealthy when in
London, yet he spent freely; silk for shirts for ordinary wear, and
costly Irish laces for Minna. In these shopping expeditions my wife was
his companion, and Wagner showed he possessed that kindly tact born of
natural goodness of heart, in discovering what might be considered
pretty, when it was straightway purchased and presented to her.
I now come to the last concert, the eighth, which took place on the 25th
June. Again the programme included two symphonies and two overtures:--
Symphony (No. 3, C minor) Spohr.
Scena (“Der Freischütz”) Weber.
Concerto (pianoforte) Hummel.
Song Haydn.
Overture (“Midsummer Night’s Dream”) Mendelssohn.
Symphony (No. 4, B flat) Beethoven.
Duet (“Prophète”) Meyerbeer.
Overture (“Oberon”) Weber.
At the close of this concert he met with applause, hearty from a
section, but I cannot say it was universal. He had won many friends and
had made many enemies, but on the whole, Wagner was satisfied. That
evening our last festive gathering was very jovial. Wagner expressed
himself with all the enthusiasm his warm, impulsive nature was capable
of; he was deeply sensible of the value of his stay here. He had almost
retired from the world, but now Paris and Germany would again be brought
to hear of him. He regretted much the spiteful criticism that had fallen
upon me, and which I was likely to meet with still more. We remained
with Wagner until about three in the morning, helping him to prepare for
his departure from London that 26th June.
[Sidenote: “_NOT A MUSICIAN AT ALL._”]
I have refrained from making any quotations about myself. Those who are
interested enough to know how a pioneer is treated by his contemporaries
will discover many silly, impotent reflections upon me in the musical
journals of the period. I will content myself with reproducing a few
extracts about Richard Wagner and his music. The principal papers in
London, those that directed public opinion in musical matters, were the
“Musical World,” “Times,” “Athenæum,” and “Sunday Times.” Four days
after Wagner had left, the following sad specimens appeared. The
“Musical World,” 30th June, 1855:--
We hold that Herr Richard Wagner _is not a musician at all_ ...
this excommunication of pure melody, this utter contempt of time
and rhythmic definition, so notorious in Herr Wagner’s compositions
(we were about to say Herr Wagner’s music), is also one of the most
important points of his system, as developed at great length in the
book of “Oper und Drama.” ... It is clear to us that Herr Wagner
wants to upset both opera and drama. Let him then avow it without
all this mystification of words--this tortuous and sophisticated
systematizing.... He is just now cleansing the Augean stables of
the musical drama, and meanwhile, with a fierce iconoclasm, is
knocking down imaginary images, and levelling temples that are but
the creations of his own brain. When he has done this to his own
satisfaction, he will have to grope disconsolate among the ruins of
his contrivance, like Marius on the crumbled walls of Carthage, and
in a brown study begin to reflect, “What next?” For he, Wagner, can
build up nothing himself. He can destroy, but not reconstruct. He
can kill, but not give life.... What do we find there in the shape
of Wagnerian “Art Drama.” So far as music is concerned, nothing
better than chaos--“absolute” chaos. The symmetry of form--ignored
or else abandoned; the consistency of keys and their
relations--overthrown, contemned, demolished; the charm of rhythmic
measure, the whole art of phrase and cadence, the true basis of
harmony and the indispensable government of modulation, cast away
for a reckless, wild, extravagant, and demagogic cacophony, the
symbol of profligate libertinage!... Look at “Lohengrin”--that
“_best_ piece”; hearken to “Lohengrin”--that “_best_ piece.” Your
answer is there written and sung. Cast that book upon the waters;
it tastes bitter, as the little volume to the prophet. It is
poison--_rank poison_....
This man, this Wagner, this author of “Tannhäuser,” of “Lohengrin,”
and so many other hideous things--and above all, the overture to
“Der Fliegende Holländer,” the most hideous and detestable of the
whole--this preacher of the “future,” was born to feed spiders
with flies, not to make happy the heart of man with beautiful
melody and harmony. What is music to him, or he to music?... Who
are the men that go about as his apostles? Men like Liszt--the
apostle of Weimar and Professor Praeger, madmen, enemies of music
to the knife, who, not born for music, and conscious of their
impotence, revenge themselves by endeavouring to annihilate it....
Wagner’s theories are impious. No words can be strong enough to
condemn them; no arraignment before the judgment-seat of truth too
stern and summary; no verdict of condemnation too sweeping and
severe.... Not to compare things earthly with things heavenly, has
Mendelssohn lived among us in vain?... All we can make out of
“Lohengrin,” by the flaming torch of truth, is an incoherent mass
of rubbish, with no more real pretension to be called music than
the jangling and clashing of gongs and other uneuphonious
instruments.... Wagner, on the contrary, who, though a mythical
dramatist, is no musician and very little poet.... He cannot write
music himself, and for that reason arraigns it. His contempt for
Mendelssohn is simply ludicrous; and we would grant him forty years
to produce one melodious phrase like any of those so profusely
scattered about in the operas of Rossini, Weber, Auber, and
Meyerbeer.... Wagner is as unable to invent genuine tune as pure
harmony, and he knows it. Hence “the books.” ... Richard Wagner and
his followers--sham prophets.... Listen to their wily eloquence,
and you find yourself in the coils of rattle-snakes.... There is as
much difference between “Guillaume Tell” and “Lohengrin” as between
the sun and ashes.
From the “Sunday Times,” May, 1855:--
[Sidenote: _GEMS OF CRITICISM._]
Music is not his special birthgift--is not for him an articulate
language or a beautiful form of expression.... Richard Wagner is a
desperate charlatan, endowed with worldly skill and vigorous
purpose enough to persuade a gaping crowd that the nauseous
compound he manufactures has some precious inner virtue, that they
must live and ponder yet ere they perceive.... Anything more
rambling, incoherent, unmasterly, cannot well be conceived. In
composition it would be a scandal to compare him with the men of
reputation this country possesses. Scarcely the most ordinary
ballad writer but would shame him in the creation of melody, and no
English harmonist of more than one year’s growth could be found
sufficiently without ears and education to pen such vile things.
The “Athenæum,” upon the fifth concert says:--
The overture to “Tannhäuser” is one of the most curious pieces of
patchwork ever passed off by self-delusion for a complete and
significant creation.
The critic, after finding a plagiarism of Mendelssohn and Cherubini,
continues:--
The instrumentation is ill-balanced, ineffective, thin and noisy.
The “Musical World” of 13th October, 1855, says:--
TANNHÄUSER--We never before heard an opera in which the orchestra
made such a fuss; the cacophony, noise, and inartistic
elaborations! We can detect little in “Tannhäuser” not positively
commonplace. It is tedious beyond endurance. We are made aware, by
a few bars, that he has never learned how to handle the implements;
and that, if it were given him as a task to compose the overture to
“Tancredi,” he would be at straits to accomplish anything so easy,
clear, and natural.