LETTERS FROM 1861-1865.
From Paris Wagner went to Carlsruhe, whence he wrote to me the following
letter. The allusion in the opening phrases of his letter is to my
inability to stay for the third performance of “Tannhäuser.”
You never heard such a din. It was a pity indeed you were away. I
would it had been possible to prevent it; however, it could not be
otherwise. But we did very well, until one whistle more shrill than
the rest screamed for fully a minute. It seemed an hour. Horrible!
horrible!--and my work was submitted to such an audience! Had I but
the strength--but no, my indignation is now nearly over; the joy of
being on my native soil once again, a free man, has removed a load
from me that really at moments felt insupportable. Aye, those who
have kept me from my fatherland little know how dearly they
punished me for my, perhaps, imprudence in those early Dresden
days. The sight is again reproduced before my vision, but in my joy
at being free to go--except in Saxony--where I choose, poor
August’s earnest face appears before me; and he is still the
political prisoner of a power that could crush him in a moment. It
is unkingly. Those days have made me suffer so keenly in what I
love the dearest and tenderest on earth, my art, that in my
happiness at being once more home I could shut out forever that sad
past. Now I may go forward with my work. I shall not rest contented
until Saxony once again is free to me as to the birds of the air;
but how my hopes are built upon the future, and I feel all the
confidence of success. I am sick again in body just now, but I will
be conqueror. Was ever work like mine created for no purpose? Is it
miserable egoism, the stupidest vanity? It matters not what it is,
but of this I feel positive; yes, as positive as that I live, and
that is my “Tristan and Isolde,” with which I am now consumed, does
not find its equal in the world’s library of music. Oh, how I yearn
to hear it! I am feverish; I feel worn; perhaps that causes me to
be agitated and anxious, but my “Tristan” has been finished now
these three years and has not been heard. When I think of this I
wonder whether it will be with this as with “Lohengrin,” which now
is more than thirteen years old, and has been as dead to me. But
the clouds seem breaking--are breaking. The grand duke is good. He
shows himself desirous of befriending me; no doubt intends well,
and has even proposed that I shall return to Paris to engage
singers to perform “Tristan.” I am going to Vienna soon. There they
are going to give me a surprise. It is supposed to be kept a secret
from me, but a friend has informed me they are going to bring out
“Lohengrin.” You will hear about it.
Ah! I have so run away with my thoughts that I have nearly failed
to tell you what I began to say; and that is, strong pressure was
brought upon me to consent to a fourth performance of “Tannhäuser.”
I was officially informed that all the seats had been taken; the
public were strongly desirous of hearing an opera which had caused
such a stir in high circles, that the sale of tickets had been so
brisk that now not one was unsold. But nothing, nothing would
induce me to submit again to such debasing treatment. I would
sooner lose all hope of assistance from imperial and noble
personages, and fight my battle alone, than again appear before
such tribunal. The royalty, £60, I left for Nuiter; it was a poor
recompense.... Now commend me to sister Léonie; tell her that Minna
is grateful for her thoughtful kindness, and bids me send her a
thousand hearty greetings.
Always thine,
RICHARD WAGNER.
CARLSRUHE, April, 1861.
The next letter, August, 1862, is from Biebrich, near Mayence, on the
Rhine.
[Sidenote: _SCHNORR VON CAROLSFELD._]
MY DEAR FRIEND: It is a long time since I wrote to you; yes, but I
have had a worrying, anxious time. I do not seem to be able to
forge ahead. Each time I feel now I am within reach of my goal, it
flies from me like a “will o’ the wisp.”
No, “Tristan” has not yet been done; but it will, it will soon be
done. I have found such a Tristan as charms my soul, such a one as
will worthily enact my hero. He has been here with me for a few
days studying it. Schnorr! Ah, the alighting upon him was
miraculous! At one time last winter, so saddened and broken down
was I by successive disappointments, that I had a presentiment of
approaching death. I actually had rehearsals of “Tristan” at
Vienna, and then the proposed performance does not take place. But
now it will. Yet I dare not be too positive. If it does, Schnorr
will be grand; then you must come. Why can’t you come now to me? I
am going to stay here till the end of the summer; that my poor
second self is so weakly as to compel you to go to the seaside, I
am concerned deeply. May the sea-breezes invigorate him, and soon
give his mother no cause for anxiety. But I intended telling you
how I heard Schnorr first.
He was going to sing “Lohengrin” at Carlsruhe. I did not want him
or anybody to know I should be present, so I went secretly, for I
feared a disappointment; he is fat, and picture a corpulent Knight
of the Swan! I had not heard him before. I went, and he sang
marvellously. He was inspired, and I was enchanted; he realized my
ideal. So come now and see him; you will be delighted too.... I am
staying here because I want to superintend the printing of my
“Meistersinger.”
Yours,
RICHARD WAGNER.
AH! DEAR FERDINAND: I am faring tolerably well; have made some good
friends, influential ones too, but that is not what I crave.
“Tristan”! that’s it! I am ready to go back to Vienna at any
moment, am expecting information from there, but again have
feelings that the performance will not take place. Here, as you
have doubtless seen through the press notices, my music has been
received with an enthusiasm beyond what it ever before achieved in
Germany. Tell Lüders that I called on his friends and they behaved
in the kindest manner to me. Give the dear fellow my heartiest
greetings. I would Minna were here with me; we might, in the
excitement that now moves fast around me, grow again the quiescent
pair as of yore. The whole thing is annoying. I am not in good
spirits. I move about freely, and see a number of people, but my
misery is bitter. Can you not arrange to come and be with me in the
summer, wherever I may be? Write to me a long letter of how all is
with you.
Yours ever,
RICHARD WAGNER.
ST. PETERSBURGH, February, 1863.
I did not see him that year; matters could not be arranged. But since
that time the storm was gathering in intensity which was to soon break.
Minna had been in correspondence with me. Of her letters I publish
nothing. But the next from Wagner tells its own sad story in plain
language. It is dated--
MARIAFELD, April, 1864.
And so she has written to you? Whose fault was it? How could she
have expected I was to be shackled and fettered as any ordinary
cold common mortal. My inspirations carried me into a sphere she
could not follow, and then the exuberance of my heated enthusiasm
was met by a cold douche. But still there was no reason for the
extreme step; everything might have been arranged between us, and
it would have been better had it been so. Now there is a dark void,
and my misery is deep. It has struck into my health, though I
carefully attend to what you ever insist is the root of my
ills--diet. Yet I do not sleep, and am altogether in a feverish
state. It is now that I feel I have sounded my lowest note of dark
despair. What is before me? I know not! Unless I can shortly and
quickly rescue myself from this quicksand of gloom, it will engulf
me and all will then be over. Change of scene I must have. If I do
not I fear I shall sink from inanition. I like comfort, luxury--she
fettered me there--How will it end?
Write to me soon.
RICHARD WAGNER.
[Sidenote: _LUDWIG’S PRINCELY HELP._]
But a startling change was nigh at hand. The curtain was about to rise
upon the “Wahnfried” act of the hitherto stormy drama of Richard
Wagner’s life. As far as the wit of man could devise, Wagner was
henceforth to be relieved from all care and anxiety as to the future.
His wants--and be it remembered they were not few, for, on his own
confession, he stands described as “more luxurious than
Sardanapalus”--were all about to be provided for with regal liberality.
But the following extracts from a letter which conveyed to me the news,
will be noted with interest, since they give a vivid picture of the man
and his feelings, in a word, paint the human being in characters so
striking, and lay bare the workings of the heart in a manner which was
impossible for his most intimate friend to hope to achieve. It was not
wealth he wanted. Luxury when he possessed it in abundance did not
comfort him: the worship and close intimacy of a king solaced him not:
the void was sympathy, such as only a loving woman could give. The
gloomy picture he draws of desolation amidst plenty invokes our
heartiest compassion.
DEAREST FERDINAND: I owe it to you that you should be informed of
what my joy--clouded though it is by certain thoughts--has been
during the last few weeks. Such a state of intoxication have I been
cast into, that it has been as though I were another being than
myself, and I but a dazed reflection of the real mortal. It is a
state of living in another atmosphere, like that induced by the
drinking of hasheesh. A message from the sun-god has come to me;
the young king of Bavaria, a young man not yet twenty years of age,
has sent for me, and resolves to give me all I require in this
life, I in return to do nothing but compose and advise him. He
urges me strongly to be near him; sends for me sometimes two and
even three times in one day; talks with me for hours, and is, as
far as I can see, devoted heart and soul to me. There is but one
name for him--a god-like youth. But though I have now at my
command a profusion of unlimited means, my feeling of isolation is
torturing. With no one to realize and enjoy with me this limitless
comfort, a feeling of weariness and desolation is induced which
keeps me in a constant state of dejection terrible to bear. The
commonest domestic details now must be done by me; the purchasing
of kitchen utensils and such kindred matters am I driven to--Ah!
poor Beethoven! Now is it forcibly brought home to me what his
discomforts were with his washing-book, and engaging of
housekeepers, etc., etc. I who have praised woman more than
Frauenlob, have not one for my companion. The truth is, I have
spoilt Minna: too much did I indulge her, too much did I yield to
her; but it were better not to talk upon a subject which never
ceases to vex me. The king strives his utmost to gratify me, and if
I do not seem happy when with him and show my appreciation of his
wondrous goodness, I should deserve to be branded as “ingrate.”
There is one good being who brightens my household--the wife of
Bülow; she has been with her children. If you can come to see me I
shall be happy. My god-child, Richard Wagner, is now eight years
old, you tell me; bring him; the talk of a dear innocent child will
do me good; to have him near me will, perhaps, comfort me.
Your unhappy
RICHARD WAGNER.
STARNBERG, June, 1864.
The preceding letter is to me a landmark in Wagner’s life. The facts
have only to be recited for it to be clearly perceived what a striking
climax had been reached. Upon them I make no comment. They speak for
themselves--the sudden transformation from a state of hardship into one
of security; the powerful patronage and friendship of the king of
Bavaria; the absence of Minna; the presence of Madame von Bülow.
[Sidenote: _THE LOVE OF A KING._]
New influences were now beginning to work upon Wagner; and--they were
not weak. I did not see Wagner until the next year, when the change was
pronounced. During the winter the attachment of the king grew in
warmth, until in a manner Wagner may be said to have dominated the
youthful monarch completely. In the early spring of 1865, Wagner wrote
me the following short note. It was in reply to one from me, urging him
to find some occupation for August Roeckel, who had been released since
the January of 1862. When Roeckel was at Dresden, in 1849, with Richard
Wagner, he had effaced himself entirely for his friend. Then Wagner was
appreciative of sacrifices upon the altar of friendship, and regarded
them as done on his behalf entirely; but he later grew so absorbed with
his mission that no sacrifice did he regard as done to himself, but for
the glory of his art, and in this no sacrifice could be too great. The
short note after a private reference to Roeckel runs as follows:--
...At present I cannot. Time may be when the good August shall feel
that his old friend lives--now, all I can say is that the king
loves me with a love beyond description. I feel as sure of his love
for me till the end, as I am conscious of his unbounded goodness to
me now. It is a trial, though, of the heaviest; the formation of
his mind I feel it a duty to undertake. He is so strikingly
handsome that he might pose as the King of the Jews (and--this in
confidence--I am seriously reflecting on the Christian tragedy;
possibly something may come of it). But you must forgive me any
more correspondence just now, I am busy.
Yours,
RICHARD WAGNER.
MUNICH (London post-mark), 8th April, 1865.
It appeared later that he was deeply engrossed in preparations for
“Tristan’s” performance, his next letter--but a short
invitation--bearing on the subject.
DEAR PRAEGER: 15, 18, 22 May: Wonderfully fine representations of
“Tristan” at Munich. Come, if you can, and write first. I should be
heartily glad to know you present at them.
Yours,
RICHARD WAGNER.
MUNICH, 7th May, 1865.
I found it impossible to be present at the “Tristan” performances, and
was compelled to postpone my visit to the summer of the same year. On
the 27th July, Madame von Bülow wrote to me for “her friend,” explaining
that he was so much touched by the death of poor Schnorr (the Tristan of
the recent performances), that he was unable to write any letters, but
that Wagner would be at Munich up to the 8th August--though she “had
advised Richard very strongly to retire to the mountains there to
strengthen his nerves.”