ZURICH, 1856.
In the summer of 1856 I spent two months under Wagner’s roof at Zurich.
As it was holiday time for me, and Wagner had no engagements of any
importance, we passed the whole period in each other’s society debating,
in a most earnest, philosophical, logical manner, art matters, most of
our discussions taking place during our rambles upon the mountains.
One figure I found in that quiet, tastily arranged chalet, who filled a
large portion of Wagner’s life; to whom, first, Wagner owed an unpayable
debt, and then that wide world of countless ones which has been enriched
by the artist’s creations. But that solitary, heroic Minna is, it
seems--judging from the many writings which have appeared of the
master--likely to be forgotten. Her glory is obscured by the more
brilliant luminary that succeeded her. Still a domestic picture of the
creator of the “Walkyrie,” whilst that work was actually in hand, is of
interest, as herein we see the man, the actual man, the human being,
with his irritabilities and good humour, all under the gentle sway of a
soft-hearted, brave woman.
[Sidenote: _CHARACTER OF MINNA._]
Nor should the reader think that the worth of Wagner’s first wife is
here over-estimated through partiality. There is another witness to her
good qualities, who certainly will not be suspected of friendly
feeling, viz. Count von Beust, the Saxon minister, who vigorously and
unrelentingly persecuted the so-called revolutionist in 1849. Beust knew
Minna in Dresden, and what he then learnt of the chapel master’s wife
was not obliterated by forty years active participation in the
diplomatic subtleties of European politics. In his autobiography,[22]
published the latter end of 1886, he speaks of Minna’s amiable
character, and describes her as an excellent woman.
Minna may be spoken of as a comely woman. Gentle and active in her
movements, unobtrusive in speech and bearing, possessing a forethought
akin to divination, she administered to her husband’s wants before he
knew them himself. It was this lovable foresight of the woman which
caused such a horrible vacancy in Wagner’s life when, later, Minna left
him, a break which he so bitterly bemoaned, and which all the adoration
and wealth of Louis of Bavaria could not atone for. As a housewife she
was most efficient. In their days of distress she cheerfully performed
what are vulgarly termed menial services. In this she is as fitting a
parallel of Mrs. Carlyle, as Wagner is of Carlyle. Both the men were
thinkers, aye, and “original” thinkers (which in Carlyle’s estimation
was “the event of all others,” a fact of superlative importance). They
both elected hard fare, nay, actual deprivation, to submission to the
unrealities, and both are educators of our teachers: and Minna’s efforts
in the house and sustaining Wagner in the dark days is the pendant of
Mrs. Carlyle’s scrubbing the floors of the little house at Scotsbrig in
the wilds of Scottish moors. But though Minna was not the intellectual
equal of this cultured Scottish lady, she is not to be confounded with
the German housewife, so often erroneously spoken of as a sort of head
cook. She was eminently practical, and full of remedies for sickness.
[Sidenote: _NOT A TRUE PESSIMIST._]
In art, however, Minna could not comprehend the gifts of her husband. He
was an idealist; she, a woman alive to our mundane existence and its
necessities. She worshipped afar off, receiving all he said without
inquiry. In their early years their common youth glossed over
difficulties. Moreover, Wagner was not in the full possession of his
wings. He knew not his own power. For him exile was the turning-point of
his greatness, the crucible wherein was destroyed the dross of his art,
the fire from which he emerged, the teacher of a purified art. Exile was
the period of his literary achievements. There was the test of his
greatness. “A man thinks he has something to say. He indulges in an
abundance of spoken language, but when in the quiet of his study he
seeks to transfix on paper the fleeting theories of his brain, then is
he face to face with himself, with actualities. And in exile Wagner
first sought to set down in writing the theories which hitherto, in a
limited manner only, had governed his work.”[23] From this
self-examination Wagner rose up nobler and stronger. And here it was
that Minna failed to keep pace with him. She had been a singer and an
actress, and could, in a manner, interpret his work, but the meaning of
it lay deep, hidden from her. It was not her fault, yet she was to
suffer for it. Still I must point out that all Wagner’s works were
created during the period of his first marriage. His union with Cosima
von Bülow is dated 25th August, 1870, since which time “Götterdämmerung”
(a poem written in 1848) and “Parsifal” only, have been given to the
world.
While I was with Wagner it was his invariable habit to rise at the good
hour of half-past six in the morning. If Minna was not about, he would
go to the piano, and soon would be heard, at first softly, then with odd
harmonies, full orchestral effects, as it were, “Get up, get up, thou
merry Swiss-boy.” That was his fun. Early breakfast would be served in
the garden, after which Wagner would hand me “Schopenhauer,” with my
allotted task for the morning study. This plan, though Wagner’s, was one
which coincided happily with my own inclinations. I was, as it were,
ordered up to my room, there to ponder over the arguments of the
pessimistic philosopher, and so be well prepared for discussion at the
dinner-table, or later, during our regular daily stroll.
Now to me Schopenhauer was not the original great thinker that Wagner
considered him. Some of his most prominent points I had found enunciated
already by Burke, that eloquent and vigorous writer, in his “Enquiring
into the Origin of our Ideas on the Sublime and Beautiful.” The
personally well attested statement that “the ideas of pain are much more
powerful than those which enter on the part of pleasure,” was so well
reasoned by Burke, that Wagner induced me to read the whole of that
author’s work to him.
Wagner a pessimist! So he would have had every one believe then, and for
some time later too. But my impression then and now is that, as with a
good many people, pessimism is only pre-eminent when fortune fails to
favour. This feeling is confirmed by an extract recently published from
certain manuscripts found after Wagner’s death: “He who does not strive
to find joy in life is unworthy to live.” Certainly this was not the
utterance of Wagner in the dark days of his work. While on this subject
I may recall one incident which has remained prominently with me because
of the locality where it occurred. We were on the top of one of the
heights overlooking the Zurich Lake, discussing the much debated
Schopenhauer, when I observed that pessimism, in a well-balanced mind,
could only lead to optimism, on the ground that, “what cannot be cured
must be endured,” and jocularly cited from Brant’s “Narrenschiff,”
written in the quaint language of the fifteenth century:--
Wer sorget ob die genss gaut blos,
Und fegen will all goss und stross,
Und eben machen berg und tal
Der hat keyn freyd, raw überal.
He who shall fret that the geese have no dress,
The sweeper will be of street, road and mess.
He who would level both valley and hill
Shall have of life’s gifts no joy, but the ill.
Wagner stopped, shouted with exultation, and then commenced probing my
knowledge of one of our earliest German poets. He assumed the part, as
it were, of a schoolmaster, and so when we arrived home, in a boyish
manner, he, delighted, called aloud to Minna before the garden gate was
opened, “Ach, Ferdinand knows all about my pet poets.”
[Sidenote: _THE BIRTH OF “TRISTAN.”_]
Every morning after breakfast he would read to Minna her favourite
newspaper, “Das Leipziger Tageblatt,” a paper renowned for its prosy
character. Imagination and improvisation played her some woeful tricks.
With a countenance blameless of any indication of the improviser, he
would recite a story, embellishing the incidents until their colouring
became so overcharged with the ludicrous, that Minna would exclaim, “Ah,
Richard, you have again been inventing.”
He had spoken to me of Godfrey von Strassburg, saying, “To-morrow I will
read you something good.” He did next day read me “Tristan” in his
study, and we spoke long and earnestly as to its adaptability for
operatic treatment. Events have shown it to have been the ground-work of
the music-drama of the same name. But at the time he spoke, it appeared
to me he had no thought of utilizing it as a libretto. This intention
only presented itself to his mind while we three were at breakfast on
the following day. He was reading the notices in the Leipzic paper with
customary variation, when, without any indication, he dropped the paper
onto his knees, gazed into space, and seemed as though he were in a
trance, nervously moving his lips. What did this portend? Minna had
observed the movement, and was about to break the silence by addressing
Wagner. Happily, she caught my warning glance and the spell remained
unbroken. We waited until Wagner should move. When he did, I said, “I
know what you have been doing.” “No,” he answered, somewhat abruptly,
“how can you?” “Yes; you have been composing the love-song we were
speaking of yesterday, and the story is going to shape itself into a
drama!” “You are right as to the composition, but--the libretto--I will
reflect.” Such is the history of the first promptings of that wondrous
creation, “Tristan and Isolde.”
But how, how did this Titanic genius compose? Did he, like dear old papa
Haydn, perform an elaborate toilet, donning his best coat, and pray to
be inspired before setting himself to his writing-table away from the
piano? or were his surroundings and method akin to those of
Beethoven?--a room given over to muddle and confusion, the Bonn master
writing, erasing, re-writing, and again scratching out, while _at_ the
piano! Well, distinctly, Wagner had nothing in common with Haydn. The
style of Beethoven is far removed from him as regards the state of his
working-room. I am desirous there should be no misunderstanding on
Wagner’s method of composing, because I find that my testimony is in
conflict with some published statements on this subject, from those
whose names carry some weight.
[Sidenote: _WORKING AT THE PIANO._]
Wagner composed at the piano, in an elegantly well arranged study. With
him composing was a work of excitement and much labour. He did not shake
the notes from his pen as pepper from a caster. How could it be
otherwise than labour with a man holding such views as his? Listen to
what he says: “For a work to live, to go down to future generations, it
must be reflective,” and again in “Opera and Drama,” written about this
time, “A composer, in planning and working out a great idea, must pass
through a kind of parturition.” Mark the word “parturition.” Such it was
with him. He laboured excessively. Not to find or make up a phrase; no,
he did not seek his ideas at the piano. He went to the piano with his
idea already composed, and made the piano his sketch-book, wherein he
worked and reworked his subject, steadily modelling his matter until it
assumed the shape he had in his mind. The subject of representative
themes was discussed much by us, and he explained to me that he felt
chained to the piano until he had found precisely that which shaped
itself before his mental vision. I had one morning retired to my room
for the Schopenhauer study, when the piano was pounded--yes, pounded is
the exact word--more vigorously than usual. The incessant repetition of
one theme arrested my attention. Schopenhauer was discarded. I came down
stairs. The theme was being played with another rhythm. I entered the
room. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “you have been listening!” “Who could help
it?” was my answer. “Your vigorous playing fascinated me more than
skilful philosophical dialectics!” And then I inquired as to the reason
of the change of rhythm. The explanation astonished me. Wagner was
engaged on a portion of “Siegfried,” the scene where Mime tells
Siegfried of his murderous intentions whilst under the magic influence
of the tarn helm. “But how did you come to change the rhythm?” “Oh,” he
said, “I tried and tried, thought and thought, until I got just what I
wanted.” And that it was perseverance with him, and not spontaneity, is
borne out by another incident. The Wesendoncks were at the chalet.
Wagner was at the piano, anxious to shine, doubtless, in the presence of
a lady who caused such unpleasantness in his career later on. He was
improvising, when, in the midst of a flowing movement, he suddenly
stopped, unable to finish. I laughed. Wagner became angry, but I
jocularly said, “Ah, you got into a _cul-de-sac_ and finished _en queue
de poisson_.” He could not be angry long, and joined in the laugh too,
confessing to me that he was only at his best when reflecting.
The morning’s work over, Wagner’s practice was to take a bath
immediately. His old complaint, erysipelas, had induced him to try the
water cure, for which purpose he had been to hydropathic establishments,
and he continued the treatment with as much success as possible in the
chalet.
[Sidenote: _THE RHINE MAIDENS’ MUSIC._]
The animal spirits and physical activity of Wagner have before been
referred to by me. He really possessed an unusual amount of physical
energy, which, at times, led him to perform reckless actions. One day he
said to Minna, “We must do something to give Praeger some pleasure, to
give him a joyful memento of his visit; let us take him to
Schaffhausen,” and though I remonstrated with him on account of his
work, he insisted, and so we went. We stayed there the night. Breakfast
was to be in the garden of the hotel. The hour arrived, but Wagner was
not to be found. Search in all directions, without results. We hear a
shout from a height. Behold! Wagner, the agile, mounted on the back of a
plaster lion, placed on the top of a giddy eminence! And how he came
down! The recklessness of a school-boy was in all his movements. We were
in fear; he laughed heartily, saying he had gone up there to get an
appetite for breakfast. The whole incident was a repetition of Wagner’s
climbing the roof of the Dresden school-house when he was a lad. Going
to and returning from Schaffhausen, Wagner took first-class railway
tickets. Now in Switzerland, first-class travelling is confined to a
very few, and those only the wealthiest, so that Minna expostulated with
him. This was typical. As he described himself, he was more luxurious
than Sardanapalus, though he lived then on the generosity of his friends
to enjoy such comfort. Minna was the housewife, and strove to curb the
unlimited desires of a man who had not the wherewithal to purchase his
excess. And Wagner was not to be controlled, for he not only travelled
first-class, but also telegraphed to Zurich to have a carriage in
waiting for us.
At Zurich Wagner had a sense of his growing power, and he cared not for
references to his early youthful struggles. I remember an old Magdeburg
singer, with her two daughters, calling to see her old comrade. The
mother and her daughters sang the music of the Rhine maidens, Wagner
accompanying, and they acquitted themselves admirably. But when the old
actress familiarly insisted on taking a pinch of snuff from Wagner’s
box, and told stories of the Magdeburg days, then did Wagner resent the
familiarity in a marked manner.
When they finished singing, Minna asked me: “Is it really so beautiful
as you say? It does not seem so to me, and I am afraid it would not
sound so to others.” Such observations as these show where Minna was
unable to follow Wagner, and the estrangement arising from
uncongeniality of artistic temperament.
When I was at Zurich, Wagner showed me two letters from august
personages. First, the Duke of Coburg offered him a thousand dollars and
two months’ residence in the palace, if he would score an opera for him.
The offer was refused, for he said, “Look, now, though I want the money
sadly, yet I cannot and will not score the duke’s opera.”
The second letter was from a count, favourite of the emperor of Brazil.
The emperor was an unknown admirer of Wagner’s, it appears, and was
desirous of commissioning Wagner to compose an opera, which he would
undertake should be performed at the Italian opera house, Rio Janeiro,
under his own special direction. Wagner did not care to expatriate
himself to this extent, but the offer spurred him on to compose an
opera, which he said, “shall be full of melody.” He did write his opera,
and it was “Tristan and Isolde.”
How was Wagner as a revolutionist at this time? Well, one of his old
Dresden friends came to see him, Gottfried Semper. We spoke of the sad
May days, and poor August Roeckel. Again did Wagner evade the topic, or
speak slightly of it. The truth is, he was ready to pose as the saviour
of a people, but was not equally ready to suffer exile for patriotic
actions, and so he sought to minimize the part he had played in 1849. It
appears from “The Memoires of Count Beust,” to which I have before
alluded, that Wagner also sought to minimize his May doings, by speaking
of them as unfortunate, when he called upon the minister after his exile
had been removed, on which Beust retorted, “How unfortunate! Are you not
aware that the Saxon government possesses a letter wherein you propose
burning the prince’s palace?” I am forced to the conclusion that Wagner
would have torn out that page from his life’s history had it been
possible.
[Sidenote: _DOMESTIC TROUBLES GATHERING._]
During my stay I saw Minna’s jealousy of another. She refused to see in
the sympathy of Madame Wesendonck for Wagner as a composer, that for
the artist only. It eventually broke out into a public scandal, and
filled the opposition papers with indignant reproaches about Wagner’s
ingratitude toward his friend. On leaving Zurich I went to Paris. There
I wrote to Wagner an expostulatory letter, alluding to a couple of plays
with which we were both familiar, viz. “The Dangerous Neighbourhood” and
“The Public Secret,” with a view of warning him privately in such a
manner that Minna should not understand should she chance to read my
letter. The storm burst but too soon. Wagner wrote to me while I was
still in Paris: “The devil is loose. I shall leave Zurich at once and
come to you in Paris. Meet me at the Strassburg station.” ... But two
days after, this was cancelled by another letter, an extract from which
I give.
Matters have been smoothed over, so that I am not compelled to
leave here. I hope we shall be quite free from annoyance in a short
time; but ach, the virulence, the cruel maliciousness of some of my
enemies....
I can testify Wagner suffered severely from thoughtlessness.