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Title: My Life, Volume II

Author: Richard Wagner

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TABLE OF CONTENTS



MY LIFE, VOLUME 2 (ENGLISH TRANSLATION PUBLISHED IN NEW YORK, 1911)

    PART III
    PART IV



MY LIFE, VOLUME 2 (OF 2)



PART III

1850-1861



MINNA had been lucky enough to find quarters near Zurich which
corresponded very closely with the wishes I had so emphatically
expressed before leaving. The house was situated in the parish of
Enge, a good fifteen minutes' walk from the town, on a site
overlooking the lake, and was an old-fashioned hostelry called
'Zum Abendstern,' belonging to a certain Frau Hirel, who was a
pleasant old lady. The second floor, which was quite self-
contained and very quiet, offered us humble but adequate
accommodations for a modest rent.

I arrived early in the morning and found Minna still in bed. She
was anxious to know whether I had returned simply out of pity;
but I quickly succeeded in obtaining her promise that she would
never again refer to what had taken place. She was soon quite
herself again when she began to show me the progress she had made
in arranging the rooms.

Our position had for some years been growing more comfortable, in
spite of the fact that at this time various difficulties again
arose, and our domestic happiness seemed tolerably secure. Yet I
could never quite master a restless inclination to deviate from
anything that was regarded as conventional.

Our two pets, Peps and Papo, largely helped to make our lodgings
homelike; both were very fond of me, and were sometimes even too
obtrusive in showing their affection. Peps would always lie
behind me in the armchair while I was working, and Papo, after
repeatedly calling out 'Richard' in vain, would often come
fluttering into my study if I stayed away from the sitting-room
too long. He would then settle down on my desk and vigorously
shuffle about the papers and pens. He was so well trained that he
never uttered the ordinary cry of a bird, but expressed his
sentiments only by talking or singing. As soon as he heard my
step on the staircase he would begin whistling a tune, as, for
instance, the great march in the finale of the Symphony in C
minor, the beginning of the Eighth Symphony in F major, or even a
bright bit out of the Rienzi Overture. Peps, our little dog, on
the other hand, was a highly sensitive and nervous creature. My
friends used to call him 'Peps the petulant,' and there were
times when we could not speak to him even in the friendliest way
without bringing on paroxysms of howls and sobs. These two pets
of course helped very much to increase the mutual understanding
between myself and my wife.

Unfortunately, there was one perpetual source of quarrel, arising
from my wife's behaviour towards poor Nathalie. Until her death
she shamefully withheld from the girl the fact that she was her
mother. Nathalie, therefore, always believed that she was Minna's
sister, and consequently could not understand why she should not
have the same rights as my wife, who always treated her in an
authoritative way, as a strict mother would do, and seemed to
think herself justified in complaining of Nathalie's behaviour.
Apparently the latter had been much neglected and spoiled just at
the critical age, and deprived of any proper training. She was
short in stature and inclined to become stout, her manners were
awkward and her opinions narrow. Minna's hasty temper and
continual jeering made the girl, who was naturally very good-
natured, stubborn and spiteful, so that the behaviour of the
'sisters' often caused the most hateful scenes in our quiet home.
I never lost my patience at these incidents, however, but
remained, completely indifferent to everything going on around
me.

The arrival of my young friend Karl was a pleasant diversion in
our small household. Ho occupied a tiny attic above our rooms and
shared our meals. Sometimes he would accompany me on my walks,
and for a time seemed quite satisfied.

But I soon noticed in him a growing restlessness. He had not been
slow to recognise, by the unpleasant scenes that again became
daily occurrences in our married life, at what point the shoe
pinched that I had good-naturedly put on again at his request.
However, when one day I reminded him that in coming hack to
Zurich I had other objects in view besides the longing for a
quiet domestic life, he remained silent. But I saw that there was
another peculiar reason for his uneasiness; he took to coming in
late for meals, and even then he had no appetite. At first I was
anxious at this, fearing he might have taken a dislike to our
simple fare, but I soon discovered that my young friend was so
passionately addicted to sweets that I feared he might eventually
ruin his health by trying to live on large quantities of
confectionery. My remarks seemed to annoy him, as his absences
from the house became more frequent, I thought that probably his
small room did not afford him the comfort he required, and I
therefore made no objection when he left us and took a room in
town.

As his state of uneasiness still seemed to increase and he did
not appear at all happy in Zurich, I was glad to be able to
suggest a little change for him, and persuade him to go for a
holiday to Weimar, where the first performance of Lohengrin was
to take place about the end of August.

About the same time I induced Minna to go with me for our first
ascent of the Righi, a feat we both accomplished very
energetically on foot. I was very much grieved on this occasion
to discover that my wife had symptoms of heart disease, which
continued to develop subsequently. We spent the evening of the
28th of August, while the first performance of Lohengrin was
taking place at Weimar, in Lucerne, at the Schwan inn, watching
the clock as the hands went round, and marking the various times
at which the performance presumably began, developed, and came to
a close.

I always felt somewhat distressed, uncomfortable, and ill at ease
whenever I tried to pass a few pleasant hours in the society of
my wife.

The reports received of that first performance gave me no clear
or reassuring impression of it. Karl Ritter soon came back to
Zurich, and told me of deficiencies in staging and of the
unfortunate choice of a singer for the leading part, but remarked
that on the whole it had gone fairly well. The reports sent me by
Liszt were the most encouraging. He did not seem to think it
worth while to allude to the inadequacy of the means at his
command for such a bold undertaking, but preferred to dwell on
the sympathetic spirit that prevailed in the company and the
effect it produced on the influential personages he had invited
to be present.

Although everything in connection with this important enterprise
eventually assumed a bright aspect, the direct result on my
position at the time was very slight. I was more interested in
the future of the young friend who had been entrusted to my care
than in anything else. At the time of his visit to Weimar he had
been to stay with his family in Dresden, and after his return
expressed an anxious wish to become a musician, and possibly to
secure a position as a musical director at a theatre. I had never
had an opportunity of judging of his gifts in this line. He had
always refused to play the piano in my presence, but I had seen
his setting of an alliterative poem of his own, Die Walkure,
which, though rather awkwardly put together, struck me by its
precise and skilful compliance with the rules of composition.

He proved himself to be the worthy pupil of his master, Robert
Schumann, who, long before, had told me that Karl possessed great
musical gifts, and that he could not remember ever having had any
other pupil endowed with such a keen ear and such a ready
facility for assimilation. Consequently I had no reason to
discourage the young man's confidence in his capacity for the
career of a musical director. As the winter season was
approaching, I asked the manager of the theatre for the address
of Herr Kramer, who was coming for the season, and learned that
he was still engaged at Winterthur.

Sulzer, who was always ready when help or advice was needed,
arranged for a meeting with Herr Kramer at a dinner at the
'Wilden Mann' in Winterthur. At this meeting it was decided, on
my recommendation, that Karl Ritter should be appointed musical
director at the theatre for the ensuing winter, starting from
October, and the remuneration he was to receive was really a very
fair one. As my protege was admittedly a beginner, I had to
guarantee his capacity by undertaking to perform his duties in
the event of any trouble arising at the theatre on the ground of
his inefficiency. Karl seemed delighted. As October drew near and
the opening of the theatre was announced to take place 'under
exceptional artistic auspices.' I thought it advisable to see
what Karl's views were.

By way of a debut I had selected Der Freischutz, so that he might
open his career with a well-known opera. Karl did not entertain
the slightest doubt of being able to master such a simple score,
but when he had to overcome his reserve in playing the piano
before me, as I wanted to go through the whole opera with him, I
was amazed at seeing that he had no idea of accompaniment. He
played the arrangement for the pianoforte with the characteristic
carelessness of an amateur who attaches no importance to
lengthening a bar by incorrect fingering. He knew nothing
whatever about rhythmic precision or tempo, the very essentials
of a conductor's career. I felt completely nonplussed and was
absolutely at a loss what to say. However, I still hoped the
young man's talent might suddenly break out, and I looked forward
to an orchestral rehearsal, for which I provided him with a pair
of large spectacles. I had never noticed before that he was so
shortsighted, but when reading he had to keep his face so close
to the music that it would have been impossible for him to
control both orchestra and singers. When I saw him, hitherto so
confident, standing at the conductor's desk staring hard at the
score, in spite of his spectacles, and making meaningless signs
in the air like one in a trance, I at once realised that the time
for carrying out my guarantee had arrived.

It was, nevertheless, a somewhat difficult and trying task to
make young Ritter understand that I should be compelled to take
his place; but there was no help for it, and it was I who had to
inaugurate Kramer's winter season under such 'exceptional
artistic auspices.' The success of Der Freischulz placed me in a
peculiar position as regards both the company and the public, but
it was quite out of the question to suppose that Karl could
continue to act as musical director at the theatre by himself.

Strange to say, this trying experience coincided with an
important change in the life of another young friend of mine,
Hans von Bulow, whom I had known in Dresden. I had met his father
at Zurich in the previous year just after his second marriage. He
afterwards settled down at Lake Constance, and it was from this
place that Hans wrote to me expressing his regret that he was
unable to pay his long-desired visit to Zurich, as he had
previously promised to do.

As far as I could make out, his mother, who had been divorced
from his father, did all in her power to restrain him from
embracing the career of an artist, and tried to persuade him to
enter the civil or the diplomatic service, as he had studied law.
But his inclinations and talents impelled him to a musical
career. It seemed that his mother, when giving him permission to
go to visit his father, had particularly urged him to avoid any
meeting with me. When I afterwards heard that he had been advised
by his father also not to come to Zurich, I felt sure that the
latter, although he had been on friendly terms with me, was
anxious to act in accordance with his first wife's wishes in this
serious matter of his son's future, so as to avoid any further
disputes after the friction of the divorce had barely been
allayed. Later on I learned that these statements, which roused a
strong feeling of resentment in me against Eduard von Bulow, were
unfounded; but the despairing tone of Hans's letter, clearly
showing that any other career would be repugnant to him and would
be a constant source of misery, seemed to be ample reason for my
interference. This was one of the occasions when my easily
excited indignation roused me to activity. I replied very fully,
and eloquently pointed out to him the vital importance of this
moment in his life. The desperate tone of his letter justified me
in telling him very plainly that this was not a case in which he
could deal hastily with his views as to the future, but that it
was a matter profoundly affecting his whole heart and soul. I
told him what I myself would do in his case, that is to say, if
he really felt an overwhelming and irresistible impulse to become
an artist, and would prefer to endure the greatest hardships and
trials rather than be forced into a course he felt was a wrong
one, he ought, in defiance of everything, to make up his mind to
accept the helping hand I was holding out to him at once. If, in
spite of his father's prohibition, he still wished to come to me,
he ought not to hesitate, but should carry out his wishes
immediately on the receipt of my letter.

Karl Ritter was pleased when I entrusted him with the duty of
delivering the letter personally at Bulow's country villa. When
he arrived he asked to see his friend at the door, and went for a
stroll with him, during which he gave him my letter. Thereupon
Hans, who like Karl had no money, at once decided, in spite of
storm and rain, to accompany Karl back to Zurich on foot. So one
day they turned up absolutely tired out, and came into my room
looking like a couple of tramps, with visible signs about them of
their mad expedition. Karl beamed with joy over this feat, while
young Bulow was quite overcome with emotion.

I at once realised that I had taken a very serious responsibility
on my shoulders, yet I sympathised deeply with the overwrought
youth, and my conduct towards him was guided by all that had
occurred for a long time afterwards.

At first we had to console him, and stimulate his confidence by
our cheerfulness. His appointment was soon arranged. He was to
share Karl's contract at the theatre, and enjoy the same rights;
both were to receive a small salary, and I was to continue to act
as surety for their capabilities.

At this time they happened to be rehearsing a musical comedy, and
Hans, without any knowledge of the subject, took up his position
at the conductor's desk and handled the baton with great vigour
and remarkable skill. I felt safe as far as he was concerned, and
all doubt as to his ability as musical director vanished on the
spot. But it was a somewhat difficult task to overcome Karl's
misgivings about himself, owing to the idea ingrained in his mind
that he never could become a practical musician. A growing
shyness and secret antipathy towards me soon manifested itself
and became more noticeable in this young man, in spite of the
fact that he was certainly gifted. It was impossible to keep him
any longer in his position or to ask him to conduct again.

Bulow also soon encountered unexpected difficulties. The manager
and his staff, who had been spoiled by my having conducted on the
occasion already mentioned, were always on the look-out for some
fresh excuse for requisitioning my services.

I did, in fact, conduct again a few times, partly to give the
public a favourable impression of the operatic company, which was
really quite a good one, and partly to show my young friends,
especially Bulow, who was so eminently adapted for a conductor,
the most essential points which the leader of an orchestra ought
to know.

Hans was always equal to the occasion, and I could with a clear
conscience say there was no need for me to take his place
whenever he was called upon to conduct. However, one of the
artistes, a very conceited singer, who had been somewhat spoiled
by my praise, annoyed him so much by her ways that she succeeded
in forcing me to take up the baton again. When a couple of months
later we realised the impossibility of carrying on this state of
things indefinitely, and were tired of the whole affair, the
management consented to free us from our irksome duties. About
this time Hans was offered the post of musical director at St.
Gall without any special conditions being attached to his
engagement, so I sent the two boys off to try their luck in the
neighbouring town, and thus gained time for further developments.

Herr Eduard von Bulow had, after all, come to the conclusion that
it would be wiser to abide by his son's decision, though he did
not do so without evincing a good deal of ill-humour towards me.
He had not replied to a letter I had written him to explain my
conduct in the matter, but I afterwards learned that he had
visited his son in Zurich by way of patching up a reconciliation.

I went several times to St. Gall to see the young men, as they
remained there during the winter months. I found Karl lost in
gloomy thought: he had again met with an unfavourable reception
when conducting Gluck's Overture to Iphigenia, and was keeping
aloof from everybody. Hans was busily rehearsing with a very poor
company and a horrible orchestra, in a hideous theatre. Seeing
all this misery, I told Hans that for the time being he had
picked up enough to pass for a practical musician or even for an
experienced conductor.

The question now was to find him a sphere which would give him a
suitable scope for his talents. He told me that his father was
going to send him to Freiherr von Poissl, the manager of the
Munich Court Theatre, with a letter of introduction. But his
mother soon intervened, and wanted him to go to Weimar to
continue his musical training under Liszt. This was all I could
desire; I felt greatly relieved and heartily recommended the
young man, of whom I was very fond, to my distinguished friend.

He left St. Gall at Easter, 1851, and during the long period of
his stay in Weimar I was released from the responsibility of
looking after him.

Meanwhile Ritter remained in melancholy retirement, and not being
able to make up his mind whether or not he should return to
Zurich, where he would be disagreeably reminded of his unlucky
debut, he preferred for the present to stay in seclusion at St.
Gall.

The sojourn of my young friends at St. Gall had been pleasantly
varied during the previous winter by a visit to Zurich, when Hans
made his appearance as pianist at one of the concerts of the
musical society there. I also took an active part in it by
conducting one of Beethoven's symphonies, and it was a great
pleasure to us both to give each other mutual encouragement.

I had been asked to appear again at this society's concerts
during the winter. However, I only did so occasionally, to
conduct a Beethoven symphony, making it a condition that the
orchestra, and more especially the string instruments, should be
reinforced by capable musicians from other towns.

As I always required three rehearsals for each symphony, and many
of the musicians had to come from a great distance, our work
acquired quite an imposing and solemn character. I was able to
devote the time usually taken up by a rehearsal to the study of
one symphony, and accordingly had leisure to work out the
minutest details of the execution, particularly as the technical
difficulties were not of an insuperable character. My facility in
interpreting music at that time attained a degree of perfection I
had not hitherto reached, and I recognised this by the unexpected
effect my conducting produced.

The orchestra contained some really talented and clever
musicians, among whom I may mention Fries, an oboist, who,
starting from a subordinate place, had been appointed a leading
player. He had to practice with me, just as a singer would do,
the more important parts allotted to his instrument in
Beethoven's symphonies. When we first produced the Symphony in C
minor, this extraordinary man played the small passage marked
adagio at the fermata of the first movement in a manner I have
never heard equalled. After my retirement from the directorship
of these concerts he left the orchestra and went into business as
a music-seller.

The orchestra could further boast of a Herr Ott-Imhoff, a highly
cultured and well-to-do man who belonged to a noble family, and
had joined the orchestra as a patron and as an amateur musician.
He played the clarionet with a soft and charming tone which was
somewhat lacking in spirit. I must also mention the worthy Herr
Bar, a cornet-player, whom I appointed leader of the brass
instruments, as be exercised a great influence on that part of
the orchestra. I cannot remember ever having heard the long,
powerful chords of the last movement of the C minor Symphony
executed with such intense power as by this player in Zurich, and
can only compare the recollection of it with the impressions I
had when, in my early Parisian days, the Conservatoire orchestra
performed Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

Our production of the Symphony in C minor made a great impression
on the audience, especially on my intimate friend Sulzer, who had
previously kept aloof from any kind of music. He became so
incensed when an attack was made on me by a newspaper that he
answered the gratuitous critic in a satirical poem composed with
the skill of a Platen.

As I have already said, Bulow was invited in the course of the
winter to give a pianoforte recital at a concert at which I
promised to produce the Sinfonia Eroica.

With his usual audacity he chose Liszt's piano arrangement of the
Tannhauser Overture, a work as brilliant as it is difficult, and
therefore a somewhat hazardous undertaking. However, he caused
quite a sensation, and I myself was astounded at his execution.
Up to this time I had not paid it the attention it deserved, and
it inspired me with the greatest confidence in his future. I
frequently had occasion to admire his masterly skill both as
conductor and accompanist.

During that winter, apart from the occasions in my young friend's
life already briefly alluded to, there were frequent
opportunities of displaying his capabilities. My acquaintances
used to foregather in my house, and formed quite a little club
for the purposes of mutual enjoyment, which, however, would
hardly have been successful without Bulow's assistance.

I sang suitable passages from my opera, which Hans accompanied
with an expressiveness which delighted me very much. On an
occasion like this I also read aloud extracts from my
manuscripts. For instance, during a series of successive evenings
I read the whole of my longer work, Oper und Drama, written in
the course of this winter, and was favoured by a steadily growing
and remarkably attentive audience.

Now that after my return I had secured a certain degree of peace
and tranquillity of mind, I began to think of resuming my more
serious studies. But somehow the composition of Siegfried's Death
did not seem to appeal to me. The idea of sitting down
deliberately to write a score which should never go further than
the paper on which it was written, again discouraged me; whereas
I felt more and more strongly impelled to lay a foundation on
which it might some day be possible to present such a work, even
though the end had to be gained by roundabout means. To secure
this object it seemed above all necessary to approach those
friends, both at home and abroad, who interested themselves in my
art, in order to expound to them more clearly the problems that
demanded solution, which, although definite enough to my own
mind, had scarcely as yet even entered into their heads. A
singularly favourable opportunity for so doing offered itself one
day when Sulzer showed me an article on 'Opera' in Brockhaus's
Modern Encyclopedia. The good man was fully convinced that in the
opinions expressed in this article I should find a preliminary
basis for my own theories. But a hasty glance sufficed to show me
at once how entirely erroneous they were, and I tried hard to
point out to Sulzer the fundamental difference between the
accepted views, even of very sensible people, and my own
conceptions of the heart of the matter. Finding it naturally
impossible, even with all the eloquence at my command, to
elucidate my ideas all at once, I set about preparing a
methodical plan for detailed treatment of the subject as soon as
I got home. In this way I was lead to write this book which was
published under the title of Oper und Drama, a task which kept me
fully occupied for several months, in fact until February, 1851.

But I had to pay heavily for the exhausting toil expended on the
conclusion of this work. According to my calculations, only a few
days of persevering industry were needed for the completion of my
manuscript, when my parrot, which usually watched me on my
writing-table, was taken seriously ill. As it had already
completely recovered from several similar attacks, I did not feel
very anxious. Although my wife begged me to fetch a veterinary
surgeon who lived in a village which was rather far off, I
preferred to stick to my desk, and I put off going from one day
to the next. At last one evening the all-important manuscript was
finished, and the next morning our poor Papo lay dead on the
floor. My inconsolable grief over this melancholy loss was fully
shared by Minna, and by our mutual affection for this treasured
pet we were once more tenderly united in a way likely to conduce
to our domestic happiness.

In addition to our pets, our older Zurich friends had also
remained faithful to us, in spite of the catastrophe which had
befallen my family life. Sulzer was without a doubt the worthiest
and most important of these friends. The profound difference
between us both in intellect and temperament seemed only to
favour this relationship, for each was constantly providing
surprises for the other; and as the divergencies between us were
radical, they often gave rise to most exhilarating and instructive
experiences. Sulzer was extraordinarily excitable and very
delicate in health. It was quite against his own original desire
that he had entered the service of the state, and in doing so he
had sacrificed his own wishes to a conscientious performance of
duty in the extremest sense of the word, and now, through his
acquaintance with me, he was drawn more deeply into the sphere of
aesthetic enjoyment than he regarded as justifiable. Probably he
would have indulged less freely in these excesses, had I taken my
art a little less seriously. But as I insisted upon attaching an
importance to the artistic destiny of mankind which far
transcended the mere aims of citizenship, I sometimes completely
upset him. Yet, on the other hand, it was just this intense
earnestness which so strongly attracted him to me and my
speculations. This not only gave rise to pleasant conversation
and calm discussion between us, but also, owing to a fiery temper
on both sides, sometimes provoked violent explosions, so that,
with trembling lips, he would seize hat and stick and hurry away
without a word of farewell. Such, however, was the intrinsic
worth of the man, that he was sure to turn up again the next
evening at the accustomed hour, when we both felt as though
nothing whatever had passed between us. But when certain bodily
ailments compelled him to remain indoors for many days, it was
difficult to gain access to him, for he was apt to become furious
when any one inquired about his health. On these occasions there
was only one way of putting him in a good temper, and that was to
say that one had called to ask a favour of him. Thereupon he was
pleasantly surprised, and would not only declare himself ready to
oblige in any way that was in his power, but would assume a
really cheerful and benevolent demeanour.

A remarkable contrast to him was presented by the musician
Wilhelm Baumgartner, a merry, jovial fellow, without any aptitude
for concentration, who had learned just enough about the piano to
be able, as teacher at so much an hour, to earn what he required
for a living. He had a taste for what was beautiful, provided it
did not soar too high, and possessed a true and loyal heart, full
of a great respect for Sulzer, which unfortunately could not cure
him of a craving for the public-house.

Besides this man, there were two others who had also from the
very first formed part of our circle. Both of them were friends
of the pair I have already mentioned; their names were Hagenbuch,
a worthy and respectable deputy cantonal secretary; and Bernhard
Spyri, a lawyer, and at that time editor of the Eidgenossische
Zeitung. The latter was a singularly good-tempered man, but not
overburdened with intellect, for which reason Sulzer always
treated him with special consideration.

Alexander Muller soon disappeared from our midst, as he became
more and more engrossed by domestic calamities, bodily
infirmities, and the mechanical drudgery of giving lessons by the
hour. As for the musician Abt, I had never felt particularly
drawn towards him, in spite of his Schwalben, and he too speedily
left us to carve a brilliant career for himself in Brunswick.

In the meantime, however, our Zurich circle was enriched by all
kinds of additions from without, mainly due to the political
shipwrecks. On my return, in January, 1850, I had already found
Adolph Kolatschek, a plain, though not unprepossessing-looking
man, though he was a bit of a bore. He imagined himself born to
be an editor, and had founded a German monthly magazine, which
was to open a field for those who had been outwardly conquered in
the recent movements to continue their fight in the inner realm
of the spirit. I felt almost flattered at being picked out by him
as an author, and being informed that 'a power like mine' ought
not to be absent from a union of spiritual forces such as was to
be established by his enterprise. I had previously sent him from
Paris my treatise on Kunst und Klima; and he now gladly accepted
some fairly long extracts from my still unpublished Oper und
Drama, for which he moreover paid me a handsome fee. This man
made an indelible impression on my mind as the only instance I
have met of a really tactful editor. He once handed me the
manuscript of a review on my Kunstwerk der Zukunft, written by a
certain Herr Palleske, to read, saying that he would not print it
without my express consent, though he did not press me to give
it. It was a superficial article, without any true comprehension
of the subject, and couched in most arrogant terms. I felt that
if it appeared in this particular journal it would certainly
demand inconvenient and wearisome rejoinders from me, in which I
should have to restate my original thesis. As I was by no means
inclined to enter upon such a controversy, I agreed to
Kolatschek's proposal, and suggested that he had better return
the manuscript to its author for publication elsewhere.

Through Kolatschek I also learned to know Reinhold Solger, a
really excellent and interesting man. But it did not suit his
restless and adventurous spirit to remain cooped up in the small
and narrow Swiss world of Zurich, so that he soon left us and
went to North America, where I heard that he went about giving
lectures and denouncing the political situation in Europe. It was
a pity that this talented man never succeeded in making a name
for himself by more important work. His contributions to our
monthly journal, during the brief term of his stay in Zurich,
were certainly among the best ever written on these topics by a
German.

In the new year, 1851, Georg Herwegh also joined us, and I was
delighted to meet him one day at Kolatschek's lodgings. The
vicissitudes which had brought him to Zurich came to my knowledge
afterwards in a somewhat offensive and aggressive manner. For the
present, Herwegh put on an aristocratic swagger and gave himself
the airs of a delicately nurtured and luxurious son of his times,
to which a fairly liberal interpolation of French expletives at
least added a certain distinction. Nevertheless, there was
something about his person, with his quick, flashing eye and
kindliness of manner, which was well calculated to exert an
attractive influence. I felt almost flattered by his ready
acceptance of my invitation to my informal evening parties, which
may, perhaps, have been fairly agreeable gatherings, as Bulow
entertained us with music, though to me personally they afforded
no mental sustenance whatever. My wife used to declare that, when
I proceeded to read from my manuscript, Kolatschek promptly fell
asleep, while Herwegh gave all his attention to her punch. When,
later on, as I have already mentioned, I read my Oper und Drama
for twelve consecutive evenings to our Zurich friends, Herwegh
stayed away, because he did not wish to mix with those for whom
such things had not been written. Yet my intercourse with him
became gradually more cordial. Not only did I respect his
poetical talent, which had recently gained recognition, but I
also learned to realise the delicate and refined qualities of his
richly cultivated intellect, and in course of time learned that
Herwegh, on his side, was beginning to covet my society. My
steady pursuit of those deeper and more serious interests which
so passionately engrossed me seemed to arouse him to an ennobling
sympathy, even for those topics which, since his sudden leap into
poetic fame, had been, greatly to his prejudice, smothered under
mere showy and trivial mannerisms, altogether alien to his
original nature. Possibly this process was accelerated by the
growing difficulties of his position, which he had hitherto
regarded as demanding a certain amount of outward show. In short,
he was the first man in whom I met with a sensitive and
sympathetic comprehension of my most daring schemes and opinions,
and I soon felt compelled to believe his assertion that he
occupied himself solely with my ideas, into which, certainly, no
other man entered so profoundly as he did.

This familiarity with Herwegh, in which an element of affection
was certainly mingled, was further stimulated by news which
reached me respecting a new dramatic poem which I had sketched
out for the coining spring. Liszt's preparations in the late
summer of the previous year for the production in Weimar of my
Lohengrin had met with more success than, with such limited
resources, had hitherto seemed possible. This result could
naturally only have been obtained by the zeal of a friend endowed
with such rich and varied gifts as Liszt. Though it was beyond
his power to attract quickly to the Weimar stage such singers as
Lohengrin demanded, and he had been compelled on many points to
content himself with merely suggesting what was intended to be
represented, yet he was now endeavouring by sundry ingenious
methods to make these suggestions clearly comprehensible. First
of all, he prepared a detailed account of the production of
Lohengrin. Seldom has a written description of a work of art won
for it such attentive friends, and commanded their enthusiastic
appreciation from the outset, as did this treatise of Liszt's,
which extended even to the most insignificant details. Karl
Ritter distinguished himself by providing an excellent German
translation of the French original, which was first published in
the Illustrirte Zeitung. Shortly after this Liszt also issued
Tannhauser in French, accompanied by a similar preface on its
origin, and these pamphlets were the chief means of awakening,
now and for long after, especially in foreign countries, not only
a surprisingly sympathetic interest in these works, but also an
intimate understanding of them such as could not possibly have
been attained by the mere study of my pianoforte arrangements.
But, far from being satisfied with this, Liszt contrived to
attract the attention of intellects outside Weimar to the
performances of my operas, in order, with kindly compulsion, to
force them upon the notice of all who had ears to hear and eyes
to see. Although his good intentions did not altogether succeed
with Franz Dingelstedt, who would only commit himself to a
confused report on Lohengrin in the Allgemeine Zeitung, yet his
enthusiastic eloquence completely and decisively captured Adolf
Stahr for my work. His detailed view of Lohengrin in the Berlin
National-Zeitung, in which he claimed a high importance for my
opera, did not remain without permanent influence upon the German
public. Even in the narrow circle of professional musicians its
effects seem not to have been unimportant; for Robert Franz, whom
Liszt dragged almost by force to a performance of Lohengrin,
spoke of it with unmistakable enthusiasm. This example gave the
lead to many other journals, and for some time it seemed as
though the otherwise dull-witted musical press would
energetically champion my cause.

I shall shortly have occasion to describe what it was that
eventually gave quite a different direction to this movement.
Meanwhile Liszt felt emboldened by these kindly signs to
encourage me to renew my creative activity, which had now for
some time been interrupted. His success with Lohengrin gave him
confidence in his ability to execute a yet more hazardous
undertaking, and he invited me to set my poem of Siegfried's
Death to music for production at Weimar. On his recommendation,
the manager of the Weimar theatre, Herr von Ziegesar, offered to
make a definite contract with me in the name of the Grand Duke. I
was to finish the work within a year, and during that period was
to receive a payment of fifteen hundred marks (L75).

It was a curious coincidence that about this time, and also
through Liszt, the Duke of Coburg invited me to arrange the
instrumentation for an opera of his own composition, for which he
offered me the sum of two thousand seven hundred marks (L135). In
spite of my position as an outlaw, my noble patron and would-be
employer offered to receive me in his castle at Coburg, where, in
quiet seclusion with himself and Frau Birchpfeiffer, the writer
of the libretto, I might execute the work. Liszt naturally
expected nothing more from me than a decent excuse for declining
this offer, and suggested my pleading 'bodily and mental
depression.' My friend told me afterwards that the Duke had
desired my co-operation with him in his score on account of my
skilful use of trombones. When he inquired, through Liszt, what
my rules for their manipulation were, I replied that before I
could write anything for trombones I required first to have some
ideas in my head.

On the other hand, however, I felt very much tempted to entertain
the Weimar proposal. Still weary from my exhausting labour on
Oper und Drama, and worried by many things which had a depressing
effect on my spirits, I seated myself for the first time for many
months at my Hartel grand-piano, which had been rescued from the
Dresden catastrophe, to see whether I could settle down to
composing the music for my ponderous heroic drama. In rapid
outline I sketched the music for the Song of the Norns, or
Daughters of the Rhine, which in this first draft was only
roughly suggested. But when I attempted to turn Brunhilda's first
address to Siegfried into song my courage failed me completely,
for I could not help asking myself whether the singer had yet
been born who was capable of vitalising this heroic female
figure. The idea of my niece Johanna occurred to me, whom, as a
matter of fact, I had already destined for this rule when I was
still in Dresden on account of her various personal charms. She
had now entered upon the career of prima donna at Hamburg, but,
judging from all the reports I had received, and especially from
the attitude towards me that she openly adopted in her letters to
her family, I could only conclude that my modest hopes of
enlisting her talents on my behalf were doomed to disappointment.
I was, moreover, confused by the fact that a second Dresden prima
donna, Mme. Gentiluomo Spatzer, who had once enraptured Marschner
with Donizetti's dithyrambics, kept hovering perpetually before
my mind as a possible substitute for Johanna. At last, in a rage,
I sprang up from the piano, and swore that I would write nothing
more for these silly fastidious schoolgirls. Whenever I saw any
likelihood of being again brought into closer contact with the
theatre I was filled with an indescribable disgust which, for the
time being, I was unable to overcome. It was some little
consolation to discover that bodily ill-health might possibly be
at the bottom of this mental disorder. During the spring of this
year I had been suffering from a curious rash, which spread over
my whole body. For this my doctor prescribed a course of sulphur-
baths, to be taken regularly every morning. Although the remedy
excited my nerves so much that later on I was obliged to adopt
radical measures for the restoration of my health, yet in the
meantime the regular morning walk to the town and back,
surrounded by the fresh green and early spring flowers of May,
acted as a cheerful stimulant on my mental condition. I now
conceived the idea of the poem of Junger Siegfried, which I
proposed to issue as a heroic comedy by way of prelude and
complement to the tragedy of Siegfrieds Tod. Carried away by my
conception, I tried to persuade myself that this piece would be
easier to produce than the other more serious and terrible drama.
With this idea in my mind I informed Liszt of my purpose, and
offered the Weimar management to compose a score for Junger
Siegfried, which as yet was unwritten, in return for which I
would definitely accept their proposal to grant me a year's
salary of fifteen hundred marks. This they agreed to without
delay, and I took up my quarters in the attic-room evacuated the
previous year by Karl Ritter, where, with the aid of sulphur and
May-blossom, and in the highest spirits, I proposed to complete
the poem of Junger Siegfried, as already outlined in my original
design.

I must now give some account of the cordial relations which, ever
since my departure from Dresden, I had maintained with Theodor
Uhlig, the young musician of the Dresden orchestra, which I have
already described, and which by this time had developed into a
genuinely productive association. His independent and indeed
somewhat uncultivated disposition had been moulded into a warm,
almost boundless devotion to myself, inspired both by sympathy
for my fate and a thorough understanding of my works. He also had
been among the number of those who had visited Weimar to hear my
Lohengrin, and had sent me a very detailed account of the
performance. As Hartel, the music-dealer in Leipzig, had
willingly agreed to my request to publish Lohengrin on condition
that I should not demand any share in the profits, I entrusted
Uhlig with the preparation of the pianoforte arrangement. But it
was more the theoretical questions discussed in my works that
formed the chief link that bound us together by a serious
correspondence. The characteristic which especially touched me
about this man, whom from his training I could regard merely as
an instrumentalist, was that he had grasped with clear
understanding and perfect agreement those very tendencies of mine
which many musicians of apparently wider culture than his own
regarded with almost despairing horror, as being dangerous to the
orthodox practice of their art. He forthwith acquired the
literary facility necessary for the expression of his agreement
with my views, and gave tangible proof of this in a lengthy
treatise on 'Instrumental Music,' which appeared in Kolatschek's
German monthly journal. He also sent to me another strictly
theoretical work on the 'Structure of Musical Theme and Phrase.'
In this he showed the originality of his ideas about Mozart's and
Beethoven's methods, to an extent which was only equalled by the
thoroughness with which he had mastered the question, especially
where he discussed their highly characteristic differences. This
clear and exhaustive treatise appeared to me admirably adapted to
form the basis for a new theory of the higher art of musical
phrasing, whereby Beethoven's most obscure construction might be
explained, and elaborated into a comprehensible system that would
allow of further application. These treatises attracted the
attention of Franz Brendel, the astute publisher of the Neue
Zeitschrift fur Musik, to their brilliant young author. He was
invited by Brendel to join the staff of his paper, and soon
succeeded in changing his chief's previous attitude of
indecision. As Brendel's aims were on the whole perfectly
honourable and serious, he was quickly and definitely led to
adopt those views which from this time began to make a stir in
the musical world under the title of the 'New Tendency.' I
thereupon felt impelled to contribute an epoch-making article to
his paper on these lines. I had noticed for some time that such
ill-sounding catch-phrases as 'Jewish ornamental flourishes'
(Melismas), 'Synagogue Music,' and the like were being bandied
about without any rhyme or reason beyond that of giving
expression to meaningless irritation. The question thus raised
regarding the significance of the modern Jew in music stimulated
me to make a closer examination of Jewish influence and the
characteristics peculiar to it. This I did in a lengthy treatise
on 'Judaism in Music.' Although I did not wish to hide my
identity, as its author, from all inquiries, yet I considered it
advisable to adopt a pseudonym, lest my very seriously intended
effort should be degraded to a purely personal matter, and its
real importance be thereby vitiated. The stir, nay, the genuine
consternation, created by this article defies comparison with any
other similar publication. The unparalleled animosity with which,
even up to the present day, I have been pursued by the entire
press of Europe can only be understood by those who have taken an
account of this article and of the dreadful commotion which it
caused at the time of its publication. It must also be remembered
that almost all the newspapers of Europe are in the hands of
Jews. Apart from these facts, it would be impossible to
understand the unqualified bitterness of this lasting
persecution, which cannot be adequately explained on the mere
ground of a theoretical or practical dislike for my opinions or
artistic works. The first outcome of the article was a storm
which broke over poor Brendel, who was entirely innocent, and,
indeed, hardly conscious of his offence. This erelong developed
into a savage persecution which aimed at nothing less than his
ruin. Another immediate result was that the few friends whom
Liszt had induced to declare themselves in my favour forthwith
took refuge in a discreet silence. As it soon seemed advisable,
in the interests of their own productions, to give direct
evidence of their estrangement from me, most of them passed over
to the ranks of my enemies. But Uhlig clung to me all the more
closely on this account. He strengthened Brendel's weaker will to
endurance, and kept helping him with contributions for his paper,
some of them profound and others witty and very much to the
point. He fixed his eye more particularly on one of my chief
antagonists, a man named Bischoff, whom Hiller had discovered in
Cologne, and who first invented for me and my friends the title
of Zukunftsmusiker ('Musicians of the Future'). With him he
entered into a prolonged and somewhat diverting controversy. The
foundation had now been laid for the problem of the so-called
Zukunftsmusik ('Music of the Future'), which was to become a
European scandal, in spite of the fact that Liszt quickly adopted
the title himself with good-humoured pride. It is true that I had
to some extent suggested this name in the title of my book,
Kunstwerk der Zukunft; but it only developed into a battle-cry
when 'Judaism in Music' unbarred the sluices of wrath upon me
and my friends.

My book, Oper und Drama, was published in the second half of this
year, and, so far as it was noticed at all by the leading
musicians of the day, naturally only helped to add fuel to the
wrath which blazed against me. This fury, however, assumed more
the character of slander and malice, for our movement had
meantime been reduced by a great connoisseur in such things,
Meyerbeer, to a clearly defined system, which he maintained and
practised with a sure hand until his lamented death.

Uhlig had come across my book, Oper und Drama, during the early
stages of the furious uproar against me. I had presented him with
the original manuscript, and as it was nicely bound in red, I hit
upon the idea of writing in it, by way of dedication, the words,
'RED, my friend, is MY theory,' in contradistinction to the
Gothic saying, 'Grey, my friend, is all theory.' This gift
elicited an exhilarating and most delightful correspondence with
my lively and keen-sighted young friend, who, after two long
years of separation, I felt sincerely desirous of seeing again.
It was not an easy matter for the poor fiddler, whose pay was
barely that of a chamber musician, to comply with my invitation.
But he gladly tried to overcome all difficulties, and said he
would come early in July. I decided to go as far as Rorschach, on
the Lake of Constance, to meet him, so that we might make an
excursion through the Alps as far as Zurich. I went by a pleasant
detour through the Toggenburg, travelling on foot as usual. In
this way, cheerful and refreshed, I reached St. Gall, where I
sought out Karl Ritter, who, since Bulow's departure, had
remained there alone in curious seclusion. I could guess the
reason of his retirement, although he said that he had enjoyed
very agreeable intercourse with a St. Gall musician named
Greitel, of whom I never heard anything further. Though very
tired after my long walking tour, I could not refrain from
submitting the manuscript of my Jungcr Siegfried, which I had
just finished, to the quick and critical judgment of this
intelligent young man, who was thus the first person to hear it.
I was more than gratified by its effect upon him, and, in high
spirits, persuaded him to forsake his strange retreat and go with
me to meet Uhlig, so that we might all three proceed over the
Santis for a long and pleasant stay in Zurich. My first glance at
my guest, as he landed at the familiar harbour of Rorschach,
filled me at once with anxiety for his health, for it revealed
but too plainly his tendency to consumption. In order to spare
him, I wished to give up the proposed mountain climb, but he
eagerly protested that exercise of this kind in the fresh air
could only do him good after the drudgery of his wretched
fiddling. After crossing the little canton of Appenzell, we had
to face the by no means easy crossing of the Santis. It was my
first experience also of travelling over an extensive snow-field
in summer. After reaching our guide's hut, which was perched on a
rugged slope, where we regaled ourselves with exceedingly frugal
fare, we had to climb the towering and precipitous pinnacle of
rock which forms the summit of the mountain, a few hundred feet
above us. Here Karl suddenly refused to allow us, and to shake
him out of his effeminacy I had to send back the guide for him,
who, at our request, succeeded in bringing him along, half by
force. But now that we had to clamber from stone to stone along
the precipitous cliff, I soon began to realise how foolish I had
been in compelling Karl to share our perilous adventure. His
dizziness evidently stupefied him, for he stared in front of him
as though he could not see, and we had to hold him fast between
our alpenstocks, every moment expecting to see him collapse, and
tumble into the abyss. When we at last attained the summit, he
sank senseless on the ground, and I now fully understood what a
terrible responsibility I had undertaken, as the yet more
dangerous descent had still to be made. In an agony of fear,
which, while it made me forget my own danger altogether, filled
me with a vision of my young friend lying shattered on the rocks
below, we at last reached the guide's cottage in safety. As Uhlig
and myself were still determined to descend the precipitous
further side of the mountain, a feat which the guide informed us
was not without danger, I resolved to leave young Ritter behind
in the hut, as the indescribable anguish I had just endured on
his behalf had been a warning to me. Here he was to await the
return of our guide, and in his company take the not very
dangerous path by which we had come. We accordingly parted, as he
was to return in the direction of Gall, while we two roamed
through the lovely Toggenburg valley, and the next day by
Rappersweil to the Lake of Zurich, and so home. Not until many
days later did Karl relieve our anxiety concerning him by
arriving at Zurich. He remained with us a short time, and then
departed, probably wishing to escape being tempted into more
mountain climbing, which we had certainly planned. I heard from
him afterwards when he had settled for some time in Stuttgart,
where he seemed to be doing well. He soon made great friends with
a young actor, and lived on terms of great intimacy with him.

I was sincerely delighted by the close intercourse I now had with
the gentle young Dresden chamber musician, whose manly strength
of character and extraordinary mental endowments greatly endeared
him to me. My wife said that his curly golden hair and bright
blue eyes made her think an angel had come to stay with us. For
me his features had a peculiar and, considering his fate,
pathetic interest, on account of his striking resemblance to King
Friedrich August of Saxony, my former patron, who was still alive
at that time, and seemed to confirm a rumour which had reached me
that Uhlig was his natural son. It was entertaining to hear his
news of Dresden, and all about the theatre, and the condition of
musical affairs in that city. My operas, which had once been its
glory, had now quite vanished from the repertoire. He gave me a
choice example of my late colleagues' opinion of me by relating
the following incident. When Kunst und Revolution and Kunstwerk
der Zukunft appeared, and were being discussed among them, one of
them remarked: 'Ha! he may worry a long time before he will be
able to write conductor before his name again.' By way of
illustrating the advance made in music, he related the manner in
which Reissiger, having on one occasion to conduct Beethoven's
Symphony in A major, which had been previously executed by me,
had helped himself out of a sudden dilemma. Beethoven, as is well
known, marks the great finale of the last movement with a
prolonged forte, which he merely heightens by a sempre piu forte.
At this point Reissiger, who had conducted the Symphony before
me, thinking the opportunity a favourable one, had introduced a
piano, in order at least to secure an effective crescendo. This I
had naturally ignored, and had instructed the orchestra to play
with their full strength throughout. Now, therefore, that the
conducting of this work had once more fallen into my
predecessor's hands, he found it difficult to restore his unlucky
piano; but, feeling that he must save his authority, which had
been compromised, he made a rule that mezzo forte should be
played instead of forte.

But the most painful news he gave me was about the state of utter
neglect into which my unhappy operatic publications had fallen in
the hands of the court music-dealer Meser, who, seeing that money
had to be continually paid out, while nothing came in, regarded
himself as a sacrificial lamb whom I had lured to the slaughter.
Yet he steadily refused all inspection of his books, maintaining
that he thereby protected my property, as all I possessed having
been confiscated, it would otherwise be seized at once. A
pleasanter topic than this was Lohengrin. My friend had completed
the pianoforte arrangement, and was already busy correcting the
engraver's proofs.

By his enthusiastic advocacy of the water cure, Uhlig gained an
influence over me in another direction, and one which was of long
duration. He brought me a book on the subject by a certain
Rausse, which pleased me greatly, especially by its radical
principles, which had something of Feuerbach about them. Its bold
repudiation of the entire science of medicine, with all its
quackeries, combined with its advocacy of the simplest natural
processes by means of a methodical use of strengthening and
refreshing water, quickly won my fervent adherence. He
maintained, for instance, that every genuine medicine can only
act upon our organism in so far as it is a poison, and is
therefore not assimilated by our system; and proved, moreover,
that men who had become weak owing to a continuous absorption of
medicine, had been cured by the famous Priesnitz, who had
effectually driven out the poison contained in their bodies by
expelling it through the skin. I naturally thought of the
disagreeable sulphur baths I had taken during the spring, and to
which I attributed my chronic and severe state of irritability.
In so doing I was probably not far wrong. For a long while after
this I did my best to expel this and all other poisons which I
might have absorbed in the course of time, and by an exclusive
water regimen restore my original healthy condition. Uhlig
asserted that by persevering conscientiously in a water cure, he
was perfectly confident of being able to renew his own bodily
health entirely, and my own faith in it also grew daily.

At the end of July we started on an excursion through the centre
of Switzerland. From Brunnen, on the Lake of Lucerne, we
proceeded via Beckenried to Engelberg, from which place we
crossed the wild Surenen-Eck, and on this occasion learned how to
glide over the snow fairly easily. But in crossing a swollen
mountain torrent Uhlig had the misfortune to fall into the water.
By way of quieting my uneasiness about him, he at once exclaimed
that this was a very good way of carrying out the water cure. He
made no fuss about the drying of his clothes, but simply spread
them out in the sun, and in the meanwhile calmly promenaded about
in a state of nature in the open air, protesting that this novel
form of exercise would do him good. We occupied the interval in
discussing the important problem of Beethoven's theme
construction, until, by way of a joke, I told him that I could
see Councillor Carns of Dresden coming up behind him with a
party, which for a moment quite frightened him. Thus with light
hearts we reached the Reuss valley near Attinghausen, and in the
evening wandered on as far as Amsteg, and the next morning, in
spite of our great fatigue, at once visited the Madran valley.
There we climbed the Hufi glacier, whence we enjoyed a splendid
view over an impressive panorama of mountains, bounded at this
point by the Tody range. We returned the same day to Amsteg, and
as we were both thoroughly tired out, I dissuaded my companion
from attempting the ascent of the Klausen Pass to the Schachen
valley, which we had planned for the following day, and induced
him to take the easier way home via Fluelen. When, early in
August, my young friend, who was always calm and very deliberate
in his manner, set out on his return journey to Dresden, I could
detect no signs of exhaustion about him. He was hoping on his
arrival to lighten the heavy burden of life a little by
undertaking the conductorship of the entr'acte music at the
theatre, which he proposed to organise artistically, and thus set
himself free from the oppressive and demoralising service of the
opera. It was with sincere grief that I accompanied him to the
mail-coach, and he too seemed to be seized with sudden
foreboding. As a matter of fact, this was the last time we ever
met.

But for the present we carried on an active correspondence, and
as his communications were always pleasant and entertaining, and
for a long time constituted almost my sole link with the outside
world, I begged him to write me long letters as often as
possible. As postage was expensive at that time, and voluminous
letters touched our pockets severely, Uhlig conceived the
ingenious idea of using the parcel post for our correspondence.
As only packets of a certain weight might be sent in this way, a
German translation of Beaumarchais' Figaro, of which Uhlig
possessed an ancient copy, enjoyed the singular destiny of acting
as ballast for our letters to and fro. Every time, therefore,
that our epistles had swelled, to the requisite length, we
announced them with the words: 'Figaro brings tidings to-day.'

Uhlig meanwhile found much pleasure in the Mittheilung an meine
Freunde ('A Communication to my Friends'), which, immediately
after our separation, I wrote as a preface to an edition of my
three operas, the Fliegender Hollander, Tannhauser, and
Lohengrin. He was also amused to hear that Hartel, who had
accepted the book for publication on payment of ten louis d'or,
protested so vigorously against certain passages in this preface,
which wounded his orthodoxy and political feelings, that I
thought seriously of giving the book to another firm. However, he
finally persuaded me to give way, and I pacified his tender
conscience by a few trifling alterations.

With this comprehensive preface, which had occupied me during the
whole of the month of August, I hoped that my excursion into the
realms of literature would be ended once and for all. However, as
soon as I began to think seriously about taking up the
composition of Junger Siegfried, which I had promised for Weimar,
I was seized with depressing doubts which almost amounted to a
positive reluctance to attempt this work. As I could not clearly
discern the reason of this dejection, I concluded that its source
lay in the state of my health, so I determined one day to carry
out my theories about the advantages of a water cure, which I had
always propounded with great enthusiasm. I made due inquiries
about a neighbouring hydropathic establishment, and informed my
wife that I was going off to Albisbrunnen, which was situated
about three miles from our abode. It was then about the middle of
September, and I had made up my mind not to come back until I was
completely restored to health.

Minna was quite frightened when I announced my intention, and
looked upon it as another attempt on my part to abandon my home.
I begged of her, however, to devote herself during my absence to
the task of furnishing and arranging our new flat as comfortably
as possible. This, although small, was conveniently situated on
the ground floor of the Vordern Escher Hauser im Zeltweg. We had
determined to move back to the town, on account of the great
inconvenience of the situation of our present quarters,
especially during winter time. Everybody, of course, was
astonished at the idea of my undertaking a water cure so late in
the season. Nevertheless, I soon succeeded in securing a fellow-
patient. I was not fortunate enough to get Herwegh, but Fate was
kind in sending me Hermann Muller, an ex-lieutenant in the Saxon
Guards, and a former lover of Schroder-Devrient, who proved a
most cheerful and pleasant companion. It had become impossible
for him to maintain his position in the Saxon army, and although
he was not exactly a political refugee, every career was closed
to him in Germany, and yet he met with all the consideration of
an exiled patriot when he came to Switzerland to try and make a
fresh start in life. We had seen a good deal of each other in my
early Dresden days, and he soon felt at home in my house, where
my wife always gave him a warm welcome. I easily persuaded him to
follow me shortly to Albisbrunnen to undergo a thorough treatment
for an infirmity from which he was suffering. I established
myself there as comfortably as I could, and I looked forward to
excellent results. The cure itself was superintended in the usual
superficial way by a Dr. Brunner, whom my wife, on one of her
visits to this place, promptly christened the 'Water Jew,' and
whom she heartily detested. Early at five o'clock in the morning
I was wrapped up and kept in a state of perspiration for several
hours; after that I was plunged into an icy cold bath at a
temperature of only four degrees; then I was made to take a brisk
walk to restore my circulation in the chilly air of late autumn.
In addition I was kept on a water diet; no wine, coffee, or tea
was allowed; and this regime, in the dismal company of nothing
but incurables, with dull evenings only enlivened by desperate
attempts at games of whist, and the prohibition of all
intellectual occupation, resulted in irritability and overwrought
nerves. I led this life for nine weeks, but I was determined not
to give in until I felt that every kind of drug or poison I had
ever absorbed into my system had been brought to the surface. As
I considered that wine was most dangerous, I presumed that my
system still contained many unassimilated substances which I had
absorbed at various dinner-parties at Sulzer's, and which must
evaporate in profuse perspiration. This life, so full of
privations, which I led in rooms miserably furnished with common
deal and the usual rustic appointments of a Swiss pension, awoke
in me by way of contrast an insuperable longing for a cosy and
comfortable home; indeed, as the year went on, this longing
became a passionate desire. My imagination was for ever picturing
to itself the manner and style in which a house or a dwelling
ought to be appointed and arranged, in order to keep my mind
pleasantly free for artistic creation.

At this time symptoms of a possible improvement in my position
appeared. Karl Ritter, unfortunately for himself, wrote to me
from Stuttgart while I was at the hydro, describing his own
private attempts to secure the benefits of a water cure--not by
means of baths, but by drinking quantities of water. I had found
out that it was most dangerous to drink large quantities of water
without undergoing the rest of the treatment, so I implored Karl
to submit to the regular course, and not to have an effeminate
fear of privations, and to come at once to Albisbrunnen. He took
me at my word, and to my great delight arrived in a few days'
time at Albisbrunnen. Theoretically he was filled with enthusiasm
for hydropathy, but he soon objected to it in practice; and he
denounced the use of cold milk as indigestible and against the
dictates of Nature, as mother's milk was always warm. He found
the cold packs and the cold baths too exciting, and preferred
treating himself in a comfortable and pleasant way behind the
doctor's back. He soon discovered a wretched confectioner's shop
in the neighbouring village, and when he was caught buying cheap
pastry on the sly, he was very angry. He soon grew perfectly
miserable, and would fain have escaped, had not a certain feeling
of honour prevented him from doing so. The news reached him here
of the sudden death of a rich uncle, who had left a considerable
fortune to every member of Karl's family. His mother, in telling
him and me of the improvement in her position, declared that she
was now able to assure me the income which the two families of
Laussot and Ritter had offered me some time ago. Thus I stepped
into an annual income of two thousand four hundred marks for as
long as I required it, and into partnership with the Ritter
family.

This happy and encouraging turn of events made me decide to
complete my original sketch of the Nibelungen, and to bring it
out in our theatres without paying any regard to the
practicability of its various parts. In order to do this I felt
that I must free myself from all obligations to the management of
the Weimar theatre. I had already drawn six hundred marks salary
from this source, but Karl was enchanted to place this sum at my
disposal in order that I might return it. I sent the money back
to Weimar with a letter expressing my most grateful
acknowledgments to the management for their conduct towards me,
and at the same time I wrote to Liszt, giving him the fullest
particulars of my great plan, and explaining how I felt
absolutely compelled to carry it out.

Liszt, in his reply, told me how delighted he was to know that I
was now in a position to undertake such a remarkable work, which
he considered in every respect worthy of me if only on account of
its surprising originality. I began to breathe freely at last,
because I had always felt that it was merely self-deception on my
part to maintain that it would be possible to produce Junger
Siegfried with the limited means at the disposal of even the best
German theatre.

My water cure and the hydropathic establishment became more and
more distasteful to me; I longed for my work, and the desire to
get back to it made me quite ill. I tried obstinately to conceal
from myself that the object of my cure had entirely failed;
indeed, it had really done me more harm than good, for although
the evil secretions had not returned, my whole body seemed
terribly emaciated. I considered that I had had quite enough of
the cure, and comforted myself with the hope that I should derive
benefit from it in the future. I accordingly left the hydropathic
establishment at the end of November. Muller was to follow me in
a few days, but Karl, wishing to be consistent, was determined to
remain until he perceived a similar result in himself to the one
I had experienced or pretended I had experienced. I was much
pleased with the way in which Minna had arranged our new little
flat in Zurich. She had bought a large and luxurious divan,
several carpets for the floor and various dainty little luxuries,
and in the back room my writing-table of common deal was covered
with a green tablecloth and draped with soft green silk curtains,
all of which my friends admired immensely. This table, at which I
worked continually, travelled with me to Paris, and when I left
that city I presented it to Blandine Ollivier, Liszt's elder
daughter, who had it conveyed to the little country house at St.
Tropez, belonging to her husband, where, I believe, it stands to
this day. I was very glad to receive my Zurich friends in my new
home, which was so much more conveniently situated than my former
one; only I quite spoilt all my hospitality for a long time by my
fanatical agitation for a water diet and my polemics against the
evils of wine and other intoxicating drinks. I adopted what
seemed almost a new kind of religion: when I was driven into a
corner by Sulzer and Herwegh, the latter of whom prided himself
on his knowledge of chemistry and physiology, about the absurdity
of Rausse's theory of the poisonous qualities contained in wine,
I found refuge in the moral and aesthetic motive which made me
regard the enjoyment of wine as an evil and barbarous substitute
for the ecstatic state of mind which love alone should produce. I
maintained that wine, even if not taken in excess, contained
qualities producing a state of intoxication which a man sought in
order to raise his spirits, but that only he who experienced the
intoxication of love could raise his spirits in the noblest sense
of the word. This led to a discussion on the modern relations of
the sexes, whereupon I commented on the almost brutal manner in
which men kept aloof from women in Switzerland. Sulzer said he
would not at all object to the intoxication resulting from
intercourse with women, but in his opinion the difficulty lay in
procuring this by fair means. Herwegh was inclined to agree with
my paradox, but remarked that wine had nothing whatever to do
with it, that it was simply an excellent and strengthening food,
which, according to Anacreon, agreed very well with the ecstasy
of love. As my friends studied me and my condition more closely,
they felt they had reason to be very anxious about my foolish and
obstinate extravagances. I looked terribly pale and thin; I
hardly slept at all, and in everything I did I betrayed a strange
excitement. Although eventually sleep almost entirely forsook me,
I still pretended that I had never been so well or so cheerful in
my life, and I continued on the coldest winter mornings to take
my cold baths, and plagued my wife to death by making her show me
my way out with a lantern for the prescribed early morning walk.

I was in this state when the printed copies of Oper und Drama
reached me, and I devoured rather than read them with an
eccentric joy. I think that the delightful consciousness of now
being able to say to myself, and prove to the satisfaction of
everybody, and even of Minna, that I had at last completely freed
myself from my hateful career as conductor and opera composer,
brought about this immoderate excitement. Nobody had a right to
make the demands upon me which two years ago had made me so
miserable. The income which the Ritters had assured me for life,
and the object of which was to give me an absolutely free hand,
also contributed to my present state of mind, and made me feel
confidence in everything I undertook. Although my plans for the
present seemed to exclude all possibility of being realised,
thanks to the indifference of an inartistic public, still I could
not help inwardly cherishing the idea that I should not be for
ever addressing only the paper on which I wrote. I anticipated
that before long a great reaction would set in with regard to the
public and everything connected with our social life, and I
believed that in my boldly planned work there lay just the right
material to supply the changed conditions and real needs of the
new public whose relation to art would be completely altered with
what was required. As these bold expectations had arisen in my
mind in consequence of my observations of the state of society in
general, I naturally could not say much about them to my friends.
I had not mistaken the significance of the general collapse of
the political movements, but felt that their real weakness lay in
the inadequate though sincere expression of their cause, and that
the social movement, so far from losing ground by its political
defeat, had, on the contrary, gained in energy and expansion. I
based my opinion upon the experience I had had during my last
visit to Paris, when I had attended, among other things, a
political meeting of the so-called social democratic party. Their
general behaviour made a great impression upon me; the meeting
took place in a temporary hall called Salle de la Fraternite in
the Faubourg St. Denis; six thousand men were present, and their
conduct, far from being noisy and tumultuous, filled me with a
sense of the concentrated energy and hope of this new party. The
speeches of the principal orators of the extreme left of the
Assemblee Nationale astonished me by their oratorical flights as
well as by their evident confidence in the future. As this
extreme party was gradually strengthening itself against
everything that was being done by the reactionary party then in
power, and all the old liberals had joined these social democrats
publicly and had adopted their electioneering programme, it was
easy to see that in Paris, at all events, they would have a
decided majority at the impending elections for the year 1852,
and especially in the nomination of the President of the
Republic. My own opinions about this were shared by the whole of
France, and it seemed that the year 1852 was destined to witness
a very important reaction which was naturally dreaded by the
other party, who looked forward with great apprehension to the
approaching catastrophe. The condition of the other European
states, who suppressed every laudable impulse with brutal
stupidity, convinced me that elsewhere too this state of affairs
would not continue long, and every one seemed to look forward
with great expectations to the decision of the following year.

I had discussed the general situation with my friend Uhlig, as
well as the efficacy of the water-cure system; he had just come
home fresh from orchestral rehearsals at the Dresden theatre, and
found it very difficult to agree to a drastic change in human
affairs or to have any faith in it. He assured me that I could
not conceive how miserable and mean people were in general, but I
managed to delude him into the belief that the year 1852 would be
pregnant with great and important events. Our opinions on this
subject were expressed in the correspondence which was once more
diligently forwarded by Figaro.

Whenever we had to complain of any meanness or untoward
circumstance, I always reminded him of this year, so great with
fate and hope, and at the same time I hinted that we had better
look forward quite calmly to the time when the great 'upheaval'
should take place, as only then, when no one else knew what to
do, could we step in and make a start.

I can hardly express how deeply and firmly this hope had taken
possession of me, and I can only attribute all my confident
opinions and declarations to the increased excitement of my
nerves. The news of the coup d'etat of the 2nd of December in
Paris seemed to me absolutely incredible, and I thought the world
was surely coming to an end. When the news was confirmed, and
events which no one believed could ever happen had apparently
occurred and seemed likely to be permanent, I gave the whole
thing up like a riddle which it was beneath me to unravel, and
turned away in disgust from the contemplation of this puzzling
world. As a playful reminiscence of our hopes of the year 1852, I
suggested to Uhlig that in our correspondence during that year we
should ignore its existence and should date our letters December
'51, in consequence of which this said month of December seemed
of eternal duration.

Soon afterwards I was overpowered by an extraordinary depression
in which, somehow, the disappointment about the turn of political
events and the reaction created by my exaggerated water cure,
almost ruined my health. I perceived the triumphant return of all
the disappointing signs of reaction which excluded every high
ideal from intellectual life, and from which I had hoped the
shocks and fermentations of the past few years had freed us for
ever. I prophesied that the time was approaching when
intellectually we should be such paupers that the appearance of a
new book from the pen of Heinrich Heine would create quite a
sensation. When, a short time afterwards, the Romancero appeared
from the pen of this poet who had fallen into almost complete
neglect, and was very well reviewed by the newspaper critics, I
laughed aloud; as a matter of fact, I suppose I am among the very
few Germans who have never even looked at this book, which, by
the way, is said to possess great merit.

I was now compelled to pay a great deal of attention to my
physical condition, as it gave me much cause for anxiety and
necessitated a complete change in my methods. I introduced this
change very gradually and with the co-operation of my friends. My
circle of acquaintances had widened considerably this winter,
although Karl Ritter, who had escaped from Albisbrunnen a week
after my own departure and had tried to settle in our
neighbourhood, ran off to Dresden, as he found Zurich much too
slow for his youthful spirits. A certain family of the name of
Wesendonck, who had settled in Zurich a short time before, sought
my acquaintance, and took up their abode in the same quarters in
the Hintern Escherhauser where I had lived when I first came to
Zurich. They had taken the flat there on the recommendation of
the famous Marschall von Bieberstein, who moved in after me in
consequence of the revolution in Dresden. I remember, on the
evening of a party there, that I displayed uncontrolled
excitement in a discussion with Professor Osenbruck. I tormented
him with my persistent paradoxes all through supper to such an
extent that he positively loathed me, and ever afterwards
carefully avoided coming into contact with me.

The acquaintance with the Wesendoncks was the means of giving me
the entree to a delightful home, which in point of comfort was a
great contrast to the usual run of houses in Zurich. Herr Otto
Wesendonck, who was a few years younger than I was, had amassed a
considerable fortune through a partnership in a silk business in
New York, and seemed to make all his plans subservient to the
wishes of the young wife whom he had married a few years before.
They both came from the Lower Rhine country, and, like all the
inhabitants of those parts, were fair haired. As he was obliged
to take up his abode in some part of Europe which was convenient
for the furtherance of his business in New York, he chose Zurich,
presumably because of its German character, in preference to
Lyons. During the previous winter they had both attended the
performance of a symphony of Beethoven under my conductorship,
and knowing what a sensation this performance had aroused in
Zurich, they thought it would be desirable to include me in their
circle of friends.

About this time I was persuaded to undertake the directorship of
the augmented orchestra in view of the performance of some
musical masterpieces at three concerts to be given early in the
new year under the auspices of the Societe Musicale on conditions
arranged in advance.

It gave me infinite pleasure on one of these occasions to conduct
an excellent performance of Beethoven's music to Egmont. As
Herwegh was so anxious to hear some of my own music I gave the
Tannhauser Overture, as I told him, entirely to please him, and I
prepared a descriptive programme as a guide. I also succeeded in
giving an excellent rendering of the Coriolanus Overture, to
which I had also written an explanatory programme. All this was
taken up with so much sympathy and enthusiasm by my friends that
I was induced to accede to the request of Lowe, who was at that
time manager of the theatre, and implored me to give a
performance of the Fliegender Hollander. For the sake of my
friends I agreed to enter into negotiations with the opera
company, an undertaking which, though it only lasted a very short
time, was exceedingly objectionable. It is true that humane
considerations animated me as well, as the performance was for
the benefit of Schoneck, a young conductor, whose real talent for
his art had completely won me over to him.

The efforts which this unaccustomed excursion into the regions of
opera rehearsals, etc., cost me, greatly contributed to the
overwrought state of my nerves, and I was obliged, in spite of
all my rooted prejudices against doctors, to break faith with
myself and, in accordance with the Wesendonck's special
recommendation, to place myself in the hands of Dr. Rahn-Escher,
who, by his gentle manner and soothing ways, succeeded after a
time in bringing me into a healthier condition.

I longed to get well enough to be able to take in hand the
completion of my combined Nibelungen poem. Before I could summon
up the courage to begin, I thought I would wait for the spring,
and in the meanwhile I occupied myself with a few trifles,
amongst other things a letter to Liszt on the founding of a
Goethe Institution (Goethe Stiftung), stating my ideas on the
necessity of founding a German National Theatre, as also a second
letter to Franz Brendel about the line of thought which in my
opinion should be taken up in founding a new musical journal.

I recollect a visit from Henri Vieuxtemps at this time, who came
to Zurich with Belloni to give an evening concert, and he again
delighted me and my friends with his violin playing.

With the approach of spring I was agreeably surprised by a visit
from Hermann Franck, with whom I had an interesting conversation
about the general course of events since I had lost sight of him.

In his quiet way he expressed his astonishment at the
enthusiastic manner in which I had got mixed up in the Dresden
revolution. As I quite misunderstood his remark, he explained
that he thought me capable of enthusiasm in everything, but he
could hardly credit me with having taken a serious part in
anything so foolish as trivial matters of that kind. I now
learned for the first time what the prevalent opinion was about
these much-maligned occurrences in Germany, and I was in a
position to defend my poor friend Rockel, who had been branded as
a coward, and to put not only his conduct but also my own in a
different light to that in which it had been regarded hitherto
even by Hermann Franck, who afterwards expressed his sincere
regret that he had so misunderstood us.

With Rockel himself, whose sentence had by royal mercy been
commuted to lifelong imprisonment, I carried on at this time a
correspondence, the character of which soon showed that his life
was more cheerful and happy in his enforced captivity than mine
with its hopelessness, in spite of the freedom I enjoyed.

At last the month of May arrived, and I felt I needed change of
air in the country in order to strengthen my weakened nerves and
carry out my plans in regard to poetry. We found a fairly
comfortable pied-a-terre on the Rinderknecht estate. This was
situated halfway up the Zurich Berg, and we were able to enjoy an
alfresco meal on the 22nd of May--my thirty-ninth birthday--with
a lovely view of the lake and the distant Alps. Unfortunately a
period of incessant rain set in which scarcely stopped throughout
the whole summer, so that I had the greatest struggle to resist
its depressing influence. However, I soon got to work, and as I
had begun to carry out my great plan by beginning at the end and
going backwards, I continued on the same lines with the beginning
as my goal. Consequently, after I had completed the Siegfrieds
Tod and Junger Siegfried, I next attacked one of the principal
subjects, the Walkure, which was to follow the introductory
prelude of the Rheingold. In this way I completed the poem of the
Walkure by the end of June. At the same time I wrote the
dedication of the score of my Lohengrin to Liszt, as well as a
rhymed snub to an unprovoked attack on my Fliegender Hollander in
a Swiss newspaper. A very disagreeable incident in connection
with Herwegh pursued me to my retreat in the country. One day a
certain Herr Haug, who described himself as an ex-Roman general
of Mazzini's time, introduced himself to me with a view of
forming a sort of conspiracy against him, on behalf, as he said,
of the deeply offended family of the 'unfortunate lyric poet';
however, he did not succeed in getting any assistance from me. A
much pleasanter incident was a long visit from Julia, the eldest
daughter of my revered friend Frau Ritter, who had married
Kummer, the young Dresden chamber musician, whose health seemed
so entirely undermined that they were going to consult a
celebrated hydropathic doctor who practised only a few miles from
Zurich. I now had a good opportunity of abusing this water cure
about which my young friends were so eager, and had always
believed that I was perfectly mad on it also. But we left the
chamber musician to his fate, and rejoiced at the long and
pleasant visit of our amiable and charming young friend.

As I was quite satisfied with the success of my work, and the
weather was exceptionally cold and rainy, we made up our minds to
return to our cosy winter residence in Zurich at the end of June.
I was resolved to stay there until the appearance of some real
summer weather, when I intended to take a walking tour over the
Alps, which I felt would be of great advantage to my health.
Herwegh had promised to accompany me, but as he was apparently
prevented from doing so, I started alone in the middle of July,
after arranging with my travelling companion to meet me in
Valais. I began my walking tour at Alpnach, on the Lake of
Lucerne, and my plan was to wander by unfrequented paths to the
principal points of the Bernese Oberland. I worked pretty hard,
paying a visit, for instance, to the Faulhorn, which at that time
was considered a very difficult mountain to climb. When I reached
the hospice on the Grimsel by the Hasli Thal, I asked the host, a
fine, stately-looking man, about the ascent of the Siedelhorn. He
recommended me one of his servants as a guide, a rough, sinister-
looking man, who, instead of taking the usual zig-zag paths up
the mountain, led me up in a bee line, and I rather suspected he
intended to tire me out. At the top of the Siedelhorn I was
delighted to catch a glimpse, on one side, of the centre of the
Alps, whose giant backs alone were turned to us; and on the other
side, a sudden panorama of the Italian Alps, with Mont Blanc and
Monte Rosa. I had been careful to take a small bottle of
champagne with me, following the example of Prince Puckler when
he made the ascent of Snowdon; unfortunately, I could not think
of anybody whose health I could drink. We now descended vast
snow-fields, over which my guide slid with mad haste on his
alpenstock; I contented myself with leaning carefully on the iron
point of mine, and coming down at a moderate pace.

I arrived at Obergestelen dead tired, and stayed there two days,
to rest and await the arrival of Herwegh. Instead of coming
himself, however, a letter arrived from him which dragged me down
from my lofty communings with the Alps to the humdrum
consideration of the unpleasant situation in which my unhappy
friend found himself as a result of the incident I have already
described. He feared that I had allowed myself to be taken in by
his adversary, and had consequently formed an unfavourable
opinion of him. I told him to make his mind easy on that score,
and to meet me again, if possible, in Italian Switzerland. So I
set out for the ascent of the Gries glacier, and the climb across
the pass to the southern side of the Alps, in the company of my
sinister guide alone. During the ascent an extremely sad sight
kept meeting my eyes; an epidemic of foot-rot had broken out
among cows in the Upper Alps, and several herds passed me in
single file on their way to the valley, where they were going to
be doctored. The cows had become so lean that they looked like
skeletons, and dragged themselves pitiably down the slopes, and
the smiling country with the fat meadow-land seemed to take a
savage delight in gazing on this sad pilgrimage. At the foot of
the glacier, which stood out sheer and steep before me, I felt so
depressed, and my nerves were so overwrought, that I said I
wished to turn back. I was thereupon met by the coarse sarcasm of
my guide, who seemed to scoff at my weakness. My consequent anger
braced up my nerves, and I prepared myself at once to climb the
steep walls of ice as quickly as possible, so that this time it
was he who found difficulty in keeping up with me. We
accomplished the walk over the back of the glacier, which lasted
nearly two hours, under difficulties which caused even this
native of Grimsel anxiety, at least on his own account. Fresh
snow had fallen, which partially concealed the crevasses, and
prevented one from recognising the dangerous spots. The guide, of
course, had to precede me here, to examine the path. We arrived
at last at the opening of the upper valley which gives on to the
Formazza valley, to which a steep cutting, covered with snow and
ice, led. Here my guide again began his dangerous game of
conducting me straight over the steepest slopes instead of going
in a safe zig-zag; in this way we reached a precipitous moraine,
where I saw such unavoidable danger ahead, that I insisted upon
my guide going back with me some distance, until we struck a path
that I had noticed which was not so steep. He was obliged to give
in, much against the grain. I was deeply impressed by the first
signs of cultivation that we saw in our descent from the desolate
wilds. The first scanty meadow-land accessible to cattle was
called the Bettel-Matt, and the first person we met was a marmot
hunter. The wild scenery was soon enlivened by the marvellous
swirl and headlong rush of a mountain river called the Tosa,
which at one spot breaks into a superb waterfall with three
distinct branches. After the moss and reeds had, in the course of
our continuous descent, given place to grass and meadows, and the
shrubs had been replaced by pine trees, we at last arrived at the
goal of our day's journey, the village of Pommath, called
Formazza by the Italian population, which is situated in a
charming valley. Here, for the first time in my life, I had to
eat roast marmot. After having paid my guide, and sent him on his
homeward journey, I started alone on the following morning on my
further descent of the valley, although I had only partially
recovered from my fatigue, owing to lack of sleep. It was not
until the November of this year, when the whole of Switzerland
was thrown into a state of consternation by the news that the
Grimsel inn had been set fire to by the host himself, who hoped
by this means to obtain the renewal of the lease from the
authorities, that I learned my life had been in danger under the
guidance of this man. As soon as his crime was discovered, the
host drowned himself in the little lake, on the borders of which
the inn is situated. The serving-man, however, whom he had bribed
to arrange the fire, was caught and punished. I knew by the name
that he was the same man that the worthy innkeeper had given me
as companion on my solitary journey across the glacier pass, and
I heard at the same time that two travellers from Frankfort had
perished on the same pass a short time before my own journey. I
consequently realised that I had in a really remarkable manner
escaped a fatal danger which had threatened me.

I shall never forget my impressions of my journey through the
continually descending valley. I was particularly astonished at
the southern vegetation which suddenly spreads out before one on
climbing down from a steep and narrow rocky pass by which the
Tosa is confined. I arrived at Domodossola in the afternoon in a
blaze of sunshine, and I was reminded here of a charming comedy
by an author whose name I have forgotten, which I had once seen
performed with a refinement worthy of Platen, and to which my
attention had been drawn by Eduard Devrient in Dresden. The scene
of the play was laid in Domodossola, and described exactly the
impressions I myself received on coming down from the Northern
Alps into Italy, which suddenly burst upon one's gaze. I shall
also never forget my first simple, but extremely well-served,
Italian dinner. Although I was too tired to walk any further that
day, I was very impatient to get to the borders of Lake Maggiore,
and I accordingly arranged to drive in a one-horse chaise, which
was to take me on the same evening as far as Baveno. I felt so
contented while bowling along in my little vehicle that I
reproached myself for want of consideration in having rudely
declined the offer of company which an officer passing through
the Vetturino made me by means of the driver. I admired the
daintiness of the house decorations and the pleasant faces of the
people in the pretty villages I passed through. A young mother,
strolling along and singing as she spun the flax, with her baby
in her arms, also made a never-to-be-forgotten impression on me.
Soon after sunset I caught sight of the Borromean Islands rising
gracefully out of Lake Maggiore, and again I could not sleep for
excitement at the thought of what I might see on the following
day. The next morning the visit to the islands themselves
delighted me so much that I could not understand how I had
managed to come upon anything so charming, and wondered what
would result from it. After stopping only one day, I left the
place with the feeling that I had now to flee from something to
which I did not belong, and went round Lake Maggiore, up past
Socarno, to Bellinzona, where I was once again on Swiss soil;
from there I proceeded to Lugano, intending, if I followed out my
original plan of travel, to stay there some time. But I soon
suffered from the intense heat; even bathing in the sun-scorched
lake was not refreshing. Apart from the dirty furniture, which
included the Denksopha ('thinking sofa') from the Clouds by
Aristophanes, I was sumptuously lodged in a palatial building,
which in the winter served as the government house of the canton
of Tessin, but in the summer was used as a hotel. However, I soon
fell again into the condition that had troubled me so long, and
prevented me from taking any rest, owing to my extreme nervous
strain and excitement, whenever I felt disposed to idle
pleasantly. I had taken a good many books with me, and proposed
to entertain myself with Byron. Unfortunately it required a great
effort on my part to take any pleasure in his works, and the
difficulty of doing so increased when I began to read his Don
Juan. After a few days' time I began to wonder why I had come,
and what I wanted to do here, when suddenly Herwegh wrote saying
that he and several friends intended to join me at this place. A
mysterious instinct made me telegraph to my wife to come also.
She obeyed my call with surprising alacrity, and arrived
unexpectedly in the middle of the night, after travelling by
post-chaise across the St. Gotthard Pass. She was so fatigued
that she at once fell into a sound sleep on the Denksopha, from
which the fiercest storm that I ever remember failed to awaken
her. On the following day my Zurich friends arrived.

Herwegh's chief companion was Dr. Francois Wille. I had learned
to know him some time before at Herwegh's house: his chief
characteristics were a face much scarred in students' duels, and
a great tendency to witty and outspoken remarks. He had recently
been staying near Meilen on the Lake of Zurich, and he often
asked me to visit him there with Herwegh. Here we saw something
of the habits and customs of a Hamburg household, which was kept
up in a fairly prosperous style by his wife, the daughter of Herr
Sloman, a wealthy shipowner. Although in reality he remained a
student all his life, he had made himself a position and formed a
large circle of acquaintances by editing a Hamburg political
newspaper. He was a brilliant conversationalist, and was
considered good company. He seemed to have taken up with Herwegh
with the object of overcoming the latter's antipathy to Alpine
climbing, and his consequent reluctance to undertake it. He
himself had made preparations to walk over the Gotthard Pass with
a Professor Eichelberger, and this had made Herwegh furious, as
he declared that walking tours were only permissible where it was
impossible to drive, and not on these broad highways. After
making an excursion into the neighbourhood of Lugano, during
which I got heartily sick of the childish sound of the church
bells, so common in Italy, I persuaded my friends to go with me
to the Borromean Islands, which I was longing to see again.
During the steamer trip on Lake Maggiore, we met a delicate-
looking man with a long cavalry moustache, whom in private was
humourously dubbed General Haynau, and the distrust with which we
affected to treat him was a source of some amusement to us.

We soon found that he was an extremely good-natured Hanoverian
nobleman, who had been travelling about Italy for some time for
pleasure, and who was able to give us very useful information
concerning intercourse with the Italians. His advice was of great
service when we were visiting the Borromean Islands, where my
acquaintances parted from my wife and myself to travel back by
the nearest route, whereas we intended proceeding further across
the Simplon and through Le Valais to Chamounix.

From the fatigue my tour had so far occasioned me, I felt that it
would be some time before I started on a similar one again. I was
therefore eager to see what was best worth seeing in Switzerland
as thoroughly as possible now that I had the chance. Moreover, I
was just then, and indeed had been for some time, in that
impressionable humour from which I might anticipate important
results to myself from novel scenery, and I did not like to miss
Mont Blanc. A view of it was attended with great difficulties,
amongst which may be mentioned our arrival by night at Martigny,
where, owing to the crowded state of the hotels, we were
everywhere refused accommodation, and it was only on account of a
little intrigue between a postillion and a maidservant that we
found clandestine shelter for the night in a private house from
which the owners were absent.

We dutifully visited the so-called Mer de Glace in the Val de
Chamounix and the Flegere, from which I obtained a most
impressive view of Mont Blanc. However, my imagination was less
busied with the ascent of that peak than with the spectacle I
beheld when crossing the Col des Geants, as the great elevation
that we attained did not appeal to me so much as the unbroken and
sublime wildness of the latter. For some time I cherished the
intention of undertaking just one more venture of the kind. While
descending the Flegere, Minna had a fall and sprained her ankle;
the consequence of this was so painful as to deter us from any
further adventures. We therefore saw ourselves forced to hasten
on our journey home via Geneva. But even from this more important
and grander expedition, and almost the only one I had ever
undertaken purely for recreation, I returned with a strangely
unsatisfied feeling, and I could not resist the longing for
something decisive in the distance, that would give a fresh
direction to my life.

On reaching home I found announcements of a new and quite
different turn in my destiny. These consisted of inquiries and
commissions from various German theatres anxious to produce
Tannhauser. The first to apply was the Schwerin Court Theatre.
Rockel's youngest sister, who afterwards married the actor Moritz
(whom I had known from my earliest youth), had now come to
Germany as a youthful singer from England, where she had been
educated. She had given such an enthusiastic account of the
impression produced upon her by Tannhauser at Weimar, to an
official at the theatre there named Stocks, who held the position
of treasurer, that he had studied the opera most assiduously, and
had now induced the management to undertake to produce it. The
theatres at Breslau, Prague, and Wiesbaden soon followed; at the
last of these my old friend Louis Schindelmeisser was acting as
conductor. In a short time other theatres followed suit; but I
was most astonished when the Berlin Court Theatre made inquiries
through its new manager, Herr von Hulsen. From this last incident
I felt justified in assuming that the Crown Princess of Prussia,
who had always had a friendly feeling towards me, fostered by my
faithful friend Alwine Frommann, had again been intensely
interested by the performance of Tannhauser at Weimar, and had
given the impetus to these unexpected developments.

Whilst I was rejoicing over commissions from the smaller
theatres, those of the largest German stage were a source of
anxiety. I knew that at the former there were zealous conductors,
devoted to me, who had certainly been roused by the desire of
having the opera performed; in Berlin, on the other hand, matters
were quite different. The only other conductor besides Taubert,
whom I had known previously as a man devoid of talent, and at the
same time very conceited, was Heinrich Dorn, of whom I retained
most unpleasant recollections from my earliest years and from our
joint stay in Riga. I felt little drawn towards either of these,
nor did I perceive any possibility of undertaking the direction
of my own work; and from my knowledge of their capabilities as
well as of their ill-will, I had every reason to question any
successful rendering of my opera under their conductorship. Being
an exile, I was unable to go to Berlin in person in order to
supervise my work, so I immediately begged Listz's permission to
nominate him as my representative and alter ego, to which he
willingly agreed. When I afterwards made Liszt's appointment one
of my conditions, objection was raised on the part of the general
manager at Berlin on the score that the nomination of a Weimar
conductor would be regarded as a gross insult to the Prussian
court conductors, and I must consequently desist from demanding
it. Thereupon prolonged negotiations ensued with a view to
compromising the matter, which resulted in the production of
Tannhauser at Berlin being considerably delayed.

However, while Tannhauser was now rapidly spreading to the
middle-class German theatres, I became a prey to great uneasiness
as to the quality of these performances, and could never get a
very clear idea of them. As my presence was prohibited
everywhere, I had recourse to a very detailed pamphlet which was
to serve as a guide to the production of my work, and convey a
correct idea of my purpose. I had this somewhat voluminous work
printed at my own expense and tastefully bound, and to every
theatre that had given an order for the operatic score I sent a
number of copies of it, with the understanding that they were to
be given to the conductor, stage manager, and principal
performers for perusal and guidance. But from that time I have
never heard of a single person who had either read this pamphlet
or taken any notice of it. In the year 1864, when all my own
copies had been exhausted, owing to my painstaking distribution
of them, I found to my great delight, among the theatrical
archives, several copies that had been sent to the Munich Court
Theatre, quite intact and uncut. I was therefore in the agreeable
position of being able to procure copies of the missing pamphlet
for the King of Bavaria, who wished to see it, as well as for
myself and some friends.

It was a singular coincidence that the news of the diffusion of
my opera through the German theatres should synchronise with my
resolve to compose a work in the conception of which I had been
so decidedly influenced by the necessity of being absolutely
indifferent to our own theatres; yet this unexpected turn of
events in no wise affected my treatment of my design. On the
contrary, by keeping to my plan, I gained confidence and let
things take their own course, without attempting in any way to
promote the performances of my operas. I just let people do as
they liked, and looked on surprised, while continual accounts
reached my ears of remarkable successes; none of them, however,
induced me to alter my verdict on our theatres in general or on
the opera in particular. I remained unshaken in my resolve to
produce my Nibelungen dramas just as though the present operatic
stage did not exist, since the ideal theatre of my dreams must of
necessity come sooner or later. I therefore composed the libretto
of the Rheingold in the October and November of that year, and
with that I brought the whole cycle of the Nibelungen myth as I
had evolved it to a conclusion. At the same time I was rewriting
Junger Siegfried and Siegfrieds Tod, especially the latter, in
such a way as to bring them into proper relation with the whole;
and by so doing, important amplifications were made in Siegfrieds
Tod which were in harmony with the now recognised and obvious
purpose of the whole work. I was accordingly obliged to find for
this last piece a new title suited to the part it plays in the
complete cycle. I entitled it Gotterdammerung, and I changed the
name Junger Siegfried to Siegfried, as it no longer dealt with an
isolated episode in the life of the hero, but had assumed its
proper place among the other prominent figures in the framework
of the whole. The prospect of having to leave this lengthy poem
for some time entirely unknown to those whom I might expect to be
interested in it was a source of great grief to me. As the
theatres now and then surprised me by sending me the usual
royalties on Tannhauser, I devoted a part of my profits to having
a number of copies of my poem neatly printed for my own use. I
arranged that only fifty copies of this edition de luxe should be
struck off. But a great sorrow overtook me before I had completed
this agreeable task. It is true, I met on all sides with
indications of sympathetic interest in the completion of my great
lyric work, although most of my acquaintances regarded the whole
thing as a chimera, or possibly a bold caprice. The only one who
entered into it with any heartiness or real enthusiasm was
Herwegh, with whom I frequently discussed it, and to whom I
generally read aloud such portions as were completed. Sulzer was
much annoyed at the remodelling of Siegfrieds Tod, as he regarded
it as a fine and original work, and thought it would be deprived
of that quality if I decided to alter it to any extent. He
therefore begged me to let him have the manuscript of the earlier
version to keep as a remembrance; otherwise it would have been
entirely lost. In order to get an idea of the effect of the whole
poem when rendered in complete sequence, I decided, only a few
days after the work was completed in the middle of December, to
pay a short visit to the Wille family at their country seat, so
as to read it aloud to the little company there. Besides Herwegh,
who accompanied me, the party there consisted of Frau Wille and
her sister, Frau von Bissing. I had often entertained these
ladies with music in my own peculiar fashion during my pleasant
visits to Mariafeld, about two hours' walk from Zurich. In them I
had secured a devoted and enthusiastic audience, somewhat to Herr
Wille's annoyance, as he often admitted that he had a horror of
music; nevertheless, he ended in his jovial way by taking the
matter good humouredly.

I arrived towards evening, and we attacked Rheingold at once, and
as it did not seem very late, and I was supposed to be capable of
any amount of exertion, I went on with the Walkure until
midnight. The next morning after breakfast it was Siegfried's
turn, and in the evening I finished off with Gotterdammerung. I
thought I had every reason to be satisfied with the result, and
the ladies in particular were so much moved that they ventured no
comment. Unfortunately the effort left me in a state of almost
painful excitement; I could not sleep, and the next morning I was
so disinclined for conversation that I left my hurried departure
unexplained. Herwegh, who accompanied me back alone, appeared to
divine my state of mind, and shared it by maintaining a similar
silence.

However, I now wished to have the pleasure of confiding the whole
completed work to my friend Uhlig at Dresden. I carried on a
regular correspondence with him, and he had followed the
development of my plan, and was thoroughly acquainted with every
phase of it. I did not want to send him the Walkure before the
Rheingold was ready, as the latter should come first, and even
then I did not want him to see the whole thing until I could send
him a handsomely printed copy. But at the beginning of the autumn
I discerned in Uhlig's letters grounds for feeling a growing
anxiety as to the state of his health. He complained of the
increase in his serious paroxysms of coughing, and eventually of
complete hoarseness. He thought all this was merely weakness,
which he hoped to overcome by invigorating his system with the
cold-water treatment and long walks. He found the violin work at
the theatre very exhausting, but if he took a sharp seven hours'
walk into the country he invariably felt much better. However, he
could not rid himself of his chest attacks or of his hoarseness,
and had a difficulty in making himself heard even when speaking
to a person quite near him. Up to that time I had been unwilling
to alarm the poor fellow, and always hoped that his condition
would necessitate his consulting a doctor, who would naturally
prescribe rational treatment. Now, however, as I was continually
hearing nothing from him but assurances of his confidence in the
principles of the water cure, I could contain myself no longer,
and I entreated him to give up this madness and place himself in
the hands of a sensible doctor, for in his condition what he most
needed was, not strength, but very careful attention. The poor
man was extremely alarmed at this, as he gathered from my remarks
that I feared he was already in an advanced stage of consumption.
'What is to become of my poor wife and children,' he wrote, 'if
that is really the case?' Unhappily, it was too late; with the
last strength that was left him he tried to write to me again,
and finally my old friend Fischer, the chorus-master, carried out
Uhlig's instructions, and when these were no longer audible he
had to bend down close to his lips. The news of his death
followed with frightful rapidity. It took place on the 3rd of
January, 1853. Thus, in addition to Lehrs, another of my really
devoted friends was carried off by consumption. The handsome copy
of the Ring des Nibelungen I had intended for him lay uncut
before me, and I sent it to his youngest boy, whom he had
christened Siegfried. I asked his widow to let me have any
pamphlets of a theoretical nature he might have left behind, and
I came into possession of several important ones, among them the
longer essay on 'Theme-Structure.' Although the publication of
these works would involve a great deal of trouble, owing to the
necessity of revising them, I asked Hartel of Leipzig if he would
pay the widow a fair sum for a volume of Uhlig's writings. The
publisher declared he could not undertake to bring it out without
payment, as works of that nature were quite unremunerative. It
was obvious to me, even at that time, how thoroughly every
musician who had taken a keen interest in me had made himself
disliked in certain circles.

Uhlig's melancholy death gave my home-circle the whip-hand over
me with regard to my theories on the subject of water cures.
Herwegh impressed upon my wife that she must insist upon my
taking a glass of good wine after all the exertion I underwent at
the rehearsals and concerts which I was attending throughout that
winter. By degrees, also, I again accustomed myself to enjoy such
mild stimulants as tea and coffee, my friends meanwhile
perceiving to their joy that I was once more becoming a man
amongst men. Dr. Rahn-Escher now became a welcome and comforting
friend and visitor, who for many years thoroughly understood the
management of my health, and especially the misgivings arising
from the over-wrought state of my nerves. He soon verified the
wisdom of his treatment, when in the middle of February I had
undertaken to read my tetralogy aloud on four consecutive
evenings before a larger audience. I had caught a severe cold
after the first evening, and on the morning of the day for the
second reading I awoke suffering from severe hoarseness. I at
once informed the doctor that my failure to give the reading
would be a serious matter to me, and asked him what he advised me
to do to get rid of the hoarseness as speedily as possible. He
recommended me to keep quiet all day, and in the evening to be
taken well wrapped up to the place where the readings were to be
held. When I got there I was to take two or three cups of weak
tea, and I should be all right; whereas if I worried over the
failure to keep my engagement I might become seriously worse.
And, indeed, the reading of this stirring work went off
capitally, and I was, moreover, able to continue the readings on
the third and fourth evenings, and felt perfectly well. I had
secured a large and handsome room for these meetings in the Hotel
Baur au lac, and had the gratifying experience of seeing it
fuller and fuller each evening, in spite of having invited only a
small number of acquaintances, giving them the option of bringing
any friends who they thought would take a genuine interest in the
subject and not come out of mere curiosity. Here, too, the
verdict seemed altogether favourable, and it was from the most
serious university men and government officials that I received
assurances of the greatest appreciation as well as kindly
remarks, showing that my poem and the artistic ideas connected
with it had been fully understood. From the peculiar earnestness
with which they gave vent to their opinions, which in this case
were so confidently unanimous, the idea occurred to me to try how
far this favourable impression might be utilized to serve the
higher aims of art. In accordance with the superficial views
generally prevailing on the subject, every one seemed to think I
might be induced to make terms with the theatre. I tried to think
out how it would be possible to convert the ill-equipped Zurich
theatre into a highly developed one by adopting sound principles,
and I laid my views before the public in a pamphlet entitled 'A
Theatre in Zurich.' The edition, consisting of about a hundred
copies, was sold, yet I never noticed the least indication of any
result from the publication; the only outcome was, that at a
banquet of the Musical Society my excellent friend, Herr Ott-
Imhoff, expressed his entire disagreement with the statements
uttered by various people, that these ideas of mine were all very
grand, but unfortunately quite impracticable. Nevertheless, my
propositions lacked the one thing that would have made them
valuable in his eyes, namely my consent to take over the
management of the theatre in person, as he would not entrust the
carrying out of my ideas to anyone but myself. However, as I was
obliged to declare then and there that I would not have anything
to do with such a scheme, the matter dropped, and in my inmost
heart I could not help thinking that the good people were quite
right.

Meanwhile, the sympathetic interest in my works was increasing.
As I now had to refuse firmly to yield to my friends' wishes for
a performance of my principal works at the theatre, I begged to
be allowed to arrange a selection of characteristic pieces, which
could easily be produced at concerts, so soon as I could obtain
the requisite support. A subscription list was accordingly
circulated, and it had the satisfactory result of inducing
several well-known art patrons to put their names down to
guarantee expenses. I had to undertake to engage an orchestra to
suit my requirements. Skilled musicians from far and near were
summoned, and after interminable efforts I began to feel that
something really satisfactory would be achieved.

I had made arrangements that the performers should stay at Zurich
a whole week from Sunday to Sunday. Half of this time was
allotted exclusively to rehearsals. The performance was to take
place on Wednesday evening, and on Friday and Sunday evenings
there were to be repetitions of it. The dates were the 18th,
20th, and 22nd of May, my fortieth birthday falling on the last-
named date. I had the joy of seeing all my directions accurately
carried out. From Mayence, Wiesbaden, Frankfort, and Stuttgart,
and on the other side, from Geneva, Lausanne, Bale, Berne, and
the chief towns in Switzerland, picked musicians arrived
punctually on Sunday afternoon. They were at once directed to the
theatre, where they had to arrange their exact places in the
orchestral stand I had previously designed at Dresden--and which
proved excellent here too--so as to begin rehearsing the first
thing next morning without delay or interruption. As these people
were at my disposal in the early morning and in the evening, I
made them learn a selection of pieces from the Fliegender
Hollander, Tannhauser, and Lohengrin. I had greater trouble in
trying to train them for a chorus, but this too turned out very
satisfactorily. There was nothing in the way of solo-singing,
except the Ballad of Senta from the Hollander, which was sung by
the wife of the conductor Heim in a good though untrained voice,
and with an amount of spirit that left nothing to be desired. As
a matter of fact, the performances could hardly be called public
concerts, but were rather of the nature of family entertainments.
I felt I was fulfilling a sincere desire on the part of a larger
circle of acquaintances by introducing them to the true nature of
my music, rendered as intelligibly as circumstances permitted.
As, at the same time, it was desirable that they should have some
knowledge of the poetical basis of it, I invited those who
intended to be present at my concerts to come for three evenings
to the Musical Society's concert-hall to hear me read aloud the
libretto of the three operas, portions of which they were about
to hear. This invitation met with an enthusiastic response, and I
was now able to hope that my audience would come better prepared
to listen to the selections from my operas than had ever been the
case before. The fact that pleased me most in the performances on
these three evenings was that I was able for the first time to
produce something from Lohengrin myself, and could thus get an
idea of the effect of my combination of the instrumental parts in
the overture to that work.

Between the performances there was a banquet which, with the
exception of a subsequent one at Pesth, was the only function of
the sort ever held in my honour. I was sincerely and deeply
affected by the speech of the aged President of the Musical
Society, Herr Ott-Usteri. He drew the attention of all those
musicians who had come together from so many places to the
significance of their meeting, and its objects and results, and
recommended as a trustworthy guide to them on their homeward
journey the conviction they had all doubtless arrived at, that
they had come into close and genuine touch with, a wonderful new
creation in the realm of art.

The sensation produced by these evening concerts spread through
the whole of Switzerland in ever-widening circles. Invitations
and requests for further repetitions of them poured in from
distant towns. I was assured that I might well repeat the three
performances in the following week without any fear of seeing a
diminution in the audience. When this project was discussed, and
I pleaded my own fatigue, and also expressed the desire to retain
for these concerts their unique character by not allowing them to
become commonplace, I was very glad to have the powerful and
intelligent support of my friend Hagenbuch, who on this occasion
was indefatigable. The festival was concluded, and the guests
were dismissed at the appointed time.

I had hoped to be able to welcome Liszt among the visitors, as he
had celebrated a 'Wagner week' at Weimar in the previous March by
performing three operas of which I had only given portions here.
Unfortunately he was unable to leave just then, but by way of
amends he promised me a visit at the beginning of July. Of my
German friends, only the faithful Mme. Julie Kummer and Mme.
Emilie Ritter arrived in time. As these two ladies had gone on to
Interlaken at the beginning of June, and I also began to feel in
great need of a change, I started with my wife, towards the end
of the month, for a short holiday. The visit was spoilt in the
most dismal fashion by continuous rain; and on the 1st of July,
as we were starting in desperation on our homeward journey to
Zurich with our lady friends, magnificent summer weather set in,
which lasted a considerable time. With affectionate enthusiasm we
at once attributed this change to Liszt, as he arrived in
Switzerland in the best of spirits immediately after we had
returned to Zurich. Thereupon followed one of those delightful
weeks, during which every hour of the day becomes a treasured
memory. I had already taken more roomy apartments on the second
floor in the so-called Vorderen Escher Hausern, in which I had
before occupied a flat that was much too small on the ground
floor. Frau Stockar-Escher, who was part owner of the house, was
enthusiastically devoted to me. She was full of artistic talent
herself, being an excellent amateur painter in water-colours, and
had taken great pains to rearrange the new dwelling as
luxuriously as possible. The unexpected improvement in my
circumstances brought about by the continued demands for my
operas, allowed me to indulge my desire for comfortable domestic
arrangements, which had been reawakened since my stay at the
hydropathic establishment, and which, after being repressed, had
become quite a passionate longing.

I had the flat so charmingly furnished with carpets and
decorative furniture that Liszt himself was surprised into
admiration as he entered my 'petite elegance', as he called it.
Now for the first time I enjoyed the delight of getting to know
my friend better as a fellow-composer. In addition to many of his
celebrated pianoforte pieces, which he had only recently written,
we went through several new symphonies with great ardour, and
especially his Faust Symphony. Later on, I had the opportunity of
describing in detail the impressions I received at this time in a
letter which I wrote to Marie von Wittgenstein, which was
afterwards published. My delight over everything I heard by Liszt
was as deep as it was sincere, and, above all, extraordinarily
stimulating. I even thought of beginning to compose again after
the long interval that had elapsed. What could be more full of
promise and more momentous to me than this long-desired meeting
with the friend who had been engaged all his life in his masterly
practice of music, and had also devoted himself so absolutely to
my own works, and to diffusing the proper comprehension of them.
Those almost bewilderingly delightful days, with the inevitable
rush of friends and acquaintances, were interrupted by an
excursion to the Lake of Lucerne, accompanied only by Herwegh, to
whom Liszt had the charming idea of offering a 'draught of
fellowship' with himself and me from the three springs of the
Grutli.

After this my friend took leave of us, after having arranged for
another meeting with me in the autumn.

Although I felt quite disconsolate after Liszt's departure, the
officials of Zurich took good care that I should soon have some
diversion, of a kind to which I had hitherto been a stranger. It
took the form of the presentation of a masterpiece of calligraphy
in the shape of a 'Diploma of Honour,' awarded me by the Zurich
Choral Society, which was ready at last. This was to be awarded
to me with the accompaniment of an imposing torchlight
procession, in which the various elements of the Zurich
population, who, either as individuals or members of societies,
were favourably disposed to me, were to take part. So it came to
pass that one fine summer evening a large company of torchbearers
approached the Zeltweg, to the accompaniment of loud music. They
presented a spectacle such as I had never seen before, and made a
unique impression on my mind. After the singing, the voice of the
President of the Choral Society could be heard rising from the
street. I was so much affected by the incident that my
unconquerable optimism quickly overpowered every other sensation.
In my speech of acknowledgment I indicated plainly that I saw no
reason why Zurich itself should not be the chosen place to give
an impetus to the fulfilment of the aspirations I cherished for
my artistic ideals, and that it might do so on proper civic
lines. I believe this was taken to refer to a special development
of the men's choral societies, and they were quite gratified at
my bold forecasts. Apart from this confusion, for which I was
responsible, that evening's ceremony and its effects on me were
very cheerful and beneficial.

But I still felt the peculiar disinclination and fear of taking
up composing again that I had previously experienced after
protracted pauses in musical production. I also felt very much
exhausted by all I had done and gone through, and the ever-
recurring longing to break completely with everything in the
past, that had unfortunately haunted me since my departure from
Dresden, as well as the desire and yearning for new and untried
surroundings, fostered by that anxiety, now acquired fresh and
tormenting vigour. I felt that before entering on such a gigantic
task as the music to my drama of the Nibelungen, I must
positively make one final effort to see whether I could not, in
some new environment, attain an existence more in harmony with my
feelings than I could possibly aspire to after so many
compromises. I planned a journey to Italy, or such parts of it as
were open to me as a political refugee. The means for carrying
out my wish were readily placed at my disposal through the
kindness of my friend Wesendonck, who has ever since that time
been devoted to me. However, I knew it was inadvisable to take
that journey before the autumn, and as my doctor had recommended
some special treatment for strengthening my nerves--even if only
to enjoy Italy--I decided first of all to go to St. Moritz Bad in
the Engadine. I started in the latter half of July, accompanied
by Herwegh. Strangely enough, I have often found that what other
people could note in their diaries merely as an ordinary visit or
a trivial expedition, assumed for me the character of an
adventure. This occurred on our journey to the Bad, when, owing
to the coaches being crowded, we were detained at Chur in an
incessant downpour of rain. We were obliged to pass the time in
reading at a most uncomfortable inn. I got hold of Goethe's West-
ostlichen Divan, for the reading of which I had been prepared by
Daumer's adaptation of Hafiz. To this day I never think of
Goethe's words in elucidating these poems without recalling that
wretched delay in our journey to the Engadine. We did not get on
much better at St. Moritz; the present convenient Kurhaus was not
then in existence, and we had to put up with the roughest
accommodation; this was particularly annoying to me on Herwegh's
account, as he had not gone there for health, but simply for
enjoyment. However, we were soon cheered by the lovely views of
the grand valleys, which were quite bare but for the Alpine
pastures, that met our eyes on our way down the steep slopes into
the Italian valleys. After we had secured the schoolmaster at
Samaden as a guide to the Rosetch glacier, we embarked on more
serious expeditions. We had confidently looked forward to
exceptional enjoyment in thus penetrating beyond the precipices
of the great Mont Bernina, to which we gave the palm for beauty
above Mont Blanc itself. Unfortunately the effect was lost on my
friend, owing to the tremendous exertions by which the ascent and
crossing of the glacier were attended. Once again, but this time
to an even greater degree, I felt the sublime impression of the
sacredness of that desolate spot, and the almost benumbing calm
which the disappearance of all vegetation produces on the
pulsating life of the human organism. After we had been wandering
for two hours, deep in the glacier path, we partook of a meal we
had brought with us, and champagne, iced in the fissures, to
strengthen us for our wearisome return. I had to cover the
distance nearly twice over, as, to my astonishment, Herwegh was
in such a nervous condition that I had repeatedly to go backwards
and forwards, showing him the way up and down before he would
decide to follow. I then realised the peculiarly exhausting
nature of the air in those regions, as on our way back we stopped
at the first herdsman's cottage, and were refreshed with some
delicious milk. I swallowed such quantities of it that we were
both perfectly amazed, but I experienced no discomfort whatever
in consequence.

The waters, whether for internal or external use, are known to be
powerfully impregnated with iron, and in taking them I had the
same experience as on previous occasions. With my extremely
excitable nervous system, they were a source of more trouble than
relief to me. The leisure hours were filled up by reading
Goethe's Wahlverwandtschaften, which I had not read since I was
quite young. This time I absolutely devoured the book from
beginning to end, and it also became a source of heated
discussions between Herwegh and myself. As Herwegh possessed an
extensive knowledge of the characteristics of our great poetic
literature, he felt it incumbent on him to defend the character
of Charlotte against my attacks. My vehemence on the subject
showed what a strange creature I still was at over forty, and in
my heart of hearts I had to admit that Herwegh judged Gothe's
poem objectively more correctly than I did, as I always felt
depressed by a kind of moral bondage, to which Herwegh, if he had
ever experienced it at all, submitted placidly, owing to his
peculiar relations with his strong-minded wife. When the time
came to an end, and I realised that I had not much to hope for
from the treatment, we returned to Zurich. This was about the
middle of August, and I now began to look forward impatiently to
my tour in Italy. At last, in the month of September, which I had
been told was quite suitable for visiting Italy, I set off on the
journey via Geneva, full of indescribable ideas of what was
before me, and of what I might see as the outcome of my search.
Once again amid all sorts of strange adventures, I reached Turin
by special mail-coach over Mont Cenis. Finding nothing to detain
me there more than a couple of days, I hurried on to Genoa.
There, at any rate, the longed-for marvels seemed to be within
reach. The grand impression produced on me by that, city
overcomes, even to this day, any longing to visit the rest of
Italy. For a few days I was in a dream of delight; but my extreme
loneliness amidst these impressions soon made me feel that I was
a stranger in that world, and that I should never be at home in
it. Absolutely inexperienced as I was in searching out the
treasures of art on a systematic plan, I gave myself up in this
new world to a peculiar state of mind that might be described as
a musical one, and my main idea was to find some turning-point
that might induce me to remain there in quiet enjoyment. My only
object still was to find a refuge where I might enjoy the
congenial peace suited to some new artistic creation. In
consequence, however, of thoughtlessly indulging in ices, I soon
got an attack of dysentery, which produced the most depressing
lassitude after my previous exaltation. I wanted to flee from the
tremendous noise of the harbour, near which I was staying, and
seek for the most absolute calm; and thinking a trip to Spezia
would benefit me, I went there by steamer a week later. Even this
excursion, which lasted only one night, was turned into a trying
adventure, thanks to a violent head-wind. The dysentery became
worse, owing to sea-sickness, and in the most utterly exhausted
condition, scarcely able to drag myself another step, I made for
the best hotel in Spezia, which, to my horror, was situated in a
noisy, narrow street.

After a night spent in fever and sleeplessness, I forced myself
to take a long tramp the next day through the hilly country,
which was covered with pine woods. It all looked dreary and
desolate, and I could not think what I should do there. Returning
in the afternoon, I stretched myself, dead tired, on a hard
couch, awaiting the long-desired hour of sleep. It did not come;
but I fell into a kind of somnolent state, in which I suddenly
felt as though I were sinking in swiftly flowing water. The
rushing sound formed itself in my brain into a musical sound, the
chord of E flat major, which continually re-echoed in broken
forms; these broken chords seemed to be melodic passages of
increasing motion, yet the pure triad of E flat major never
changed, but seemed by its continuance to impart infinite
significance to the element in which I was sinking. I awoke in
sudden terror from my doze, feeling as though the waves were
rushing high above my head. I at once recognised that the
orchestral overture to the Rheingold, which must long have lain
latent within me, though it had been unable to find definite
form, had at last been revealed to me. I then quickly realised my
own nature; the stream of life was not to flow to me from
without, but from within. I decided to return to Zurich
immediately, and begin the composition of my great poem. I
telegraphed to my wife to let her know my decision, and to have
my study in readiness.

The same evening I took my place on the coach going to Genoa
along the Riviera di Levante. I again had the opportunity of
getting exquisite impressions of the country during this journey,
which lasted over the whole of the following day. It was, above
all, the colouring of the wonders that presented themselves to my
eyes which gave me such delight--the redness of the rocks, the
blue of the sky and the sea, the pale green of the pines; even
the dazzling white of a herd of cattle worked upon me so
powerfully that I murmured to myself with a sigh, 'How sad it is
that I cannot remain to enjoy all this, and thus gratify my
sensuous nature.'

At Genoa I again felt so agreeably stimulated that I suddenly
thought I had only yielded to some foolish weakness, and resolved
to carry out my original plan. I was already making arrangements
for travelling to Nice along the celebrated Riviera di Ponente,
of which I had heard so much, but I had scarcely decided on my
former plans, when I realised that the fact which refreshed and
invigorated me was not the renewal of my delight over Italy, but
the resolve to take up my work again. And indeed, as soon as I
made up my mind to alter this plan, the old condition set in once
more, with all the symptoms of dysentery. I thereupon understood
myself, and giving up the journey to Nice, I returned direct by
the nearest route via Alessandria and Novara.

This time I passed the Borromean Islands with supreme
indifference, and got back to Zurich over the St. Gotthard.

When I had once returned, the only thing that could have made me
happy would have been to start at once on my great work. For the
present, however, I saw that it would be seriously interrupted by
my appointment with Liszt, who was to be in Bale at the beginning
of October. I was restless and annoyed at being so unsettled, and
spent the time in visiting my wife, who, thinking that I would be
away longer, was taking the waters at Baden am Stein. As I was
easily prevailed upon to try any experiment of this kind if only
the person who recommended it were sufficiently sanguine, I
allowed myself to be persuaded into taking a course of hot baths,
and the process heightened my excitment considerably.

At last the time for the meeting in Bale arrived. At the
invitation of the Grand Duke of Baden, Liszt had arranged and
conducted a musical festival in Karlsruhe, the aim of which was
to give the public an adequate interpretation of our respective
works. As I was not yet allowed to enter the territory of the
German confederation, Liszt had chosen Bale as the place nearest
to the Baden frontier, and had brought with him some young men
who had been his devoted admirers in Karlsruhe, to give me a
hearty welcome.

I was the first to arrive, and in the evening, while sitting
alone in the dining-room of the hotel, 'Zu den drei Konigen,' the
air of the trumpet fanfare (from Lohengrin) announcing the King's
arrival, sung by a strong though not numerous chorus of men's
voices, reached me from the adjacent vestibule. The door opened
and Liszt entered at the head of his joyful little band, whom he
introduced to me. I also saw Bulow again, for the first time
since his adventurous winter visit to Zurich and St. Gall, and
with him Joachim, Peter Cornelius, Richard Pohl, and Dionys
Pruckner.

Liszt told me that he was expecting a visit from his friend
Caroline von Wittgenstein and her young daughter Marie the next
day. The bright and merry spirit which prevailed at that
gathering (which, like everything that Liszt promoted, in spite
of its intimate nature, was characterised by magnificent
unconventionality) grew to a pitch of almost eccentric hilarity
as the night wore on. In the midst of our wild mood I suddenly
missed Pohl. I knew him to be a champion of our cause through
having read his articles under the pseudonym of 'Hoplit.' I stole
away and found him in bed suffering from a splitting headache. My
sympathy had such an effect upon him that he declared himself
suddenly cured. Jumping out of bed, he allowed me to help him
dress hurriedly, and again joining our friends we sat up till the
night was far advanced and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. On the
following day our happiness was complete when the ladies arrived,
who for the next few days formed the centre of our little party.
In those days it was impossible for any one coming into contact
with Princess Caroline not to be fascinated by her bright manner
and the charming way in which she entered into all our little
plans.

She was as much interested in the more important questions that
affected us as in the accidental details of our life in relation
to society, and she had the magnetic power of extracting the very
best out of those with whom she associated. Her daughter gave one
quite a different impression. She was barely fifteen and had a
rather dreamy look on her young face, and was at the stage 'in
which womanhood and childhood meet,' thus allowing me to pay her
the compliment of calling her 'the child.' During our lively
discussions and outbursts of merriment, her dark pensive eyes
would gaze at us so calmly that we unconsciously felt that in her
innocence she unwittingly understood the cause of our gaiety. In
those days I suffered from the vanity of wishing to recite my
poems aloud (a proceeding which, by the bye, annoyed Herwegh very
much), and consequently it was no difficult task to induce me to
read out my Nibelungen drama. As the time of our parting was
drawing near, I decided I would read Siegfried only.

When Liszt was obliged to leave for Paris on a visit to his
children, we all accompanied him as far as Strasburg. I had
decided to follow him to Paris, but the Princess intended going
on from Strasburg to Weimar with her daughter.

During the few spare hours of our short stay in Strasburg I was
asked to read some of my work to the ladies, but could not find a
suitable opportunity. However, on the morning of our intended
parting, Liszt came to my room to tell me that the ladies had,
after all, decided to accompany us to Paris, and added, laughing,
that Marie had induced her mother to change her plans, as she
wished to hear the rest of the Nibelungen poems. The prolonging
of our journey, with all its delightful incidents, was quite in
accordance with my taste.

We were very sorry to part from our younger friends. Bulow told
me that Joachim, who had been holding himself rather aloof, could
not forget my tremendous article on 'Judaism,' and that he
consequently felt shy and awkward in my presence. He also said
that when Joachim had asked him (Bulow) to read one of his
compositions, he had inquired with a certain gentle diffidence,
whether I should be able to trace 'anything Jewish' in it.

This touching trait in Joachim's character induced me to say a
few particularly friendly words to him at parting and to embrace
him warmly. I never saw him again, [Footnote: This was written in
1869.] and heard to my astonishment that he had taken up a
hostile attitude to both Liszt and myself, almost immediately
after we had left. The other young men were the victims, on their
return to Germany, of a very funny although unpleasant
experience, that of coming into contact with the police at Baden.
They had entered the town singing the same bright tune of the
fanfare from Lohengrin, and they had a good deal of difficulty in
giving a satisfactory account of themselves to the inhabitants.

Our journey to Paris and our stay there were full of important
incidents, and left indelible traces of our exceptionally devoted
friendship. After great difficulty we found rooms for the ladies
in the Hotel des Princes, and Liszt then suggested that we should
go for a stroll on the boulevards, which at that hour were
deserted. I presume that our feelings on this occasion must have
differed as much as our reminiscences. When I entered the
sitting-room the next morning, Liszt remarked, with his
characteristic little smile, that the Princess Marie was already
in a great state of excitement at the thought of further
readings. Paris did not offer much attraction to me, and as
Princess Caroline desired to arouse as little attention as
possible, and Liszt was frequently called away on private
business, we took up our reading, where we had left it off in
Bale, on the very first morning of our stay in Paris, even before
we had been outside the hotel. I was not allowed to stop reading
on the following days until the Ring des Nibelungen was quite
finished. Finally Paris claimed our attention, but while the
ladies were visiting the museums I was unfortunately obliged to
stay in my room, tortured by continually recurring nervous
headaches. Liszt, however, induced me occasionally to join them
in their excursions. At the beginning of our stay he had engaged
a box for a performance of Robert le Diable, because he wanted
the ladies to see the great opera house under the most favourable
conditions. I believe that my friends shared the terrible
depression from which I was suffering on this occasion. Liszt,
however, must have had other motives for going. He had asked me
to wear evening dress, and seemed very pleased I had done so when
at the interval he invited me to go for a stroll with him through
the foyer. I could see he was under the influence of certain
reminiscences of delightful evenings spent in this selfsame
foyer, and that the dismal performance of this night must have
cast a gloom over him. We stole quietly back to our friends,
hardly knowing why we had started on this monotonous expedition.
One of the artistic pleasures I enjoyed most was a concert given
by the Morin-Chevillard Quartette Society, at which they played
Beethoven's Quartettes in E flat major and C sharp minor; the
excellent rendering of this work impressed me in very much the
same way as the performance of the Ninth Symphony by the
Conservatoire orchestra had once done. I had again the
opportunity of admiring the great artistic zeal with which the
French master these treasures of music, which even to this day
are so coarsely handled by the Germans.

This was the first time that I really became intimately
acquainted with the C sharp minor quartette, because I had never
before grasped its melody. If, therefore, I had nothing else to
remind me of my stay in Paris, this would have been an unfading
memory. I also carried away with me other equally significant
impressions. One day Liszt invited me to spend an evening with
him and his children, who were living very quietly in the care of
a governess in Paris.

It was quite a novelty to me to see Liszt with these young girls,
and to watch him in his intercourse with his son, then a growing
lad. Liszt himself seemed to feel strange in his fatherly
position, which for several years had only brought him cares,
without any of the attendant pleasures.

On this occasion we again resumed our reading of the last act of
Gotterdammerung, which brought us to the longed-for end of the
tetralogy. Berlioz, who looked us up during that time, endured
these readings with quite admirable patience. We had lunch with
him one morning before his departure, and he had already packed
his music for his concert tour through Germany. Liszt played
different selections from his Benvenuto Cellini, while Berlioz
sang to them in his peculiarly monotonous style. I also met the
journalist, Jules Janin, who was quite a celebrity in Paris,
although it took me a long time to realise this; the only thing
that impressed me about him was his colloquial Parisian French,
which was quite unintelligible to me.

A dinner, followed by a musical evening at the house of the
celebrated pianoforte manufacturer, Erard, also remains in my
memory. At this house, as well as at a dinner-party given by
Liszt at the Palais Royal, I again met his children. Daniel, the
youngest of them, particularly attracted me by his brightness and
his striking resemblance to his father, but the girls were very
shy. I must not forget to mention an evening spent at the house
of Mme. Kalergis, a woman of exceptional individuality, whom I
met here for the first time since the early performance of
Tannhauser in Dresden. When at dinner she asked me a question
about Louis Napoleon, I forgot myself so far in my excitement and
resentment as to put an end to all further conversation by saying
that I could not understand how anybody could possibly expect
great things from a man whom no woman could really love. After
dinner, when Liszt sat down at the piano, young Marie
Wittgenstein noticed that I had withdrawn silently and rather
sadly from the rest of the company; this was due partly to my
headache, and partly to the feeling of isolation that came over
me in these surroundings. I was touched by her sympathy and
evident wish to divert me.

After a very fatiguing week my friends left Paris. As I had again
been prevented from starting on my work, I now decided not to
leave Paris until I had restored my nerves to that state of calm
which was indispensable to the fulfilment of my great project. I
had invited my wife to meet me on our way back to Zurich, to give
her the opportunity of seeing Paris again, where we had both
suffered so much. After her arrival, Kietz and Anders turned up
regularly for dinner, and a young Pole, the son of my old and
beloved friend, Count Vincenz Tyszkiewicz, also came to see us
very often.

This young man (who had been born since the early days of my
friendship with his father) had devoted himself passionately to
music, as so many do nowadays. He had made quite a stir in Paris
after a performance of Freischutz at the Grand Opera, by
declaring that the many cuts and alterations which had been made
were a fraud on the initiated public, and he had sued the
management of the theatre for the return of the entrance money,
which he regretted ever having paid. He also had an idea of
publishing a paper with the view of drawing attention to the
slovenly conduct of musical affairs in Paris, which in his
opinion was an insult to public taste.

Prince Eugen von Wittgenstein-Sayn, a young amateur painter who
had belonged to Liszt's circle of intimate friends, painted a
miniature of me, for which I had to give him several sittings; it
was done under Kietz's guidance, and turned out pretty well.

I had an important consultation with a young doctor named
Lindemann, a friend of Kietz's; he strongly advised me to give up
the water cure, and tried to convert me to the toxic theory. He
had attracted the attention of Parisian society by inoculating
himself with various poisons in the hospital before witnesses, in
order to show their effects upon the system, an experiment which
he carried out in an accurate and thoroughly effective manner.
With regard to my own case, he stated that it could be easily
remedied if we ascertained by careful experiments what metallic
substance would specifically influence my nervous system. He
unhesitatingly recommended me, in case of very violent attacks,
to take laudanum, and in default of that poison he seemed to
consider valerian an excellent remedy.

Tired out, restless and exceedingly unstrung, I left Paris with
Minna towards the end of October, without in the least
understanding why I had spent so much money there. Hoping to
counterbalance this by pushing my operas in Germany, I calmly
retired to the seclusion of my Zurich lodgings, fully decided not
to leave them again until some parts, at least, of my Nibelungen
dramas were set to music.

In the beginning of November I started on this long-postponed
work. For five and a half years (since the end of March, 1848) I
had held aloof from all musical composition, and as I very soon
found myself in the right mood for composing, this return to my
work can best be compared to a reincarnation of my soul after it
had been wandering in other spheres. As far as the technique was
concerned, I soon found myself in a difficulty when I started to
write down the orchestral overture, conceived in Spezia in a kind
of half-dream, in my usual way of sketching it out on two lines.
I was compelled to resort to the complete score-formula; this
tempted me to try a new way of sketching, which was a very hasty
and superficial one, from which I immediately wrote out the
complete score.

This process often led to difficulties, as the slightest
interruption in my work made me lose the thread of my rough
draft, and I had to start from the beginning before I could
recall it to my memory.

I did not let this occur in regard to Rheingold. The whole of
this composition had been finished in outline on the 16th of
January, 1854, and consequently the plan for the musical
structure of this work in four parts had been drawn in all its
thematic proportions, as it was in this great prelude that these
thematic foundations of the whole had to be laid.

I remember how much my health improved during the writing of this
work; and my surroundings during that time consequently left very
little impression on my mind.

During the first months of the new year I also conducted a few
orchestral concerts. To please my friend Sulzer, I produced,
amongst other works, the overture to Gluck's Iphigenia in Aulis,
after having written a new finale to it. The necessity for
altering the finale by Mozart induced me to write an article for
the Brendel musical journal on this artistic problem. These
occupations did not, however, prevent me from working at the
Rheingold score, which I quickly dotted down in pencil on a few
single sheets. On the 28th May I finished the instrumentation of
the Rheingold. There had been very little change in my life at
home; things had remained the same during the last few years, and
everything went smoothly. Only my financial position was rather
precarious, owing to the past year's expenses for furniture,
etc., and also to the more luxurious mode of living I had
adopted, on the strength of my belief that my operas, which were
now better known, would bring me in a larger income.

The most important theatres, however, still held back, and to my
mortification all my efforts at negotiation with Berlin and
Vienna proved fruitless. In consequence of these disappointments
I suffered great worries and cares during the greater part of
that year. I tried to counteract these by new work, and instead
of writing out the score of Rheingold I began the composition of
the Walkure. Towards the end of July I had finished the first
scene, but had to interrupt my work on account of a journey to
the south of Switzerland.

I had received an invitation from the 'Eidgenossische
Musikgesellschaft' to conduct their musical festival at Sion that
year. I had refused, but at the same time promised that if
possible I would conduct Beethoven's Symphony in A major at one
of the gala concerts. I intended on the way to call on Karl
Ritter, who had gone to live with his young wife at Montreux on
the Lake of Geneva. The week I spent with this young couple gave
me ample opportunities for doubting whether their happiness would
be of long duration.

Karl and I left shortly afterwards for the musical festival in
Valais. On our way we were joined at Martigny by an extraordinary
young man, Robert von Hornstein, who had been introduced to me on
the occasion of my great musical festival the year before as an
enthusiast and a musician. This quaint mortal was regarded as a
very welcome addition to our party, particularly by young Ritter,
and both young people looked forward with great enthusiasm to the
treat in store for them; Hornstein had come all the way from
Swabia to hear me conduct the festival in the canton of Valais.
We arrived in the midst of the musical festivities, and I was
terribly disappointed to find how very badly and inartistically
the preliminary arrangements had been made. I was so taken aback,
after having received the worst possible impression of the sound
of the very scanty orchestra in a small church, which served as
church and concert-hall combined, and was so furious at the
thought of having been dragged into such an affair, that I merely
wrote a few lines to Methfessel, the organising director of the
festival, who had come from Berne, and took my leave, without
further ceremony. I escaped by the next post-chaise that was just
on the point of leaving, and I did this so expeditiously that
even my young friends were unaware of my departure. I purposely
kept the fact of my sudden flight from them; I had my own reasons
for doing so, and as they were rather interesting from a
psychological point of view, I have never forgotten them.

On coming back to dinner that day feeling miserable and depressed
after the disappointing impression I had just received, my
annoyance was treated with foolish and almost insulting roars of
laughter by my young friends. I presumed that their merriment was
the result of remarks made at my expense before I came in, as
neither my admonitions nor even my anger could induce them to
behave differently. I quitted the dining-room in disgust, paid my
bill and left, without giving them any opportunity of noticing my
departure. I spent a few days in Geneva and Lausanne, and decided
to call on Frau Ritter on my way back; and there I again met the
two young people. Evidently they also had given up the wretched
festival, and been completely taken aback at my sudden departure,
had almost immediately left for Montreux, in the hope of hearing
news of me.

I made no mention of their rude conduct, and as Karl cordially
invited me to stay with them a few days longer I accepted,
principally because I was very much interested in a poetical work
he had only just finished. This poem was a comedy called
Alkibiades, which he had really treated with exceptional
refinement and freedom of form. He had already told me at
Albisbrunnen about the sketch of this work, and had shown me an
elegant dagger into the blade of which the syllables Alki had
been burnt.

He explained that his friend, a young actor whom he had left in
Stuttgart, possessed a similar weapon, the blade of which bore
the syllables Biades. It seemed that Karl, even without the
symbolic help of the daggers, had again found the complement of
his own 'Alkibiadesian' individuality, this time in the young
booby Hornstein, and it is very probable that the two, whilst in
Sion, had imagined they were acting an 'Alkibiadesian' scene
before Socrates. His comedy showed me that his artistic talent
was fortunately far better than his society manners. To this day
I regret that this decidedly difficult play has never been
produced.

Hornstein now behaved properly and desired to go to Lausanne via
Vevey. We did part of the journey together on foot, and his
quaint appearance with his knapsack on his back was most amusing.
continued my journey alone from Berne to Lucerne, taking the
shortest possible route to Selisberg on the Lake of Lucerne,
where my wife was staying for a sour-milk cure.

The symptoms of heart disease, which I had already noticed some
time previously, had increased, and this place had been
recommended to her as specially invigorating and beneficial. With
great patience I endured several weeks of life at a Swiss
pension, but my wife, who had quite adapted herself to the ways
of the house and seemed very comfortable, looked upon me as a
disturbing element.

I found this a great trial, although the beautiful air and my
daily excursions into the mountains did me a great deal of good.
I even went so far as to choose a very wild spot, where, in
imagination, I ordered a little house to be built in which I
should be able to work in absolute peace.

Towards the end of July we went back to Zurich. I returned to my
Walkure and finished the first act in the month of August. I was
terribly depressed by my worries just at this time, and as it was
more than ever necessary for me to have absolute quiet for my
work, I at once agreed to my wife's departure, when she told me
of her intended visit to her relations and friends in Dresden and
Zwickau. She left me at the beginning of September, and wrote to
me about her stay in Weimar, where the Princess Wittgenstein had
received her with the greatest hospitality at Altenburg Castle.
There she met Rockel's wife, who was being cared for in the most
self-sacrificing way by her husband's brother. It showed a
spirited and original trait in Minna's character that she decided
to visit Rockel in his prison at Waldheim, solely that she might
give his wife news of him, although she disliked the man
intensely.

She told me of this visit, saying sarcastically that Rockel
looked quite happy and bright, and that life in prison did not
seem to suit him badly.

Meanwhile I plunged with renewed zeal into my work, and had
finished a fair copy of the Rheingold score by the 26th of
September. In the peaceful quietness of my house at this time I
first came across a book which was destined to be of great
importance to me. This was Arthur Schopenhauer's Die Welt als
Wille und Vorstellung. Herwegh recommended this work to me, and
told me that strangely enough it had only been recently
discovered, although it had been published over thirty years. In
a pamphlet on this subject a certain Herr Frauenstadt had drawn
the attention of the public to the book, to which I immediately
felt attracted, and I at once began to study it. For a long time
I had wanted to understand the real value of philosophy. My
conversations with Lehrs in Paris in my very young days had
awakened my longing for this branch of knowledge, upon which I
had first launched when I attended the lectures of several
Leipzig professors and in later years by reading Schelling and
Hegel. I seemed to understand the reason of their failure to
satisfy me from the writings of Feuerbach, which I studied at the
same time. What fascinated me so enormously about Schopenhauer's
work was not only its extraordinary fate, but the clearness and
manly precision with which the most difficult metaphysical
problems were treated from the very beginning.

I had been greatly drawn towards the work on learning the opinion
of an English critic, who candidly confessed that he respected
German philosophy because of its complete incomprehensibility, as
instanced by Hegel's doctrines, until the study of Schopenhauer
had made it clear to him that Hegel's lack of lucidity was due
not so much to his own incapacity as to the intentionally
bombastic style in which this philosopher had clothed his
problems. Like every man who is passionately thrilled with life,
I too sought first for the conclusions of Schopenhauer's system.
With its aesthetic side I was perfectly content, and was
especially astonished at his noble conception of music. But, on
the other hand, the final summing-up regarding morals alarmed me,
as, indeed, it would have startled any one in my mood; for here
the annihilation of the will and complete abnegation are
represented as the sole true and final deliverance from those
bonds of individual limitation in estimating and facing the
world, which are now clearly felt for the first time. For those
who hoped to find some philosophical justification for political
and social agitation on behalf of so-called 'individual freedom'
there was certainly no support to be found here, where all that
was demanded was absolute renunciation of all such methods of
satisfying the claims of personality. At first I naturally found
his ideas by no means palatable, and felt I could not readily
abandon that so-called 'cheerful' Greek aspect of the world, with
which I had looked out upon life in my Kunstwerk der Zukunft. As
a matter of fact, it was Herwegh who at last, by a well-timed
explanation, brought me to a calmer frame of mind about my own
sensitive feelings. It is from this perception of the nullity of
the visible world--so he said--that all tragedy is derived, and
such a perception must necessarily have dwelt as an intuition in
every great poet, and even in every great man. On looking afresh
into my Nibelungen poem I recognised with surprise that the very
things that now so embarrassed me theoretically had long been
familiar to me in my own poetical conception. Now at last I could
understand my Wotan, and I returned with chastened mind to the
renewed study of Schopenhauer's book. I had learned to recognise
that my first essential task was to understand the first part,
namely, the exposition and enlarging of Kant's doctrine of the
ideality of that world which has hitherto seemed to us so solidly
founded in time and space, and I believed I had taken the first
step towards such an understanding by recognising its enormous
difficulty. For many years afterwards that book never left me,
and by the summer of the following year I had already studied the
whole of it for the fourth time. The effect thus gradually
wrought upon me was extraordinary, and certainly exerted a
decisive influence on the whole course of my life. In forming my
judgment upon all those matters which I had hitherto acquired
solely through the senses, I had gained pretty much the same
power as I had formerly won in music--after abandoning the
teaching of my old master Weinlich--by an exhaustive study of
counterpoint. If, therefore, in later years I again expressed
opinions in my casual writings on matters pertaining to that art
which so particularly interested me, it is certain that traces of
what I learned from my study of Schopenhauer's philosophy were
clearly perceptible.

Just then I was prompted to send the venerated philosopher a copy
of my Nibelungen poem. To its title I merely added by hand the
words, 'With Reverence,' but without writing a single word to
Schopenhauer himself.

This I did partly from a feeling of great shyness in addressing
him, and partly because I felt that if the perusal of my poem did
not enlighten Schopenhauer about the man with whom he was
dealing, a letter from me, no matter how explicit, would not help
him much. I also renounced by this means the vain wish to be
honoured by an autograph letter from his hand. I learned later,
however, from Karl Ritter, and also from Dr. Wille, both of whom
visited Schopenhauer in Frankfort, that he spoke impressively and
favourably of my poetry. In addition to these studies, I
continued writing the music to the Walkure. I was living in great
retirement at this time, my sole relaxation being to take long
walks in the neighbourhood, and, as usual with me when hard at
work at my music, I felt the longing to express myself in poetry.
This must have been partly due to the serious mood created by
Schopenhauer, which was trying to find ecstatic expression. It
was some such mood that inspired the conception of a Tristan und
Isolde.

Karl Ritter had just laid before me a sketch for the dramatic
treatment of this subject (with which I was thoroughly acquainted
through my Dresden studies), and had thereby drawn my attention
to the material for this poem. I had already expressed my views
to my young friend about the faultiness of his sketch. He had, in
fact, made a point of giving prominence to the lighter phases of
the romance, whereas it was its all-pervading tragedy that
impressed me so deeply that I felt convinced it should stand out
in bold relief, regardless of minor details. On my return from
one of my walks I jotted down the incidents of the three acts in
a concise form, with the intention of working them out more
elaborately later on. In the last act I introduced an episode,
which, however, I did not develop eventually, namely, the visit
to Tristan's deathbed by Parsifal during his search for the Holy
Grail. The picture of Tristan languishing, yet unable to die of
his wound, identified itself in my mind with Amfortas in the
Romance of the Grail.

For the moment I forced myself to leave this poem on one side,
and to allow nothing to interrupt my great musical work.
Meanwhile, through the help of friends, I succeeded in bringing
about a satisfactory change in my financial position. My
prospects with regard to the German theatres also seemed
brighter. Minna had been in Berlin, and through the influence of
our old friend, Alwine Frommann, had had an interview with Herr
von Hulsen, the manager of the court theatre. After losing two
years in fruitless efforts, I at last felt more certain of seeing
Tannhauser produced there without further obstacle, as it had
become so popular with all the theatres that its failure in
Berlin could not injure its reputation; it could only reflect
disadvantageously on the Berlin management.

In the beginning of November Minna returned from her journey, and
acting on the news she gave me about the production of Tannhauser
in Berlin, I allowed matters to take their course, a decision
which afterwards caused me great annoyance, as the rendering of
my work was simply wretched. I got some compensation, however, in
the royalties, which were an important and continuous source of
income to me.

The Zurich Musical Society now again enlisted my interest for
their winter concerts. I promised to conduct, but only on
condition that they would give serious consideration to improving
the orchestra. I had already twice proposed the formation of a
decent orchestra, and I now sent in a third plan to the
committee, in which I described in detail how they might achieve
this object at a comparatively slight outlay by cooperation with
the theatre. I told them that this winter would be the last time
that I should interest myself in their concerts unless they
entertained this very reasonable proposition. Apart from this
work, I took in hand a quartette society, made up of the soloists
of the orchestra, who were anxious to study the right
interpretation of the various quartettes I had recommended.

It was a great pleasure to me to see how soon the public
patronised the efforts of these artists, who, by the way, thus
added a little extra to their incomes for a considerable time. As
far as their artistic achievements went, the work was rather
slow; the mere fact of their being able to play their respective
instruments well did not make them at once understand the art of
playing together, for which so much more is needed than mere
dynamic proportions and accents, attainable only by the
individual development of a higher artistic taste in the
treatment of the instrument by its exponent.

I was too ambitious about them, and actually taught them
Beethoven's Quartette in C sharp minor, which meant endless
trouble and rehearsing. I wrote some analytical annotations for
the better appreciation of this extraordinary work, and had them
printed on the programme. Whether I made any impression on the
audience, or whether they liked the performance, I was never able
to find out. When I say that I completed the sketch of the whole
of the music to the Walkure by the 30th of December of that year,
it will suffice to prove my strenuous and active life at that
time, as well as to show that I did not allow any outside
distraction to disturb my rigorous plan of work.

In January, 1855, I began the instrumentation of the Walkure, but
I was compelled to interrupt it, owing to a promise I made to
some of my friends to give them a chance of hearing the overture
to Faust, which I had written in Paris fifteen years before. I
had another look at this composition, which had been the means of
so important a change in my musical ideas. Liszt had produced the
work in Weimar a little while before, and had written to me in
very favourable terms about it, at the same time expressing his
wish that I should rewrite more elaborately some parts that were
only faintly indicated. So I immediately set to work to rewrite
the overture, conscientiously adopting my clear friend's delicate
suggestions, and I finished it as it was afterwards published by
Hartel. I taught our orchestra this overture, and did not think
the performance at all bad. My wife, however, did not like it;
she said it seemed to her 'as if nothing good could be made out
of it,' and she begged me not to have it produced in London when
I went there that year. At this time I had an extraordinary
application, such as I have never received again. In January the
London Philharmonic Society wrote asking me if I would be willing
to conduct their concerts for the season. I did not answer
immediately, as I wanted to obtain some particulars first, and
was very much surprised one day to receive a visit from a certain
Mr. Anderson, a member of the committee of the celebrated
society, who had come to Zurich on purpose to ensure my
acceptance.

I was expected to go to London for four months to give eight
concerts for the Philharmonic Society, for which I was to receive
in all L200. I did not quite know what to do, as, from a business
point of view, it was of no advantage to me, and, as far as the
conducting went, it was not much in my line, unless I could rely
on at least a few high-class artistic productions.

One thing only struck me as favourable, and that was the prospect
of again handling a large and excellent orchestra, after having
been denied one for so long, while the fact that I had attracted
the attention of that remote world of music fascinated me
exceedingly. I felt as if fate were calling me, and at last I
accepted the invitation of this simple and amiable-looking
Englishman, Mr. Anderson, who, fully satisfied with the result of
his mission, immediately left for England wrapped in a big fur
coat, whose real owner I only got to know later on. Before
following him to England, I had to free myself from a calamity
which I had brought upon myself through being too kind-hearted.
The managing director of the Zurich theatre for that year, an
obtrusive and over-zealous person, had at last made me accede to
his wish to produce Tannhauser, on the plea that as this work was
now performed at every opera house, it would be a very bad thing
for the Zurich theatre if it were the only one to be deprived of
the privilege, merely because I happened to live in the town.
Besides this, my wife interfered in the matter, and the singers
who played Tannhauser and Wolfram at once put themselves under
her wing. She really succeeded, too, in working on my
humanitarian feelings with regard to one of her proteges, a poor
tenor who had been badly bullied by the conductor till then. I
took these people through their parts a few times, and in
consequence found myself obliged to attend the stage rehearsals
to superintend their performances. What it all came to in the end
was that I was driven to interfere again and again, until I found
myself at the conductor's desk, and eventually conducted the
first performance myself. I have a particularly vivid
recollection of the singer who played Elizabeth on that occasion.
She had originally taken soubrette parts, and went through her
role in white kid gloves, dangling a fan. This time I had really
had enough of such concessions, and when at the close the
audience called me before the curtain, I stood there and told my
friends with great frankness that this was the last time they
would get me to do anything of the sort. I advised them in future
to look to the state of their theatre, as they had just had a
most convincing proof of its faulty construction--at which they
were all much astonished. I made a similar announcement to the
'Musikgesellschaft,' where I also conducted once more--really for
the last time--before my departure. Unfortunately, they put down
my protests to my sense of humour, and were not in the least
spurred to exert themselves, with the result that I had to be
very stern and almost rude the following winter, to deter them,
once and for all, from making further demands upon me. I thus
left my former patrons in Zurich somewhat nonplussed when I
started for London on 26th February.

I travelled through Paris and spent some days there, during which
time I saw only Kietz and his friend Lindemann (whom he regarded
as a quack doctor). Arriving in London on 2nd March I first went
to see Ferdinand Prager. In his youth he had been a friend of the
Rockel brothers, who had given me a very favourable account of
him. He proved to be an unusually good-natured fellow, though of
an excitability insufficiently balanced by his standard of
culture. After spending the first night at his home, I installed
myself the following day with his help in a house in Portland
Terrace, in the neighbourhood of Regent's Park, of which I had
agreeable recollections from former visits. I promised myself
a pleasant stay there in the coming spring, if only on account
of its close proximity to that part of the park where beautiful
copper beeches over-shadowed the path. But though I spent four
months in London, it seemed to me that spring never came, the
foggy climate so overclouded all the impressions I received.
Prager was only too eager to escort me when I went to pay the
customary visits, including one to Costa. I was thus introduced
to the director of the Italian Opera, who was at the same time
the real leader of music in London; for he was also director
of the Sacred-Music Society, which gave almost regular weekly
performances of Handel and Mendelssohn.

Prager also took me to see his friend Sainton, the leader of the
London orchestra. After giving me a very hearty reception he told
me the remarkable history of my invitation to London. Sainton, a
southern Frenchman from Toulouse, of naive and fiery temperament,
was living with a full-blooded German musician from Hamburg,
named Luders, the son of a bandsman, of a brusque but friendly
disposition. I was much affected when I heard, later on, of the
incident which had made these two men inseparable friends.
Sainton had been making a concert tour by way of St. Petersburg,
and found himself stranded at Helsingfors in Finland, unable to
get any further, pursued as he was by the demon of ill-luck. At
this moment the curious figure of the modest Hamburg bandsman's
son had accosted him on the staircase of the hotel, asking
whether he would be inclined to accept his offer of friendship
and take half of his available cash, as he (Luders) had of course
noticed the awkwardness of the other's position. From that moment
the two became inseparable friends, made concert tours in Sweden
and Denmark, found their way back in the strangest fashion to
Havre, Paris, and Toulouse, by way of Hamburg, and finally
settled down in London--Sainton to take an important post in the
orchestra, while Luders got along as best he could by the
drudgery of giving lessons. Now I found them living together in a
pretty house like a married couple, each tenderly concerned for
his friend's welfare. Luders had read my essays on art, and my
Oper und Drama in particular moved him to exclaim, 'Donnerwetter,
there's something in that!' Sainton pricked up his ears at this,
and when the conductor of the Philharmonic concerts (the great
Mr. Costa himself), for some unknown reason, quarrelled with the
society before the season began and refused to conduct their
concerts any longer, Sainton, to whom Mr. Anderson, the
treasurer, had gone for advice in this awkward predicament,
recommended them, at Luders' instigation, to engage me. I now
heard that they had not acted upon this suggestion at once. Only
when Sainton happened to remark casually that he had seen me
conduct in Dresden did Mr. Anderson decide to make the journey to
Zurich to see me (in the fur coat lent by Sainton for the
purpose), as a result of which visit I was now here. I soon
discovered, too, that Sainton had in this case acted with the
rashness characteristic of his nation. It had never occurred to
Costa that he would be taken seriously in his statement to the
Philharmonic Society, and he was thoroughly disgusted at my
appointment. As he was at the head of the same orchestra which
was at my disposal for the Philharmonic concerts, he was able to
foster an attitude of hostility to the undertakings for which I
was responsible, and even my friend Sainton had to suffer from
his animosity without actually realising the source of the
annoyance.

As time went on I saw this more plainly, while there was abundant
material for unpleasantness of every description in other
quarters. In the first place Mr. Davison, the musical critic of
the Times, adopted a most hostile attitude, and it was from this
that I first realised, clearly and definitely, the effect of my
essay entitled 'Judaism in Music.' Prager had further informed me
that Davison's extremely powerful position on the Times had
accustomed him to expect every one who came to England on
business connected with music to propitiate him by all sorts of
delicate attentions. Jenny Lind was one whose submission to these
pretensions did much to ensure her popular success; whereas
Sontag considered that her rank as Countess Rossi elevated her
above such considerations. As I had been completely absorbed in
the delight of handling a good, full orchestra, with which I
hoped to give some fine performances, it was a great blow to
learn that I had no control whatever over the number of
rehearsals I thought necessary for the concerts. For each
concert, which included two symphonies and several minor pieces
as well, the society's economical arrangements allowed me only
one rehearsal. Still I went on hoping that the impression
produced by the performances I conducted might even here justify
the demand for a special effort. It proved absolutely impossible,
however, to depart in any way from the beaten track, and,
realising this, I at once felt that the fulfilment of the task I
had undertaken was a terrible burden. At the first concert we
played Beethoven's Eroica, and my success as a conductor seemed
so marked that the committee of the society were evidently
prepared to make a special effort for the second. They demanded
selections from my own compositions as well as Beethoven's Ninth
Symphony, and conceded me two rehearsals as an exceptional
favour. This concert went off quite passably. I had drawn up an
explanatory programme for my Lohengrin Overture, but the words
'Holy Grail' and 'God' were struck out with great solemnity, as
that sort of thing was not allowed at secular concerts. I had to
content myself with the chorus from the Italian Opera for the
symphony, besides putting up with a baritone whose English phlegm
and Italian training drove me to despair at the rehearsal. All I
understood of the English version of the text was, 'Hail thee
joy' for Freudeschoner Gotterfunken. The Philharmonic Society
appeared to have staked everything on the success of this
concert, which, in fact, left nothing to be desired. They were
accordingly horrified when the Times reporter fell on this
performance, too, with furious contempt and disparagement. They
appealed to Prager to persuade me to offer Mr. Davison some
attentions, or at least to agree to meet that gentleman and be
properly introduced to him at a banquet to be arranged by Mr.
Anderson. But Prager now knew me well enough to dash their hopes
of obtaining any concession of that sort from me. The banquet
fell through, and, as I saw later, the society began from that
time forward to regret my appointment, realising that they had an
entirely intractable and pig-headed person to deal with.

As the Easter holidays began after the second concert, thereby
involving a long pause, I asked my friend's advice as to whether
it would not be more sensible to give up the whole thing--this
conductorship of the Philharmonic concerts which I had so soon
discovered to be a foolish and fruitless undertaking--and go
quietly back to Zurich. Prager assured me that the execution of
this resolve would in no wise be regarded as a reflection on the
situation, but simply as a deplorable piece of rudeness on my
part, and that the principal sufferers would be my friends. This
decided me, and I stayed--without, it is true, any hope of giving
a fresh impetus to musical life in London. The only stimulating
incident occurred on the occasion of the seventh concert, which
was the evening chosen by the Queen for her annual visit to these
functions. She expressed a wish through her husband, Prince
Albert, to hear the Tannhauser Overture. The presence of the
court certainly lent a pleasing air of ceremony to the evening,
and I had, too, the pleasure of a fairly animated conversation
with Queen Victoria and her Consort in response to their command.
The question arose of putting my operas on the stage, and Prince
Albert objected that Italian singers would never be able to
interpret my music. I was amused when the Queen met this
objection by saying that, after all, a great many Italian singers
were really Germans. All this made a good impression and, it was
obvious, served as a demonstration in my favour, without,
however, influencing the real situation to any appreciable
extent. The leading papers still announced, as before, that every
concert I conducted was a fiasco. Ferdinand Hiller actually
thought himself justified in proclaiming, for the consolation of
his friends, that my day in London was coming to an end, and that
my banishment was practically a certainty. This was on the
occasion of the Rhenish Musical Festival, which was held at that
time. As a set-off against this I reaped great satisfaction from
a scene which took place at the close of the eighth and last
concert which I conducted--one of those strange scenes which now
and again result from the long-suppressed emotion of those
concerned. The members of the orchestra had at once realised,
after my successes, the advisability of avoiding any expression
of sympathy with me if they wished to keep in good odour with
their real though unacknowledged chief, Mr. Costa, and save
themselves from a possible speedy dismissal at his hands. This
was the explanation given me when the signs of appreciation,
which I had become accustomed to receive from the players in the
course of our work together, suddenly ceased. Now, however, at
the end of the series their suppressed feelings burst forth, and
they crowded round me on all sides with deafening cheers, while
the audience, who usually left the hall noisily before the end,
likewise formed up in enthusiastic groups and surrounded me,
cheering warmly and pressing my hand. Thus both players and
listeners combined to make my farewell a scene of cordiality
which could hardly be surpassed.

But it was the personal relations which grew out of my stay in
London that provided the strangest aspect of my life there.

Immediately after my arrival, Karl Klindworth, a young pupil of
Liszt, who had been recommended to me as particularly gifted,
came to see me. He became a faithful and intimate friend, not
only during my stay in London, but ever after. Young as he was,
the short time he had spent in London had sufficed to give him an
opinion of English musical life, the justice of which I was soon
compelled to admit, terrible though it was. Incapable of adapting
himself to the curiously organised English musical cliques, he at
once lost all reasonable prospect or hope of meeting with the
recognition due to his talent. He resigned himself to making his
way through the dreary wastes of English musical life solely by
giving lessons like a day-labourer, being too proud to pay the
smallest attentions to the ruling critics, who had fallen on him
immediately as a pupil of Liszt. He was really an excellent
musician, and in addition a distinguished pianist. He immediately
approached me with the request to be allowed to make a pianoforte
arrangement of the score of Rheingold, for the use only of
virtuosi of the first rank. Unfortunately, he was overtaken by a
tedious illness, which robbed me for a long time of the desired
intercourse with him.

Although Prager and his wife stood by me with great constancy, my
real centre of intimacy was the original Sainton-Luders'
household. I had a standing invitation to dine with them, and I
found occasion, with few exceptions, to take my meals with these
friends, whose devotion surpassed that of all the others. It was
here that I generally found relaxation from the unpleasantness of
my business relations in London. Prager was often present, and we
frequently took an evening stroll through the foggy streets. On
such occasions Ludors would fortify us against the inclemency of
the London climate by an excellent punch which he could prepare
under any conditions. Only once did we get separated, and that
was in the terrific crowd that accompanied the Emperor Napoleon
from St. James's Palace to Covent Garden Theatre one evening. He
had come over to London with his Consort, on a visit to Queen
Victoria, during the critical stage of the Crimean War, and the
Londoners gaped at him as he passed no less greedily than other
nations are apt to do under similar circumstances. It so befell
that I was taken for a pushing sightseer, and proportionately
punished by blows in the ribs when I was crossing the road to try
and get into Regent Street from the Haymarket. This caused me
much amusement, on account of the obvious misunderstanding.

The grave annoyances which arose, partly from the peculiarly
momentous quarrel between Sainton and Mr. Anderson (instigated by
Costa), and which deprived me of every possibility of obtaining
any influence over the society, were productive, on the other
hand, of some amusing experiences. Anderson had, it seemed,
succeeded in elevating himself to the post of conductor of the
Queen's band, through the influence of the Queen's private
coachman. As he possessed absolutely no knowledge of music, the
annual court concert which he had to conduct became a very feast
of absurdity to the unruly Sainton, and I heard some very funny
stories about it. Another thing brought to light in the course of
these imbroglios was that Mrs. Anderson, whom I had christened
Charlemagne on account of her great corpulency, had appropriated
to herself, among other things, the office and salary of a court
trumpeter. I soon arrived at the conviction, from these and other
similar reports, that my lively friend would be beaten by this
snug little clique in the war of disclosures, and was able
subsequently to see the decision go against him at the point when
either he or Anderson had to give way. This confirmed my idea
that in this free country of England, things were managed in much
the same way as elsewhere.

The arrival of Berlioz made a very important addition to our
little company. He, too, had been brought over to London, to
conduct two of the New Philharmonic Society's concerts. The
society had appointed as ordinary conductor, by whose
recommendation I could never discover, a certain Dr. Wilde, a
typical chubby-faced Englishman, remarkably good-natured, but
ludicrously incompetent. He had taken some special lessons in
conducting from the Stuttgart conductor, Lindpaintner, who had
trained him up to the point of at least attempting to catch up
the orchestra with his beat, the orchestra itself going its own
way entirely. I heard a Beethoven symphony performed in this
fashion, and was surprised to hear the audience break into
precisely the same applause with which it greeted one of my own
strictly accurate and really fiery performances. To lend
distinction to these concerts, however, they had, as I said,
invited Berlioz over for some of them. I thus heard him conduct
some classical works, such as a Mozart symphony, and was amazed
to find a conductor, who was so energetic in the interpretation
of his own compositions, sink into the commonest rut of the
vulgar time-beater. Certain of his own compositions, such as the
more effective fragments from the Romeo and Juliet Symphony,
again made a particular impression on me, it is true; but I was
now more consciously awake to the curious weaknesses which
disfigure even the finest conceptions of this extraordinary
musician than on those earlier occasions, when I only had a sense
of general discomfort adequate to the magnitude of the
impression.

I felt much stimulated, however, on the two or three occasions
when Sainton invited me to dine with Berlioz. I was now brought
face to face with this strangely gifted person, tormented and
even blunted in some respects as he then was. When I saw him, a
man considerably my senior, coming here merely in the hope of
earning a few guineas, I could deem myself perfectly happy, and
almost floating on air, by contrast; for my own coming had been
brought about rather by a desire for distraction, a craving for
outward inspiration. His whole being expressed weariness and
despair, and I was suddenly seized with deep sympathy for this
man whose talent so far surpassed that of his rivals--for this
was clear as daylight to me. Berlioz seemed to be pleasantly
affected by the attitude of gay spontaneity I adopted with him.
His usual short, almost reserved, manner thawed visibly during
the friendly hours we passed together. He told me many comical
things about Meyerbeer, and the impossibility of escaping from
his flattery, which was dictated by his insatiable thirst for
laudatory articles. The first performance of his Prophet had been
preceded by the customary diner de la veille, and when Berlioz
excused himself for staying away, Meyerbeer first reproached him
tenderly, then challenged him to make good the great injustice he
had done him, by writing 'a real nice article' about his opera.
Berlioz declared it was impossible to get anything detrimental to
Meyerbeer inserted in a Paris paper.

I found it less easy to discuss with him matters of a more
profound artistic nature, as I invariably came up against the
real Frenchman then, who, fluent and glib of tongue, was so sure
of himself that it never occurred to him to doubt whether he had
understood his companions aright. Once, in a pleasant glow of
inspiration (having suddenly mastered the French language, to my
own great surprise), I tried to express to him my idea of the
'artistic conception.' I endeavoured to describe the powerful
effect of vital impressions on the temperament, how they hold us
captive, as it were, until we rid ourselves of them by the unique
development of our inmost spiritual visions, which are not called
forth by these impressions, but only roused by them from their
deep slumber. The artistic structure, therefore, appears to us as
in no wise a result of, but, on the contrary, a liberation from,
the vital impressions. At this point Berlioz smiled in a
patronising, comprehensive way, and said: 'Nous appelons cela:
digerer.' My amazement at this prompt summing-up of my laboured
communications was further justified by my new friend's outward
behaviour. I invited him to be present at my last concert, and
also at a small farewell feast which I was giving at home to my
few friends after it. He soon left the table, saying that he felt
unwell, but the friends who were left made no secret to me of
their belief that Berlioz had been put out of humour by the
exceedingly enthusiastic farewell with which the audience had
parted from me.

The total harvest, however, of acquaintances I made in London was
not particularly profitable. I took pleasure in the society of
Mr. Ellerton, a dignified, agreeable man, the brother-in-law of
Lord Brougham--a poet, a music-lover, and, alas! a composer. He
asked to be introduced to me at one of the Philharmonic concerts,
and did not hesitate to tell me that he welcomed me to London
because it seemed likely that I was destined to check the
exaggerated Mendelssohn worship. He was also the only Englishman
who honoured me by any hospitality, and by entertaining myself
and my friends at the University Club, gave me an opportunity of
realising the munificence of such an establishment in London.
After we had spent a very agreeable time there, I had a glimpse
of the weaker side of English hospitalities of this order, though
the incident was friendly enough. My host had to be taken home by
two men, one holding each arm, quite as a matter of course, as it
was obvious that he would not have got far across the road
without this help.

I made the acquaintance, too, of a curious man, an old-fashioned
but very friendly composer named Potter. I had to play a symphony
of his, which entertained me by its modest dimensions and its
neat development of counterpoint, the more so as the composer, a
friendly elderly recluse, clung to me with almost distressing
humility. I had positively to force him into accepting the right
tempo for the Andante in his symphony, thus proving to him that
it was really pretty and interesting. He had so little faith in
his work, that he considered the only way to avoid the danger of
boring people with it was to rattle through it at a disgraceful
speed. He really beamed with delight and gratitude when I secured
him great applause by taking this very Andante at my own time.

I got on less well with a Mr. MacFarrine, a pompous, melancholy
Scotsman, whose compositions, I was assured, were held in high
esteem by the committee of the Philharmonic Society. He seemed
too proud to discuss the interpretation of any of his works with
me, and I was therefore relieved when a symphony of his, which
did not appeal to me, was laid aside, the substitute chosen being
an overture entitled the Steeple-chase, which I enjoyed playing,
on account of its peculiarly wild, passionate character.

My acquaintance with Beneke (a merchant) and his family was
attended by much awkwardness. Wesendonck had given me a letter of
recommendation to them, so that I should at least have one
'house' to go to in London. I had to travel a full German mile to
Camberwell in response to their invitations, only to discover
that I had dropped into the very family whose house Mendelssohn
had made his home when in London. The good people did not know
what to do with me, apart from congratulating me on the
excellence of my Mendelssohn performances, and rewarding me with
descriptions of the generous character of the deceased.

Howard, the secretary of the Philharmonic Society, a worthy and
agreeable old man, was another person (the only one, he believed)
in the circle of my English acquaintances who took the trouble to
entertain me. I had to go once or twice to the Italian Opera at
Covent Garden with his daughter. There I heard Fidelio, given in
rather grotesque fashion by unclean Germans and voiceless
Italians, and with recitatives. I consequently managed to evade
paying frequent visits to this theatre. When I went to say good-
bye to Mr. Howard on leaving London, I was surprised to meet
Meyerbeer at his house. He had just arrived in London to conduct
his Nordstern. As I saw him come in it occurred to me immediately
that Howard, whom I had only known as the secretary of the
Philharmonic Society, was also the musical critic of the
Illustrated London News; it was in the latter capacity that the
great operatic composer had called upon him. Meyerbeer was
absolutely paralysed when he saw me, and this put me into such a
frame of mind that we found it impossible to exchange a word. Mr.
Howard, who had felt sure that we were acquainted, was much
surprised at this, and asked me as I was leaving whether I did
not know Meyerbeer. I answered that he had better ask Meyerbeer.
On meeting Howard again that evening, I was assured that
Meyerbeer had spoken of me in terms of the highest praise. I then
suggested his reading certain numbers of the Paris Gazette
musicale, in which Fetis had, some time before, given a less
favourable interpretation of Meyerbeer's views about me. Howard
shook his head, and could not understand how two such GREAT
COMPOSERS could meet in so strange a manner.

A visit from my old friend Hermann Franck was a pleasant
surprise. He was then staying at Brighton, and had come up to
London for a few days. We conversed a great deal, and I had to
make a considerable effort to put him right in his ideas about
me, as he had heard the most wonderful reports from German
musicians during the last few years in which our intercourse had
been broken off. He was astonished, in the first place, to find
me in London, where he considered it impossible for me ever to
find a suitable field for my musical tendencies. I did not
understand what he meant by my 'tendencies,' but I told him
quite simply how I came to accept the invitation of the
Philharmonic Society, and that I proposed to fulfil my contract
for this year's concerts, and then to go back to my work at
Zurich without further ceremony. This sounded quite different to
the state of things he had imagined, for he had felt bound to
conclude that I proposed to create a stronghold in London from
which to conduct a war of extermination against the whole race of
German musicians. This was the unanimous explanation of my
intentions which he had heard in Germany. Nothing could be more
astounding, he said, than the surprising incongruity between the
fictitious form in which I appeared to these people, and my real
nature, which he had recognised at once on seeing me again. We
joked about this, and came to a closer understanding. I was glad
to see that he valued as much as I did the works of Schopenhauer,
which had become known in the last few years. He expressed his
opinion of them with singular decision; he considered that German
intellect was destined, either to complete deterioration, in
conjunction with the national political situation, or else to an
equally complete regeneration, in which Schopenhauer would play
his part. He left me--soon to meet his terrible and not less
inexplicable fate. Only a few months later, after my return home,
I heard of his mysterious death. He was staying, as I said, at
Brighton, for the purpose of putting his son, a boy of about
sixteen, into the English navy. I had noticed that the son's
obstinate determination to serve in this force was repugnant to
his father. On the morning of the day on which the ship was to
sail, the father's body was found shattered in the street, as the
result of a fall from the window, while the son was found
lifeless--apparently strangled--on his bed. The mother had died
some years previously, and there was no one left to give
information as to the terrible occurrence, which, so far as I
know, has never to this day been cleared up. Franck had, out of
forgetfulness, left a map of London behind on his visit to me;
this I kept, as I did not know his address, and it is still in my
possession.

I have pleasanter, though not entirely unclouded, recollections
of my relations with Semper, whom I also met in London, where he
had been settled for some time with his family. He had always
seemed to me so violent and morose when in Dresden that I was
surprised and moved to admiration by the comparatively calm and
resigned spirit with which he bore the terrible interruption to
his professional career, and by his readiness to adapt his talent
(which was of an unusually productive order) to the circumstances
in which he was placed. Commissions for large buildings were out
of the question for him in England, but he set his hopes, to a
certain extent, on the patronage accorded him by Prince Albert,
as this gave him some prospects for the future. For the time
being he contented himself with commissions to design decorations
for interiors and luxurious furniture, for which he was well
paid. He took to this work as seriously, from an artistic point
of view, as if it had been a large building. We often met, and I
also spent a few evenings at his house in Kensington, when we
invariably dropped into the old vein of strange, serious humour
that helped us to forget the seamy side of life. The report I was
able to give of Semper after my return home did much to influence
Sulzer in his successful attempt to get him over to Zurich to
build the new Polytechnic.

On various occasions I also visited some not uninteresting
theatres in London, strictly avoiding opera-houses, of course. I
was most attracted by the little Adelphi Theatre in the Strand,
and I frequently made Prager and Luders go with me. They acted
some dramatised fairy-tales there under the title of Christmas.
One of the performances interested me particularly because it
consisted of a subtly connected conglomeration of the most
familiar tales, played straight through, with no break at the end
of the acts. It began with 'The Goose that laid the Golden Eggs,'
and was transformed into 'The Three Wishes'; this passed into
'Red Riding Hood' (with the wolf changed into a cannibal who sang
a very comical little couplet), and finished as 'Cinderella,'
varied with other ingredients. These pieces were in every respect
excellently mounted and played, and I gained a very good notion
there of the imaginative fare in which the English people can
find amusement. I found the performances at the Olympic Theatre
less simple and innocent. Besides witty drawing-room pieces in
the French style, which were very well played there, they acted
fairy-tales such as the Yellow Dwarf, in which Hobson, an
uncommonly popular actor, took the grotesque title-role. I saw
the same actor again in a little comedy called Garrick Fever, in
which he ends by representing a drunken man who, when people
insisted on taking him for Garrick, undertook the part of Hamlet
in this condition. I was greatly astonished by many audacities in
his acting on this occasion.

A small out-of-the-way theatre in Marylebone was just then trying
to attract the public by Shakespeare's plays. I attended a
performance of the Merry Wives there, which really amazed me by
its correctness and precision. Even a performance of Romeo and
Juliet at the Haymarket Theatre impressed me favourably, in spite
of the great inferiority of the company, on account of its
accuracy and of the scenic arrangements, which were no doubt an
inheritance from the Garrick tradition. But I still remember a
curious illusion in connection with this: after the first act I
told Luders, who was with me, how surprised I was at their giving
the part of Romeo to an old man, whose age must at least be
sixty, and who seemed anxious to retrieve his long-lost youth by
laboriously adopting a sickly-sweet, feminine air. Luders looked
at the programme again, and cried, 'Donnerwetter, it's a woman!'
It was the once famous American, Miss Cushman.

In spite of every effort, I found it impossible to obtain a seat
for Henry VIII at the Princess's Theatre. This play had been
organised according to the new stage realism, and enjoyed an
incredible vogue as a gorgeous spectacular piece, mounted with
unusual care.

In the province of music, with which I was more concerned, I have
still to mention several of the Sacred-Music Society's concerts,
which I attended in the large room at Exeter Hall. The oratorios
given there nearly every week have, it must be admitted, the
advantage of the great confidence which arises from frequent
repetition. Neither could I refuse to recognise the great
precision of the chorus of seven hundred voices, which reached
quite a respectable standard on a few occasions, particularly in
Handel's Messiah. It was here that I came to understand the true
spirit of English musical culture, which is bound up with the
spirit of English Protestantism. This accounts for the fact that
an oratorio attracts the public far more than an opera. A further
advantage is secured by the feeling among the audience that an
evening spent in listening to an oratorio may be regarded as a
sort of service, and is almost as good as going to church. Every
one in the audience holds a Handel piano score in the same way as
one holds a prayer-book in church. These scores are sold at the
box-office in shilling editions, and are followed most
diligently--out of anxiety, it seemed to me, not to miss certain
points solemnly enjoyed by the whole audience. For instance, at
the beginning of the 'Hallelujah Chorus' it is considered proper
for every one to rise from his seat. This movement, which
probably originated in an expression of enthusiasm, is now
carried out at each performance of the Messiah with painful
precision.

All these recollections, however, are merged in the all-absorbing
memory of almost uninterrupted ill-health, caused primarily, no
doubt, by the state of the London climate at that season of the
year, which is notorious all over the world. I had a perpetual
cold, and I therefore followed the advice of my friends to take a
heavy English diet by way of resisting the effect of the air, but
this did not improve matters in the least. For one thing, I could
not get my home sufficiently warmed through, and the work that I
had brought with me was the first thing to suffer. The
instrumentation of the Walkure, which I had hoped to finish off
here, only advanced a paltry hundred pages. I was hindered in
this principally by the circumstance that the sketches from which
I had to work on the instrumentation had been written down
without considering the extent to which a prolonged interruption
of my working humour might affect the coherence of the sketch.
How often did I sit before those pencilled pages as if they had
been unfamiliar hieroglyphics which I was incapable of
deciphering! In absolute despair I plunged into Dante, making for
the first time a serious effort to read him. The Inferno, indeed,
became a never-to-be-forgotten reality in that London atmosphere.

But at last came the hour of deliverance from even those evils
which I had brought upon myself by my last assumption that I
might be accepted, not to say wanted, in the great world. The
sole consolation I had was in the deep emotion of my new friends
when I took leave of them. I hurried home by way of Paris, which
was clothed in its summer glory, and saw people really
promenading again, instead of pushing through the streets on
business. And so I returned to Zurich, full of cheerful
impressions, on the 30th of June, my net profits being exactly
one thousand francs.

My wife had an idea of taking up her sour-milk cure again on the
Selisberg by Lake Lucerne, and as I thought mountain air would be
good for my impaired health also, we decided to move there at
once. Our project suffered a brief delay through the fatal
illness of my dog Peps. As the result of old age in his
thirteenth year, he suddenly exhibited such weakness that we
became apprehensive of taking him up the Selisberg, for he could
not have borne the fatigue of the ascent. In a few days his agony
became alarmingly acute. He grew stupid, and had frequent
convulsions, his only conscious act being to get up often from
his bed (which was in my wife's room, as he was usually under her
care) and stumble as far as my writing-table, where he sank down
again in exhaustion. The veterinary surgeon said he could do no
more, and as the convulsions gradually became terribly acute, I
was advised to shorten the poor animal's cruel agony and free him
from his pain by a little prussic acid. We delayed our departure
on his account until I at last convinced myself that a quick
death would be charity to the poor suffering creature, who was
quite past all hope. I hired a boat, and took an hour's row
across the lake to visit a young doctor of my acquaintance named
Obrist, who had, I knew, come into possession of a village
apothecary's stock, which included various poisons. From him I
obtained a deadly dose, which I carried home across the lake in
my solitary skiff on an exquisite summer evening. I was
determined only to resort to this last expedient in case the poor
brute were in extremity. He slept that last night as usual in his
basket by my bedside, his invariable habit being to wake me with
his paws in the morning. I was suddenly roused by his groans,
caused by a particularly violent attack of convulsions; he then
sank back without a sound; and I was so strangely moved by the
significance of the moment that I immediately looked at my watch
to impress on my memory the hour at which my extraordinarily
devoted little friend died; it was ten minutes past one on the
10th of July. We devoted the next day to his burial, and shed
bitter tears over him. Frau Stockar-Escher, our landlady, made
over to us a pretty little plot in her garden, and there we
buried him, with his basket and cushions. His grave was shown me
many years after, but the last time I went to look at the little
garden I found that everything had undergone an elegant
transformation, and there were no longer any signs of Pep's
grave.

At last we really started for the Selisberg, accompanied this
time only by the new parrot--a substitute for good old Papo--from
the Kreutzberg menagerie, which I had bought for my wife the year
before. This one was a very good and intelligent bird also, but I
left him entirely to Minna, treating him with invariable
kindness, but never making a friend of him. Fortunately for us,
our stay in the glorious air of this summer resort, of which we
had grown very fond, was favoured by continuous fine weather. I
devoted all my leisure, apart from my lonely walks, to making a
fair copy of that part of the Walkure which was fully scored, and
also took up my favourite reading again--the study of
Schopenhauer. I had the pleasure of receiving a charming letter
from Berlioz, together with Les Soirees de l'Orchestre, his new
book, which I found inspiriting to read, although the author's
taste for the grotesque was as foreign to me here as in his
compositions. Here, too, I met young Robert von Hornstein again,
who proved himself a pleasant and intelligent companion. I was
particularly interested in his quick and evidently successful
plunge into the study of Schopenhauer. He informed me that he
proposed to settle for some time in Zurich, where Karl Ritter,
too, had decided to take permanent winter quarters for his young
wife and himself.

In the middle of August we returned to Zurich ourselves, and I
was able to devote myself steadily to completing the
instrumentation of the Walkure, while my relations with former
acquaintances remained much the same. From outside I received
news of the steady persistence with which my Tannhauser was,
little by little, being propagated in German theatres. Lohengrin,
too, followed in its steps, though without a first meeting with
an entirely favourable reception. Franz Dingelstedt, who was at
the time manager of the court theatre at Munich, undertook to
introduce Tannhauser there, although, thanks to Lachner, the
place was not prepossessed in my favour. He seemed to have
managed it fairly well; its success, however, according to him,
was not so great as to allow of my promised fee being punctually
paid. But my income, owing to the conscientious stewardship of my
friend Sulzer, was now sufficient to permit me to work without
anxiety on that account. But I met with a new vexation when
colder weather set in. I suffered from innumerable attacks of
erysipelas during the whole winter, each fresh attack (in
consequence of some tiny error of diet, or of the least cold)
being attended by violent pain. It was obviously the result of
the ill effects of the London climate. What pained me most was
the frequent interruption of my work on this account. The most I
could do was to read when the illness was taking its course.
Burnouff's Introduction a l'Histoire du Bouddhisme interested me
most among my books, and I found material in it for a dramatic
poem, which has stayed in my mind ever since, though only vaguely
sketched. I may still perhaps work it out. I gave it the title of
Die Sieger. It was founded on the simple legend of a Tschantala
girl, who is received into the dignified order of beggars known
as Clakyamouni, and, through her exceedingly passionate and
purified love for Ananda, the chief disciple of Buddha, herself
gains merit. Besides the underlying beauty of this simple
material, a curious relation between it and the subsequent
development of my musical experience influenced my selection. For
to the mind of Buddha the past life (in a former incarnation) of
every being who appears before him stands revealed as plainly as
the present; and this simple story has its significance, as
showing that the past life of the suffering hero and heroine is
bound up with the immediate present in this life. I saw at once
that the continuous reminiscence in the music of this double
existence might perfectly well be presented to the emotions, and
I decided accordingly to keep in prospect the working out of this
poem as a particularly congenial task.

I had thus two new subjects stamped on my imagination, Tristan
and Die Sieger; with these I was constantly occupied from this
time onwards, together with my great work, the Nibelungen, the
unfinished portion of which was still of gigantic dimensions. The
more these projects absorbed me, the more did I writhe with
impatience at the perpetual interruptions of my work by these
loathsome attacks of illness. About this time Liszt proposed to
pay me a visit that had been postponed in the summer, but I had
to ask him not to come, as I could not be certain, after my late
experiences, of not being tied to a sick-bed during the few days
he would be able to give me. Thus I spent the winter, calm and
resigned in my productive moments, but moody and irritable
towards the outside world, and consequently a source of some
anxiety to my friends. I was glad, however, when Karl Ritter's
arrival in Zurich allowed him to become more intimate with me
again. By his selecting Zurich as a settled home, for the winter
months, at any rate, he showed his devotion to me in a way that
did me good, and wiped out more than one bad impression.
Hornstein had actually managed to come too, but could not stay.
He declared he was so nervous that he could not touch a note of
the piano, and made no attempt to deny that the fact of his
mother's having died insane made him very much afraid of going
mad himself. Although this in a way made him interesting, his
intellectual gifts were marred by such weakness of character,
that we were soon reduced to thinking him fairly hopeless, and we
were not inconsolable when he suddenly left Zurich.

My circle had gained considerably of late by the addition of a
new acquaintance, Gottfried Keller, a native of Zurich, who had
just returned to the welcoming arms of his affectionate fellow-
townsmen from Germany, where his writings had brought him some
fame. Several of his works--in particular, a longish novel, Der
Grune Heinrich--had been recommended to me in favourable though
not exaggerated terms by Sulzer. I was therefore surprised to
find him a person of extraordinarily shy and awkward demeanour.
Every one felt anxious about his prospects on first becoming
acquainted with him, and it was indeed this question of his
future that was the difficulty. Although everything he wrote
showed great original talent, it was obvious at once that they
were merely efforts in the direction of artistic development, and
the inevitable inquiry arose as to what was to follow and really
establish his fame. I kept continually asking him what he was
going to do next. In reply he would mention all sorts of fully
matured schemes, which would none of them hold water on closer
acquaintance. Luckily a government post was eventually found for
him (from patriotic considerations, it seemed),--where he no
doubt did good service, although his literary activity seemed to
lie fallow after his early efforts.

Herwegh, another friend of longer standing, was less fortunate. I
had worried myself for a long time about him too, trying to think
that his previous efforts were merely introductions to really
serious artistic achievements. He admitted himself that he felt
his best was still to come. It seemed to him that he had all the
material--crowds of 'ideas'--in reserve for a great poetical
work; there was nothing wanting but the 'frame' in which he could
paint it all, and this is what he hoped, from day to day, to
find. As I grew tired of waiting for it, I set about trying to
find the longed-for frame for him myself. He evidently wished to
evolve an epic poem on a large scale, in which to embody the
views he had acquired. As he had once alluded to Dante's luck in
finding a subject like the pilgrimage through hell and purgatory
into paradise, it occurred to me to suggest, for the desired
frame, the Brahman myth of Metempsychosis, which in Plato's
version comes within reach of our classical education. He did not
think it a bad idea, and I accordingly took some trouble to
define the form such a poem would take. He was to decide upon
three acts, each containing three songs, which would make nine
songs in all. The first act would show his hero in the Asiatic
country of his birth; the second, his reincarnation in Greece and
Rome; the third, his reincarnation in the Middle Ages and in
modern times. All this pleased him very much, and he thought, it
might come to something. Not so my cynical friend, Dr. Wille, who
had an estate in the country where we often met in the bosom of
his family. He was of opinion that we expected far too much of
Herwegh. Viewed at close quarters he was, after all, only a young
Swabian who had received a far larger share of honour and glory
than his abilities warranted, through the Jewish halo thrown
around him by his wife. In the end I had to shrug my shoulders in
silent acquiescence with these hopelessly unkind remarks, as I
could, of course, see poor Herwegh sinking into deeper apathy
every year, until in the end he seemed incapable of doing
anything.

Semper's arrival in Zurich, which had at last taken place,
enlivened our circle considerably. The Federal authorities had
asked me to use my influence with Semper to induce him to accept
a post as teacher at the Federal Polytechnic. Semper came over at
once to have a look at the establishment first, and was
favourably impressed with everything. He even found cause for
delight, when out walking, in the unclipped trees, 'where one
might light upon a caterpillar again,' he said, and decided
definitely to migrate to Zurich, and thus brought himself and his
family permanently into my circle of acquaintance. True, he had
small prospect of commissions for large buildings, and considered
himself doomed to play the schoolmaster for ever. He was,
however, in the throes of writing a great work on art, which,
after various mishaps and a change of publisher, he brought out
later under the title, Der Styl. I often found him engaged with
the drawings for illustrating this book; he drew them himself
very neatly on stone, and grew so fond of the work that he
declared the smallest detail in his drawing interested him far
more than the big clumsy architectural jobs.

From this time forward, in accordance with my manifesto, I would
have nothing whatever to do with the 'Musikgesellschaft,' neither
did I ever conduct a public performance in Zurich again. The
members of this society could not at first be brought to believe
that I was in earnest, and I was obliged to bring it home to them
by a categorical explanation, in which I dwelt on their slackness
and their disregard of my urgent proposals for the establishment
of a decent orchestra. The excuse I invariably received was, that
although there was money enough among the musical public, yet
every one fought shy of heading the subscription list with a
definite sum, because of the tiresome notoriety they would win
among the towns-people. My old friend, Herr Ott-Imhof, assured me
that it would not embarrass him in the least to pay ten thousand
francs a year to a cause of that sort, but that from that moment
every one would demand why he was spending his income in that
way. It would rouse such a commotion that he might easily be
brought to account about the administration of his property. This
called to my mind Goethe's exclamation at the beginning of his
Erste Schweizer Briefe. So my musical activities at Zurich ceased
definitely from that time.

[Footnote:  This doubtless refers to the following passage: 'And
the Swiss call themselves free! These smug bourgeois shut up in
their little towns, these poor devils on their precipices and
rocks, call themselves free! Is there any limit at all to what
one can make people believe and cherish, provided that one
preserves the old fable of "Freedom" in spirits of wine for them?
Once upon a time they rid themselves of a tyrant and thought
themselves free. Then, thanks to the glorious sun, a singular
transformation occurred, and out of the corpse of their late
oppressor a host of minor tyrants arose. Now they continue to
relate the old fable; on all sides it is drummed into one's ears
ad nauseam--they have thrown off the yoke of the despot and have
remained free. And there they are, ensconsed behind their walls
and imprisoned in their customs, their laws, the opinion of their
neighbours, and their Philistine suburbanism' (Goethe's Werke,
Briefe aus der Schweiz, Erste Abteilung.)--Editor]

On the other hand, I occasionally had music at home. Neat and
precious copies of Klindworth's pianoforte score of Rheingold, as
well as of some acts of the Walkure, lay ready to hand, and
Baumgartner was the first who was set down to see what he could
make of the atrociously difficult arrangement. Later on we found
that Theodor Kirchner, a musician who had settled at Winterthur
and frequently visited Zurich, was better able to play certain
bits of the pianoforte score. The wife of Heim, the head of the
Glee Society, with whom we were both on friendly terms, was
pressed into the service to sing the parts for female voices when
I attempted to play some of the vocal parts. She had a really
fine voice and a warm tone, and had been the only soloist at the
big performances in 1853; only she was thoroughly unmusical, and
I had hard work to make her keep in tune, and it was even more
difficult to get the time right. Still, we achieved something,
and my friends had an occasional foretaste of my Nibelungen
music.

But I had to exercise great moderation here too, as every
excitement threatened to bring on a return of erysipelas. A
little party of us were at Karl Ritter's one evening, when I hit
upon the idea of reading aloud Hoffmann's Der Goldene Topf. I did
not notice that the room was getting gradually cooler, but before
I had finished my reading I found myself, to every one's horror,
with a swollen, red nose, and had to trail laboriously home to
tend the malady, which exhausted me terribly every time. During
these periods of suffering I became more and more absorbed in
developing the libretto of Tristan, whereas my intervals of
convalescence were devoted to the score of the Walkure, at which
I toiled diligently but laboriously, completing the fair copy in
March of that year (1856). But my illness and the strain of work
had reduced me to a state of unusual irritability, and I can
remember how extremely bad-tempered I was when our friends the
Wesendoncks came in that evening to pay a sort of congratulatory
visit on the completion of my score. I expressed my opinion of
this way of sympathising with my work with such extraordinary
bitterness that the poor insulted visitors departed abruptly in
great consternation, and it took many explanations, which I had
great difficulty in making, to atone for the insult as the days
went on. My wife came out splendidly on this occasion in her
efforts to smooth things over. A special tie between her and our
friends had been formed by the introduction of a very friendly
little dog into our house, which had been obtained by the
Wesendoncks as a successor to my good old Peps. He proved such a
good and ingratiating animal that he soon gained my wife's tender
affection, while I, too, always felt very kindly towards him.
This time I left the choice of a name to my wife, however, and
she invented, apparently as a pendant to Peps, the name Fips,
which I was quite willing for him to have. But he was always more
my wife's friend, as, despite my great sense of justice, which
made me recognise the excellence of these animals, I never was
able to become so attached to them as to Peps and Papo.

About the time of my birthday I had a visit from my old friend
Tichatschek of Dresden, who remained faithful to his devotion and
enthusiasm for me--as far as so uncultured a person was capable
of such emotions. On the morning of my birthday I was awakened in
a touching way by the strains of my beloved Adagio from
Beethoven's E minor Quartette. My wife had invited the musicians
in whom I took a special interest for this occasion, and they
had, with subtle delicacy, chosen the very piece of which I had
once spoken with such great emotion. At our party in the evening
Tichatschek sang several things from Lohengrin, and really amazed
us all by the brilliancy of voice he still preserved. He had also
succeeded, by perseverance, in overcoming the irresolution of the
Dresden management, due to their subserviency to the court, with
regard to further performances of my operas. They were now being
given there again, with great success and to full houses. I took
a slight cold on an excursion which we made with our visitor to
Brunnen on Lake Lucerne, and thus brought on my thirteenth attack
of erysipelas. One of the terrible southern gales, which make it
impossible to heat the rooms at Brunnen, made my sufferings this
time more acute, added to the fact that I went through with the
excursion, in spite of my painful condition, rather than spoil
our guest's pleasure by turning back sooner. I was still in bed
when Tichatschek left, and I decided at least to try a change of
air in the south, because this dreadful malady seemed to me to
haunt the locality of Zurich. I chose the Lake of Geneva, and
decided to look out for a well-situated country resort in the
neighbourhood of Geneva or thereabouts, where I could start on a
cure which my Zurich doctor had prescribed. I therefore started
for Geneva in the beginning of June. Fips, who was to accompany
me into my rural retreat, caused me great anxiety on the journey;
I nearly changed my destination, on account of an attempt to
dislodge him from my carriage in the train for part of the
journey. It was thanks to the energetic way in which I carried my
point that I started my cure at Geneva, as I should otherwise
probably have gone in a different direction.

In Geneva I put up first at the familiar old Hotel de l'Ecu de
Geneve, which called up various reminiscences to my mind. Here I
consulted Dr. Coindet, who sent me to Mornex on Mont Saleve, for
the sake of its good air, and recommended me a pension. My first
thought on arrival was to find a place where I should be
undisturbed, and I persuaded the lady who kept the pension to
make over to me an isolated pavilion in the garden which
consisted of one large reception-room. Much persuasion was
needed, as all the boarders--precisely the people I wished to
avoid--were indignant at having the room originally intended for
their social gatherings taken away. But at last I secured my
object, though I had to bind myself to vacate my drawing-room on
Sunday mornings, because it was then stocked with benches and
arranged for a service, which seemed to mean a good deal to the
Calvinists among the boarders. I fell in with this quite happily,
and made my sacrifice honourably the very first Sunday by
betaking myself to Geneva to read the papers. The next day,
however, my hostess informed me that the boarders were very
annoyed at only being able to hold the service, and not the week-
day games in my drawing-room. I was given notice, and looked
round for other quarters, which I found in the house of a
neighbour.

This neighbour was a Dr. Vaillant, who had taken an equally fine
site on which to erect a hydropathic institute. I first made
inquiries about warm baths, as my Zurich doctor had advised the
use of these with sulphur, but there was no prospect of obtaining
any such thing. Dr. Vaillant'a whole manner pleased me so much,
however, that I told him my troubles. When I asked him which of
two things I should drink: hot sulphur bath-water or a certain
stinking mineral water, he smiled and said: 'Monsieur, vous
n'etes que nerveux. All this will only excite you more; you
merely need calming. If you will entrust yourself to me, I
promise that you will have so far recovered by the end of two
months as never to have erysipelas again.' And he kept his word.

I certainly formed a very different opinion of hydrotherapic
methods through this excellent doctor from any I could have
acquired from the 'Water Jew' of Albisbrunnen and other raw
amateurs. Vaillant had been famous as a doctor in Paris itself
(Lablache and Rossini had consulted him), but he had the
misfortune of becoming paralysed in both legs, and after four
years of helpless misery, during which he lost his whole practice
and sank into utter misery, he came across the original Silesian
hydropathologist, Priessnitz, to whom he was conveyed, with the
result that he recovered completely. There he learned the method
that had proved so effective, refined it from all the brutalities
of its inventor, and tried to recommend himself to the Parisians
by building a hydro at Meudon. But he met with no encouragement.
His former patients, whom he tried to persuade into visiting his
institution, merely asked whether there was dancing there in the
evening. He found it impossible to keep it up, and it is to this
circumstance that I owe my meeting with him there, near Geneva,
where he was once more trying to exploit his cure in a practical
way. He laid claim to attention, if only by the fact that he
strictly limited the number of patients he took into his house,
insisting that a doctor could only be responsible for the right
application and success of his treatment by being in a position
to observe his patients minutely at all hours of the day. The
advantage of his system, which benefited me so wonderfully, was
the thoroughly calming effect of the treatment, which consisted
in the most ingenious use of water at a moderate temperature.

Besides this, Vaillant took a special pleasure in satisfying my
wants, particularly in procuring me rest and quiet. For instance,
my presence at the common breakfast, which I found exciting and
inconvenient, was excused, and I was allowed to make tea in my
own room instead. This was an unaccustomed treat for me, and I
indulged in it, under cover of secrecy, to excess, usually
drinking tea behind closed doors for two hours, while I read
Walter Scott's novels, after the fatiguing exertions of my
morning cure. I had found some cheap and good French translations
of these novels in Geneva, and had brought a whole pile of them
to Mornex. They were admirably suited to my routine, which
prohibited serious study or work; but, apart from that, I now
fully endorsed Schopenhauer's high opinion of this poet's value,
of which I had till then been doubtful. On my solitary strolls,
it is true, I generally took a volume of Byron with me, because I
possessed a miniature edition, to read on some mountain height
with a view of Mont Blanc, but I soon left it at home, for I
realised that I hardly ever drew it from my pocket.

The only work I permitted myself was the sketching of plans for
building myself a house. These, in the end, I tried to work out
correctly with all the materials of an architect's draughtsman. I
had risen to this bold idea after negotiations on which I entered
about that time with Hartel, the music publishers at Leipzig, for
the sale of my Nibelungen compositions. I demanded forty thousand
francs on the spot for the four works, of which half was to be
paid me when the building of the house began. The publishers
really seemed so far favourably inclined towards my proposals as
to make my undertaking possible.

Very soon, however, their opinion of the market value of my works
underwent an unhappy change. I could never make out whether this
was the result of their having only just examined my poem
carefully and decided that it was impracticable, or whether
influence had been brought to bear on them from the same quarter
to which the opposition directed against most of my undertakings
could be traced, and which grew more and more evident as time
wore on. Be that as it may, the hope of earning capital for my
house-building forsook me; but my architectural studies took
their course, and I made it my aim to obtain means to fulfil
them.

As the two months I had destined to Dr. Vaillant's treatment were
up on the 15th of August, I left the resort which had proved so
beneficial, and went straight off on a visit to Karl Ritter, who,
with his wife, had taken a lovely and very unassuming little
house near Lausanne for the summer months. Both of them had
visited me at Mornex, but when I tried to induce Karl to have
some cold-water treatment, he declared, after one trial, that
even the most soothing method excited him. On the whole, though,
we found a good number of agreeable topics to discuss, and he
told me he would return to Zurich in the autumn.

I returned home in a fairly good humour with Fips, on whose
account I travelled by mail-coach to avoid the obnoxious railway
journey. My wife, too, had returned home from her sour-milk cure
on the Selisberg, and in addition I found my sister Clara
installed, the only one of my relatives who had visited me in my
Swiss retreat. We at once made an excursion with her to my
favourite spot, Brunnen on Lake Lucerne, and spent an exquisite
evening there enjoying the glorious sunset and other beautiful
effects of the Alpine landscape. At night-fall, when the moon
rose full over the lake, it turned out that a very pretty and
effective ovation had been arranged for me (I had been a frequent
visitor there) by our enthusiastic and attentive host, Colonel
Auf-der-Mauer. Two boats, illuminated by coloured lanterns, came
up to the beach facing our hotel, bearing the Brunnen brass band,
which was formed entirely of amateurs from the countryside. With
Federal staunchness, and without any attempts at punctilious
unison, they proceeded to play some of my compositions in a loud
and irrefutable manner. They then paid me homage in a little
speech, and I replied heartily, after which there was much
gripping of all sorts of horny hands on my part, as we drank a
few bottles of wine on the beach. For years afterwards I never
passed this beach on very frequent visits without receiving a
friendly handshake or a greeting. I was generally in doubt as to
what the particular boatman wanted of me, but it always turned
out that I was dealing with one of the brass bandsmen whose good
intentions had been manifested on that pleasant evening.

My sister Clara's lengthy stay with us at Zurich enlivened our
family circle very pleasantly. She was the musical one among my
brothers and sisters, and I enjoyed her society very much. It was
also a relief to me when her presence acted as a damper upon the
various household scenes brought on by Minna, who, as a result of
the steady development of her heart trouble, grew more and more
suspicious, vehement and obstinate.

In October I expected a visit from Liszt, who proposed to make a
fairly long stay at Zurich, accompanied by various people of
note. I could not wait so long, however, before beginning the
composition of Siegfried, and I began to sketch the overture on
the 22nd of September.

A tinker had established himself opposite our house, and stunned
my ears all day long with his incessant hammering. In my disgust
at never being able to find a detached house protected from every
kind of noise, I was on the point of deciding to give up
composing altogether until the time when this indispensable
condition should be fulfilled. But it was precisely my rage over
the tinker that, in a moment of agitation, gave me the theme for
Siegfried's furious outburst against the bungling Mime. I played
over the childishly quarrelsome Polter theme in G minor to my
sister, furiously singing the words at the same time, which made
us all laugh so much that I decided to make one more effort. This
resulted in my writing down a good part of the first scene by the
time Liszt arrived on 13th October.

Liszt came by himself, and my house at once became a musical
centre. He had finished his Faust and Dante Symphonies since I
had seen him, and it was nothing short of marvellous to hear him
play them to me on the piano from the score. As I felt sure that
Liszt must be convinced of the great impression his compositions
made on me, I felt no scruples in persuading him to alter the
mistaken ending of the Dante Symphony. If anything had convinced
me of the man's masterly and poetical powers of conception, it
was the original ending of the Faust Symphony, in which the
delicate fragrance of a last reminiscence of Gretchen overpowers
everything, without arresting the attention by a violent
disturbance. The ending of the Dante Symphony seemed to me to be
quite on the same lines, for the delicately introduced Magnificat
in the same way only gives a hint of a soft, shimmering Paradise.
I was the more startled to hear this beautiful suggestion
suddenly interrupted in an alarming way by a pompous, plagal
cadence which, as I was told, was supposed to represent Domenico.

'No!' I exclaimed loudly, 'not that! Away with it! No majestic
Deity! Leave us the fine soft shimmer.'

'You are right,' said Liszt. 'I said so too; it was the Princess
who persuaded me differently. But it shall be as you wish.'

All well and good--but all the greater was my distress to learn
later that not only had this ending of the Dante Symphony been
preserved, but even the delicate ending of the Faust Symphony,
which had appealed to me so particularly, had been changed, in a
manner better calculated to produce an effect, by the
introduction of a chorus. And this was exactly typical of my
relations to Liszt and to his friend Caroline Wittgenstein!

This woman, with her daughter Marie, was soon to arrive on a
visit too, and the necessary preparations were made for her
reception. But before these ladies arrived, a most painful
incident occurred between Liszt and Karl Ritter at my house.
Ritter's looks alone, and still more, a certain abrupt
contradictoriness in his way of speaking, seemed to put Liszt
into a state in which he was easily irritated. One evening Liszt
was speaking in an impressive tone of the merits of the Jesuits,
and Ritter's inopportune smiles appeared to offend him. At table
the conversation turned on the Emperor of the French, Louis
Napoleon, whose merits Liszt rather summarily insisted that we
should acknowledge, whereas we were, on the whole, anything but
enthusiastic about the general state of affairs in France. When
Liszt, in an attempt to make clear the important influence of
France on European culture, mentioned as an instance the French
Academie, Karl again indulged in his fatal smile. This
exasperated Liszt beyond all bounds, and in his reply he included
some such phrase as this: 'If we are not prepared to admit this,
what do we prove ourselves to be? Baboons!' I laughed, but again
Karl only smiled--this time, with deadly embarrassment. I
discovered afterwards through Bulow that in some youthful
squabble he had had the word 'Baboon-face' hurled at him. It soon
became impossible to hide the fact that Ritter felt himself
grossly insulted by 'the doctor,' as he called him, and he left
my house foaming with rage, not to set foot in it again for
years. After a few days I received a letter in which he demanded,
first, a complete apology from Liszt, as soon as he came to see
me again, and if this were unobtainable, Liszt's exclusion from
my house. It distressed me greatly to receive, soon after this, a
letter from Ritter's mother, whom I respected very much,
reproaching me for my unjust treatment of her son in not having
obtained satisfaction for an insult offered him in my house. For
a long time my relations with this family, intimate as they had
been, were painfully strained, as I found it impossible to make
them see the incident in the right light. When Liszt, after a
time, heard of it, he regretted the disturbance too, and with
praise-worthy magnanimity made the first advance towards a
reconciliation by paying Ritter a friendly visit. There was
nothing said about the incident, and Ritter's return visit was
made, not to Liszt, but to the Princess, who had arrived in the
meantime. After this Liszt decided that he could do nothing
further; Ritter, therefore, withdrew from our society from this
time forward, and changed his winter quarters from Zurich to
Lausanne, where he settled permanently.

Not only my own modest residence, but the whole of Zurich seemed
full of life when Princess Caroline and her daughter took up
their abode at the Hotel Baur for a time. The curious spell of
excitement which this lady immediately threw over every one she
succeeded in drawing into her circle amounted, in the case of my
good sister Clara (who was still with us at the time), almost to
intoxication. It was as if Zurich had suddenly become a
metropolis. Carriages drove hither and thither, footmen ushered
one in and out, dinners and suppers poured in upon us, and we
found ourselves suddenly surrounded by an increasing number of
interesting people, whose existence at Zurich we had never even
suspected, though they now undoubtedly cropped up everywhere. A
musician named Winterberger, who felt it incumbent on him on
certain occasions to behave eccentrically, had been brought there
by Liszt; Kirchner, the Schumann enthusiast from Winterthur, was
practically always there, attracted by the new life, and he too
did not fail to play the wag. But it was principally the
professors of Zurich University whom Princess Caroline coaxed out
of their hole-and-corner Zurich habits. She would have them, one
at a time, for herself, and again serve them up en masse for us.
If I looked in for a moment from my regular midday walk, the lady
would be dining alone, now with Semper, now with Professor
Kochly, then with Moleschott, and so on. Even my very peculiar
friend Sulzer was drawn in, and, as he could not deny, in a
manner intoxicated. But a really refreshing sense of freedom and
spontaneity pervaded everything, and the unceremonious evenings
at my house in particular were really remarkably free and easy.
On these occasions the Princess, with Polish patriarchal
friendliness, would help the mistress of the house in serving.
Once, after we had had some music, I had to give the substance of
my two newly conceived poems, Tristan und Isolde and Die Sieger,
to a group which, half sitting, half lying before me, was
certainly not without charm.

The crown of our festivities was, however, Liszt's birthday, on
the 22nd October, which the Princess celebrated with due pomp at
her own house. Every one who was some one at Zurich was there. A
poem by Hoffmann von Fallersleben was telegraphed from Weimar,
and at the Princess's request was solemnly read aloud by Herwegh
in a strangely altered voice. I then gave a performance, with
Frau Heim, of the first act, and a scene from the second, of the
Walkure, Liszt accompanying. I was able to obtain a favourable
idea of the effect of our performance by the wish expressed by
Dr. Wille to hear these things badly done, so that he could form
a correct judgment, as he feared he might be seduced by the
excellence of our execution. Besides these, Liszt's Symphonic
Poems were played on two grand pianos. At the feast, a dispute
arose about Heinrich Heine, with respect to whom Liszt made all
sorts of insidious remarks. Frau Wesendonck responded by asking
if he did not think Heine's name as a poet would, nevertheless,
be inscribed in the temple of immortality.

'Yes, but in mud,' answered Liszt quickly, creating, as may be
conceived, a great sensation.

Unfortunately, our circle was soon to suffer a great loss by
Liszt's illness--a skin eruption--which confined him to his bed
for a considerable period. As soon as he was a little better, we
quickly went to the piano again to try over by ourselves my two
finished scores of Rheingold and the Walkure. Princess Marie
listened carefully, and was even able to make intelligent
suggestions in connection with a few difficult passages in the
poem.

Princess Caroline, too, seemed to set extraordinary store on
being quite clear as to the actual intrigue concerning the fate
of the gods in my Nibelungen. She took me in hand one day, quite
like one of the Zurich professors, en particulier, to clear up
this point to her satisfaction. I must confess it was irrefutably
brought home to me that she was anxious to understand the most
delicate and mysterious features of the intrigue, though in
rather too precise and matter-of-fact a spirit. In the end I felt
as though I had explained a French society play to her. Her high
spirits in all such things were as marked as the curious
amiability of her nature in other respects; for when I one day
explained to her, in illustration of the first of these two
qualities, that four weeks of uninterrupted companionship with
her would have been the death of me, she laughed heartily. I had
reason for sadness in the changes which I realised had taken
place in her daughter Marie; in the three years since I had first
seen her she had faded to an extraordinary extent. If I then
called her a 'child,' I could not now properly describe her as a
'young woman.' Some disastrous experience seemed to have made her
prematurely old. It was only when she was excited, especially in
the evening when she was with friends, that the attractive and
radiant side of her nature asserted itself to a marked extent. I
remember one fine evening at Herwegh's, when Liszt was moved to
the same state of enthusiasm by a grand-piano abominably out of
tune, as by the disgusting cigars to which at that time he was
more passionately devoted than to the finer brands. We were all
compelled to exchange our belief in magic for a belief in actual
witchcraft as we listened to his wonderful phantasies on this
pianoforte. To my great horror, Liszt still gave evidence on more
than one occasion of an irritability which was thoroughly bad-
tempered and even quarrelsome, such as had already manifested
itself in the unfortunate scene with young Ritter. For instance,
it was dangerous, especially in the presence of Princess
Caroline, to praise Goethe. Even Liszt and myself had nearly
quarrelled (for which he seemed to be very eager) over the
character of Egmont, which he thought it his duty to depreciate
because the man allows himself to be taken in by Alba. I had been
warned, and had the presence of mind to confine myself to
observing the peculiar physiology of my friend on this occasion,
and turning my attention to his condition, much more than to the
subject of our dispute. We never actually came to blows; but from
this time forward I retained throughout my life a vague feeling
that we might one day come to such an encounter, in which case it
would not fail to be terrific. Perhaps it was just this feeling
that acted as a check on me whenever any opportunity arose for
heated argument. Goodness knows that I myself had a bad enough
reputation with my friends for my own irritability and sudden
outbursts of temper!

After I had made a stay of more than six weeks, we had a final
opportunity for coming together again before my return from this
visit that had meant so much for me. We had agreed to spend a
week at St. Gall, where we had an invitation from Schadrowsky, a
young musical director, to give our support to a society concert
in that district.

We stayed together at the Hecht inn, and the Princess entertained
us as if she had been in her own house. She gave me and my wife a
room next her own private apartment. Unfortunately a most trying
night was in store for us. Princess Caroline had one of her
severe nervous attacks, and in order to preclude the approach of
the painful hallucination by which she was tormented at such
times, her daughter Marie was obliged to read to her all through
the night in a voice deliberately raised a good deal above its
natural pitch. I got fearfully excited, especially at what
appeared to be an inexplicable disregard for the peace of one's
neighbour implied by such conduct. At two o'clock in the morning
I leaped out of bed, rang the bell continuously until the waiter
awoke, and asked him to take me to a bedroom in one of the
remotest parts of the inn. We moved there and then, not without
attracting the attention of our neighbours, upon whom, however,
the circumstance made no impression. The next morning I was much
astonished to see Marie appear as usual, quite unembarrassed, and
without showing the least traces of anything exceptional having
occurred. I now learned that everybody connected with the
Princess was thoroughly accustomed to such disturbances. Here,
too, the house soon filled with all sorts of guests: Herwegh and
his wife came, Dr. Wille and his wife, Kirchner, and several
others, and before long our life in the Hecht yielded nothing, in
point of activity, to our life in the Hotel Baur. The excuse for
all this, as I have said, was the society concert of the musical
club of St. Gall. At the rehearsal, to my genuine delight, Liszt
impressed two of his compositions, Orpheus and the Prelude, upon
the orchestra with complete success, in spite of the limited
resources at his command. The performance turned out to be a
really fine one, and full of spirit. I was especially delighted
with the Orpheus and with the finely proportioned orchestral
work, to which I had always assigned a high place of honour among
Liszt's compositions. On the other hand, the special favour of
the public was awarded to the Prelude, of which the greater part
was encored. I conducted the Eroica Symphony of Beethoven under
very painful conditions, as I always caught cold on such
occasions, and generally became feverish afterwards. My
conception and rendering of Beethoven's work made a powerful
impression upon Liszt, whose opinion was the only one which had
any real weight with me. We watched each other over our work with
a closeness and sympathy that was genuinely instructive. At night
we had to take part in a little supper in our honour, which was
the occasion for expressing the noble and deep sentiments of the
worthy citizens of St. Gall concerning the significance of our
visit. As I was regaled with a most complimentary panegyric by a
poet, it was necessary for me to respond with equal seriousness
and eloquence. In his dithyrambic enthusiasm, Liszt went so far
as to suggest a general clinking of glasses, signifying approval
of his suggestion that the new theatre of St. Gall should be
opened with a model performance of Lohengrin. No one offered any
objection. The next day, the 24th of November, we all met, for
various festivities, in the house of an ardent lover of music,
Herr Bourit, a rich merchant of St. Gall. Here we had some
pianoforte music, and Liszt played to us, among other things, the
great Sonata of Beethoven in B flat major, at the close of which
Kirchner dryly and candidly remarked, 'Now we can truly say that
we have witnessed the impossible, for I shall always regard what
I have just heard as an impossibility.' On this occasion,
attention was called to the twentieth anniversary of my marriage
with Minna, which fell on this day, and after the wedding music
of Lohengrin had been played, we formed a charming procession a
la Polonaise through the various rooms.

In spite of all these pleasant experiences, I should have been
well content to see the end of the business and return to the
peace of my home in Zurich. The indisposition of the Princess,
however, retarded the departure of my friends for Germany for
several days, and we found ourselves compelled to remain together
in a state of nervous tension and aimlessness for some time,
until at last, on the 27th November, I escorted my visitors to
Rorschach, and took my leave of them there on the steamer. Since
then I have never seen the Princess or her daughter, nor I think
it likely I shall ever meet them again.

It was not without some misgiving that I took leave of my
friends, for the Princess was really ill, and Liszt seemed to be
much exhausted. I recommended their immediate return to Weimar,
and told them to take care of themselves. Great was my surprise,
therefore, when before long I received the news that they were
making a sojourn of some duration in Munich. This followed
immediately upon their departure, and was also attended with much
noisy festivity and occasional artistic gatherings. I was thus
led to the conclusion that it was foolish of me to recommend
people with such constitutions either to do a thing or to abstain
from doing it. I, for my part, returned home to Zurich very much
exhausted, unable to sleep, and tormented by the frosty weather
at this cold season of the year. I was afraid that I had by my
recent method of life subjected myself to a fresh attack of
erysipelas. I was very pleased when I awoke the next morning to
discover no trace of what I feared, and from that day I continued
to sing the praises of my excellent Dr. Vaillant wherever I went.
By the beginning of December I had so far recovered as to be able
to resume the composition of Siegfried. Thus I again entered upon
my orderly method of life, with all its insignificance as far as
outward things were concerned: work, long walks, the perusal of
books, evenings spent with some friend or other of the domestic
circle. The only thing that worried me was the regret I still
felt for my quarrel with Ritter, in consequence of the unhappy
contre-temps with Liszt. I now lost touch entirely with this
young friend, who in so many ways had endeared himself to me.
Before the close of the winter he left Zurich without seeing me
again.

During the months of January and February (1857) I completed the
first act of Siegfried, writing down the composition in full to
take the place of the earlier rough pencil draft, and immediately
set to work on the orchestration; but I probably carried out
Vaillant's instructions with too much zeal. Pursued by the fear
of a possible return of erysipelas, I sought to ward it off by a
repeated and regular process of sweating once a week, wrapped up
in towels, on the hydropathic system. By this means I certainly
escaped the dreaded evil, but the effort exhausted me very much,
and I longed for the return of the warm weather, when I should be
relieved from the severities of this treatment.

It was now that the tortures inflicted upon me by noisy and
musical neighbours began to increase in intensity. Apart from the
tinker, whom I hated with a deadly hatred, and with whom I had a
terrible scene about once a week, the number of pianos in the
house where I lived was augmented. The climax came with the
arrival of a certain Herr Stockar, who played the flute in the
room under mine every Sunday, whereupon I gave up all hope of
composing any more. One day my friends the Wesendoncks, who had
returned from wintering in Paris, unfolded to me a most welcome
prospect of the fulfilment of my ardent wishes in regard to my
future place of abode. Wesendonck had already had an idea of
having a small house built for me on a site I was to select for
myself. My own plans, elaborated with a deceptive skill, had been
already submitted to an architect. But the acquisition of a
suitable plot of land was and still remained a great difficulty.
In my walks I had long had my eye on a little winter residence in
the district of Enge, on the ridge of the hill that separates the
Lake of Zurich from Sihlthal. It was called Lavater Cottage, as
it had belonged to that famous phrenologist, and he had been in
the habit of staying there regularly. I had enlisted the services
of my friend Hagenbuch, the Cantonal Secretary, to use all his
influence to secure me a few acres of land at this spot as
cheaply as possible. But herein lay the great difficulty. The
piece of land I required consisted of various lots attached to
larger estates, and it turned out that in order to acquire my one
plot it would have been necessary to buy out a large number of
different owners. I put the difficulties of my case before
Wesendonck, and gradually created in him a desire to purchase
this wide tract of land, and lay out a fine site containing a
large villa for his own family. The idea was that I should also
have a plot there. However, the demands made upon my friend in
regard to the preliminaries and to the building of his house,
which was to be on a scale both generous and dignified, were too
many, and he also thought the enclosure of two families within
the same confines might lead in time to inconveniences on both
sides. There happened to be an unpretentious little country house
with a garden which I had admired, and which was only separated
from his estate by a narrow carriage drive; and this Wesendonck
decided to buy for me. I rejoiced beyond measure when I heard of
his intention. The shock experienced by the over-cautious buyer
was consequently all the greater when one day be discovered that
the present owner, with whom he had negotiated in too timid a
fashion, had just sold his piece of land to somebody else. Luckily
it turned out that the buyer was a mental specialist, whose sole
intention in making the purchase was to instal himself with his
lunatic asylum by the side of my friend. This information awakened
the most terrible anticipations in Wesendonck, and put the utmost
strain upon his energy. He now gave instructions that this piece
of land must be acquired at any price from the unfortunate
specialist. Thus, after many vexatious vicissitudes, it came into
the possession of my friend, who had to pay pretty heavily for it.
He allowed me to come into possession at Easter of this year,
charging me the same rent as I had paid for my lodging in the
Zeltweg, that is to say, eight hundred francs a year.

Our installation in this house, which occupied me heart and soul
at the beginning of the spring, was not achieved without many a
disappointment. The cottage, which had only been designed for use
in summer, had to be made habitable for the winter by putting in
heating apparatus and various other necessaries. It is true, that
most of the essentials in this respect were carried out by the
proprietor; but no end of difficulties remained to be solved.
There was not a single thing upon which my wife and I did not
constantly differ, and my position as an ordinary middle-class
man without a brass farthing of my own made matters no easier.
With regard to my finances, however, events took place from time
to time which were well calculated to inspire a sanguine
temperament with trustful confidence in the future. In spite of
the bad performances of my operas, Tannhauser brought me
unexpectedly good royalties from Berlin. From Vienna, too, I
obtained the wherewithal to give me breathing-space in a most
curious way. I was still excluded from the Royal Opera, and I had
been assured that so long as there was an imperial court, I was
not to dream of a performance of my seditious works in Vienna.
This strange state of affairs inspired my old director, Hoffmann
of Riga, now director of the Josephstadt Theatre, to venture on
the production of Tannhauser with a special opera company, in a
summer theatre built by himself on the Lerchenfeld outside the
boundary of Vienna. He offered me for every performance which I
would license a royalty of a hundred francs. When Liszt, whom I
informed of the matter, thought this offer was suspicious, I
wrote and told him that I proposed to follow Mirabeau's example
with regard to it. Mirabeau, when he failed to be elected by his
peers to the assembly of Notables, addressed himself to the
electors of Marseilles in the capacity of a linen-draper. This
pleased Liszt; and, indeed, I now made my way, by means of the
summer theatre on the Lerchenfeld, into the capital of the
Austrian empire. Of the performance itself the most wonderful
accounts reached me. Sulzer, who on one of his journeys had
passed through Vienna and had witnessed a performance, had
complained principally of the darkness of the house, which did
not allow him to read a single word of the libretto, also of its
having rained hard right into the middle of the audience. Another
story was told me some years later by the son-in-law of Mme.
Herold, the widow of the composer of that name. He had been in
Vienna at that period on his wedding tour, and had heard this
Lerchenfeld performance. The young man assured me that, in spite
of all superficial deficiencies, the production there had given
him genuine pleasure, and had been more deeply impressive than
the performance in the Berlin Court Theatre, which he had seen
afterwards, and found immeasurably inferior. The energy of my old
Riga Theatre director in Vienna brought me in two thousand francs
for twenty performances of Tannhauser. After such a curious
experience, offering clear proof of my popularity, I may perhaps
be excused for having felt confident about the future, and having
relied on incalculable results from my works, even with regard to
actual gain.

While I was thus occupied in arranging the little country house
for which I had longed so much, and working on the orchestration
of the first act of Siegfried, I plunged anew into the philosophy
of Schopenhauer and into Scott's novels, to which I was drawn
with a particular affection. I also busied myself with
elucidating my impressions of Liszt's compositions. For this
purpose I adopted the form of a letter to Marie Wittgenstein,
which was published in Brendel's musical journal.

When we moved to what I intended to be my permanent refuge for
life, I again set myself to consider the means of obtaining a
basis for the supply of the necessities of that life. Once again
I took up the threads of my negotiations with Hartel about the
Nibelungen, but I was obliged to put them down as unfruitful, and
little calculated to end in any success for this work. I
complained of this to Liszt, and openly told him how glad I
should be if he would bring this to the ears of the Grand Duke of
Weimar (who, from what my friend told me, wished himself still to
be regarded as the patron of my Nibelungen enterprise), so that
he might realise the difficulties I was encountering in the
matter. I added that if one could not expect a common bookseller
to assume the responsibility of such an extraordinary
undertaking, one might well hope that the Prince, whose idea was
to make it a point of honour, should take a share, and a serious
share, in the necessary preliminaries, among which the
development of the work itself must very properly be included. My
meaning was, that the Grand Duke should take the place of Hartel,
should purchase the work from me, and pay by instalments as the
score neared completion; he would thus become the owner, and,
later on, could if he liked cover his expenses through a
publisher. Liszt understood me very well, but could not refrain
from dissuading me from taking up such an attitude towards his
Royal Highness.

My whole attention was now directed to the young Grand Duchess of
Baden. Several years had passed since Eduard Devrient had been
transferred to Karlsruhe by the Grand Duke to be manager of the
court theatre there. Since my departure from Dresden I had always
kept in touch with Devrient, though our meetings were rare.
Moreover, he had written the most enthusiastic letters in
appreciation of my pamphlets, Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft and Oper
und Drama. He maintained that the Karlsruhe Theatre was so poorly
equipped, that he thought he could not well entertain the idea of
a performance of my operas in that house. All these conditions
were suddenly changed when the Grand Duke married, and the Crown
Princess's young daughter, who had been turned into a champion of
mine by my old friend Alwine Frommann, thus secured a position of
independence in Karlsruhe, and was eager in her demand for the
performance of my works. My operas were now being produced there
also, and Devrient in his turn had the pleasure of informing me
of the great interest shown in them by the young Princess, who
even frequently attended the rehearsals. This made a very
agreeable impression upon me. On my own initiative I expressed my
gratitude in an address which I directed to the Grand Duchess
herself, enclosing 'Wotan's Abschied' from the finale of the
Walkure as a souvenir for her album.

The 20th April was now drawing near, the day on which I was to
leave my lodging in the Zeltweg (which had already been let),
although I could not occupy the cottage, where the arrangements
were not yet complete. The bad weather had given us colds in the
course of our frequent visits to the little house, in which
masons and carpenters had made themselves at home. In the worst
of tempers we spent a week in the inn, and I began to wonder
whether it was worth while occupying this new piece of land at
all, for I had a sudden foreboding that it would be my fate to
wander further afield. Eventually we moved in at the end of
April, in spite of everything. It was cold and damp, the new
heating apparatus did not provide any warmth, and we were both
ill, and could hardly leave our beds. Then came a good omen: the
first letter that reached me was one of reconciliation and love
from Frau Julie Ritter, in which she told me that the quarrel,
brought about by her son's conduct, was at last ended. Beautiful
spring weather now set in; on Good Friday I awoke to find the sun
shining brightly for the first time in this house: the little
garden was radiant with green, the birds sang, and at last I
could sit on the roof and enjoy the long-yearned-for peace with
its message of promise. Full of this sentiment, I suddenly
remembered that the day was Good Friday, and I called to mind the
significance this omen had already once assumed for me when I was
reading Wolfram's Parsifal. Since the sojourn in Marienbad, where
I had conceived the Meistersinger and Lohengrin, I had never
occupied myself again with that poem; now its noble possibilities
struck me with overwhelming force, and out of my thoughts about
Good Friday I rapidly conceived a whole drama, of which I made a
rough sketch with a few dashes of the pen, dividing the whole
into three acts.

In the midst of arranging the house, a never-ending task, at
which I set to work with all my might, I felt an inner compulsion
to work: I took up Siegfried again, and began to compose the
second act. I had not made up my mind what name to give to my new
place of refuge. As the introductory part of this act turned out
very well, thanks to my favourable frame of mind, I burst out
laughing at the thought that I ought to call my new home
'Fafner's Ruhe,' to correspond with the first piece of work done
in it. It was not destined to be so, however. The property
continued to be called simply 'Asyl,' and I have designated it
under this title in the chart of dates to my works.

The miscarriage of my prospects of support for the Nibelungen
from the Grand Duke of Weimar fostered in me a continued
depression of spirits; for I saw before me a burden of which I
knew not how to rid myself. At the same time a romantic message
was conveyed to me: a man who rejoiced in the name of Ferreiro
introduced himself to me as the Brazilian consul in Leipzig, and
told me that the Emperor of Brazil was greatly attracted by my
music. The man was an adept in meeting my doubts about this
strange phenomenon in the letters which he wrote; the Emperor
loved everything German, and wanted me very much to come to him
in Rio Janeiro, so that I might conduct my operas in person. As
only Italian was sung in that country, it would be necessary to
translate my libretto, which the Emperor regarded as a very easy
matter, and actually an improvement to the libretto itself.
Strange to say, these proposals exercised a very agreeable
influence on me. I felt I could easily produce a passionate
musical poem which would turn out quite excellent in Italian, and
I turned my thoughts once more, with an ever-reviving preference,
towards Tristan und Isolde. In order in some way to test the
intensity of that generous affection for my works protested by
the Emperor of Brazil, I promptly sent to Senor Ferreiro the
expensively bound volumes containing the pianoforte versions of
my three earlier operas, and for a long time I indulged in the
hope of some very handsome return from their gracious and
splendid reception in Rio Janeiro. But of these pianoforte
versions, and the Emperor of Brazil and his consul Ferreiro, I
never heard a single syllable again as long as I lived. Semper,
it is true, involved himself in an architectonic entanglement
with this tropical country: a competition was invited for the
building of a new opera house in Rio; Semper had announced that
he would take part in it, and completed some splendid plans which
afforded us great entertainment, and appeared to be of special
interest, among others, to Dr. Wille, who thought that it must be
a new problem for an architect to sketch an opera house for a
black public. I have not learned whether the results of Semper's
negotiations with Brazil were much more satisfactory than mine;
at all events, I know that he did not build the theatre.

A violent cold threw me for a few days into a state of high
fever; when I recovered from it, my birthday had come. As I was
sitting once more in the evening on my roof, I was surprised at
hearing one of the songs of the Three Rhine Maidens, from the
finale of Rheingold, which floated to my ears from the near
distance across the gardens. Frau Pollert, whose troubles with
her husband had once stood in the way of a second performance in
Magdeburg of my Liebesverbot (in itself a very difficult
production), had again appeared last winter as a singer, and also
as the mother of two daughters, in the theatrical firmament of
Zurich. As she still had a fine voice, and was full of goodwill
towards me, I allowed her to practise the last act of Walkure for
herself, and the Rhine Maidens scenes from the Rheingold with her
two daughters, and frequently in the course of the winter we had
managed to give short performances of this music for our friends.
On the evening of my birthday the song of my devoted lady friends
surprised me in a very touching way, and I suddenly experienced a
strange revulsion of feeling, which made me disinclined to
continue the composition of the Nibelungen, and all the more
anxious to take up Tristan again. I determined to yield to this
desire, which I had long nourished in secret, and to set to work
at once on this new task, which I had wished to regard only as a
short interruption to the great one. However, in order to prove
to myself that I was not being scared away from the older work by
any feeling of aversion, I determined, at all events, to complete
the composition of the second act of Siegfried, which had only
just been begun. This I did with a right good will, and gradually
the music of Tristan dawned more and more clearly on my mind.

To some extent external motives, which seemed to me both
attractive and advantageous to the execution of my task, acted as
incentives to make me set to work on Tristan. These motives
became fully defined when Eduard Devrient came on a visit to me
at the beginning of July and stayed with me for three days. He
told me of the good reception accorded to my despatch by the
Grand Duchess of Baden, and I gathered that he had been
commissioned to come to an understanding with me about some
enterprise or other; I informed him that I had decided to
interrupt my work on the Nibelungen by composing an opera, which
was bound by its contents and requirements to put me once more
into relation with the theatres, however inferior they might be.
I should do myself an injustice if I said that this external
motive alone inspired the conception of Tristan, and made me
determine to have it produced. Nevertheless, I must confess that
a perceptible change had come over the frame of mind in which,
several years ago, I had contemplated the completion of the
greater work. At the same time I had come fresh from my writings
upon art, in which I had attempted to explain the reasons for the
decay of our public art, and especially of the theatre, by
seeking to establish some connection between these reasons and the
prevailing condition of culture. It would have been impossible
for me at that time to have devoted myself to a work which
compelled me to study its immediate production at one of our
existing theatres. It was only an utter disregard of these
theatres, as I have taken occasion to observe before, that could
determine me to take up my artistic work again. With regard to
the Nibelungen dramas, I was compelled to adhere without
flinching to the one essential stipulation that it could only be
produced under quite exceptional conditions, such as those I
afterwards described in the preface to the printed edition of the
poem. Nevertheless, the successful popularisation of my earlier
operas had so far influenced my frame of mind that, as I
approached the completion of more than half of my great work, I
felt I could look forward with growing confidence to the
possibility that this too might be produced. Up to this point
Liszt had been the only person to nourish the secret hope of my
heart, as he was confident that the Grand Duke of Weimar would do
something for me, but to judge from my latest experience these
prospects amounted to nothing, while I had grounds for hoping
that a new work of similar design to Tannhauser or Lohengrin
would be taken up everywhere with considerable alacrity. The
manner in which I finally executed the plan of Tristan shows
clearly how little I was thinking of our operatic theatres and
the scope of their capabilities. Nevertheless, I had still to
fight a continuous battle for the necessaries of life, and I
succeeded in deceiving myself so far as to persuade myself that
in interrupting the composition of the Nibelungen and taking up
Tristan, I was acting in the practical spirit of a man who
carefully weighs the issues at stake. Devrient was much pleased
to hear that I was undertaking a work that could be regarded as
practical. He asked me at which theatre I contemplated producing
my new work. I answered that naturally I could only have in view
a theatre in which it would be possible for me to superintend the
task of production in person. My idea was that this would either
be in Brazil or, as I was excluded from the territory of the
German Confederation, in one of the towns lying near the German
frontiers, which I presumed would be able to place an operatic
company at my disposal. The place I had in my mind was Strasburg,
but Devrient had many practical reasons for being wholly opposed
to such an undertaking; he was of opinion that a performance in
Karlsruhe could be arranged more easily and would meet with
greater success. My only objection to this was, that in that town
I should be debarred from taking a personal share in the study
and production of my work. Devrient, however, thought that, as
far as this was concerned, I might feel justified in entertaining
some hope, as the Grand Duke of Baden was so well disposed
towards me, and took an active interest in my work. I was highly
delighted to learn this. Devrient also spoke with great sympathy
of the young tenor Schnorr, who, besides possessing admirable
gifts, was keenly attracted by my operas. I was now in the best
of tempers, and acted the host to Devrient for all I was worth.
One morning I played and sang to him the whole of the Rheingold,
which seemed to give him great pleasure. Half seriously, and half
in joke, I told him that I had written the character of Mime
especially for him, and that if, when the work was ready, it was
not too late, he might have the pleasure of taking the part. As
Devrient was with me, he had, of course, to do his share of
reciting. I invited all the friends in our circle, including
Semper and Herwegh, and Devrient read us the Mark Antony scenes
from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. So happy was his interpretation
of the part, that even Herwegh, who had approached the recitation
from its outset in a spirit of ridicule, freely acknowledged the
success of the practised actor's skilful manipulation. Devrient
wrote a letter from my house to the Grand Duke of Baden, telling
him his impressions about me and what he had found me like. Soon
after his departure I received an autograph letter from the Grand
Duke, couched in very amiable terms, in which he first thanked me
most profusely for the souvenir I had presented to his wife for
her album, and at the same time declared his intention of
championing my cause, and, above all, of securing my return to
Germany.

From this time forward my resolve to produce Tristan had to be
seriously entertained, as it was written in plain letters in my
book of fate. To all these circumstances I was indebted for the
continuation of the favourable mood in which I now brought the
second act of Siegfried to a close. My daily walks were directed
on bright summer afternoons to the peaceful Sihlthal, in whose
wooded surroundings I listened long and attentively to the song
of the forest birds, and I was astonished to make the
acquaintance of entirely new melodies, sung by singers whose
forms I could not see and whose names I did not know. In the
forest scene of Siegfried I put down, in artistic imitation of
nature, as much as I could remember of these airs. At the
beginning of August I had carefully sketched the composition of
the second act. I was glad I had reserved the third act with the
awakening of Brunhilda for the time when I should again be able
to go on with the opera, for it seemed to me that all the
problems in my work were now happily solved, and that all that
remained was to get pure joy out of it.

As I firmly believed in the wisdom of husbanding my artistic
power, I now prepared to write out Tristan. A certain strain was
put upon my patience at this point by the arrival of the
excellent Ferdinand Prager from London. His visit, in other
respects, was a source of genuine pleasure to me, for I was bound
to recognise in him a faithful and life-long friend. The only
difficulty was, that he laboured under the delusion that he was
exceptionally nervous, and that he was persecuted by fate. This
was a source of considerable annoyance to me, as with the best
will in the world, I could not muster up any sympathy for him. We
helped ourselves out of the dilemma by an excursion to
Schaffhausen, where I paid my first visit to the famous Rhine
Falls, which did not fail to impress me duly.

About this time the Wesendoncks moved into their villa, which had
now been embellished by stucco-workers and upholsterers from
Paris. At this point a new phase began in my relations with this
family, which was not really important, but nevertheless
exercised considerable influence on the outward conduct of my
life. We had become so intimate, through being such near
neighbours in a country place, that it was impossible to avoid a
marked increase in our intimacy if only through meeting one
another daily. I had often noticed that Wesendonck, in his
straightforward open manner, had shown uneasiness at the way in
which I made myself at home in his house. In many things, in the
matter of heating and lighting the rooms, and also in the hours
appointed for meals, consideration was shown me which seemed to
encroach upon his rights as master of the house. It needed a few
confidential discussions on the subject to establish an agreement
which was half implied and half expressed. This understanding had
a tendency, as time wore on, to assume a doubtful significance in
the eyes of other people, and necessitated a certain measure of
precaution in an intimacy which had now become exceedingly close.
These precautions were occasionally the source of great amusement
to the two parties who were in the secret. Curiously enough, this
closer association with my neighbour coincided with the time when
I began to work out my libretto, Tristan und Isolde.

Robert Franz now arrived in Zurich on a visit. I was delighted by
his agreeable personality, and his visit reassured me that no
deep significance need be attached to the somewhat strained
relations which had sprung up between us since the time when he
took up the cudgels for me on the occasion of the production of
Lohengrin. The misunderstanding had been chiefly due to the
intermeddling of his brother-in-law Heinrich (who had written a
pamphlet about me). We played and sang together; he accompanied
me in some of his songs, and my compositions for the Nibelungen
seemed to please him. But one day, when the Wesendoncks asked him
to dinner to meet me, he begged that he might be alone with the
family without any other guests, because if I were there he would
not attain the importance by which he set so much store. We
laughed over this, and I did so the more heartily because I was
sometimes quite grateful to be saved the trouble of talking to
people so curiously uncommunicative as I found Franz to be. After
he left us, he never sent us a word of himself or his doings
again.

When I had almost finished the first act of Tristan, a newly
married couple arrived in Zurich, who certainly had a prominent
claim on my interest. It was about the beginning of September
that Hans von Bulow arrived with his young wife Cosima (a
daughter of Liszt's) at the Raben Hotel. I invited them to my
little house, so that they might spend the whole time of their
stay in Zurich with me, as their visit was mainly on my account.

We spent the month of September together most pleasantly. In the
meanwhile I completed the libretto of Tristan und Isolde, and at
the same time Hans made me a fair copy of each act. I read it
over, act by act, to my two friends, until at last I was able to
get them all together for a private reading, which made a deep
impression on the few intimate friends who composed the audience.
As Frau Wesendonck appeared to be particularly moved by the last
act, I said consolingly that one ought not to grieve over it, as,
under any circumstances, in a matter so grave things generally
turned out in this way, and Cosima heartily agreed. We also had a
good deal of music together, as in Billow I had at last found the
right man to play Klindworth's atrocious arrangement of my
Nibelungen scores. But the two acts of Siegfried, which had only
been written down as rough drafts, were mastered by Hans with
such consummate skill that he could play them as if they had
really been arranged for the piano. As usual, I took all the
singing parts; sometimes we had a few listeners, amongst whom
Mme. Wille was the most promising. Cosima listened silently with
her head bowed; if pressed for an expression of opinion, she
began to cry.

Towards the end of September my young friends left me to travel
back to their destination in Berlin, and begin their married life
like good citizens.

For the time being we had sounded a sort of funeral peal over the
Nibelungen by playing so much of it, and it was now completely
laid aside. The consequence was, that when later on we took it
out of its folio for similar gatherings, it wore a lack-lustre
look, and grew ever fainter, as if to remind us of the past. At
the beginning of October, however, I at once began to compose
Tristan, finishing the first act by the new year, when I was
already engaged in orchestrating the prelude. During that time I
developed a dreamy, timorous passion for retirement. Work, long
walks in all winds and weathers, evenings spent in reading
Calderon--such was my mode of life, and if it was disturbed, I
was thrown into the deepest state of irritation. My connection
with the world confined itself almost entirely to my negotiations
with the music-seller Hartel about the publication of Tristan. As
I had told this man that, by way of contrast to the immense
undertaking of the Nibelungen, I had in my mind a practicable
work, which, in its demands upon the producer, confined itself,
to all intents and purposes, to the engagement of a few good
singers, he showed such keenness to take up my offer that I
ventured to ask four hundred louis d'or. Thereupon Hartel
answered that I was to read his counter offer, made, in a sealed
letter which he enclosed, only on condition that I at once agreed
to waive my own demands entirely, as he did not think the work I
proposed to write was one which could be produced without
difficulties. In the sealed enclosure I found that he offered me
only one hundred louis d'or, but he undertook, after a period of
five years, to give me a half-share in the proceeds, with the
alternative of buying out my rights for another hundred louis
d'or. With these terms I had to comply, and soon set to work to
orchestrate the first act, so as to let the engraver have one
batch of sheets at a time.

Besides this, I was interested at that time in the expected
crisis of the American money market in the month of November, the
consequences of which, during a few fatal weeks, threatened to
endanger the whole of my friend Wesendonck's fortune. I remember
that the impending catastrophe was borne with great dignity by
those who were likely to be its victims; still the possibility of
having to sell their house, their grounds, and their horses cast
an unavoidable gloom over our evening meetings; and, after a
while, Wesendonck went away to make arrangements with various
foreign bankers.

During that time I spent the mornings in my house composing
Tristan, and every evening we used to read Calderon, which made a
deep and permanent impression upon me, for I had become fairly
familiar with Spanish dramatic literature, thanks to Schack. At
last the dreaded American crisis happily blew over, and it was
soon apparent that Wesendonck's fortune had considerably
increased. Again, during the winter evenings, I read Tristan
aloud to a wider circle of friends. Gottfried Keller was pleased
with the compact form of the whole, which really contained only
three full scenes. Semper, however, was very angry about it: he
objected that I took everything too seriously, and said that the
charm in the artistic construction of such material consisted in
the fact that the tragic element was broken up in such a way that
one could extract enjoyment even from its most affecting parts.
That was just what pleased him in Mozart's Don Juan, one met the
tragic types there, as if at a masquerade, where even the domino
was preferable to the plain character. I admitted that I should
get on much more comfortably if I took life more seriously and
art more lightly, but for the present I intended to let the
opposite relations prevail.

As a matter of fact people shook their heads. After I had
sketched the first act of the composition, and had developed the
character of my musical production more precisely. I thought with
a peculiar smile of my first idea of writing this work as a sort
of Italian opera, and I became less anxious at the absence of
news from Brazil. On the other hand, my attention was
particularly drawn at the end of this year to what was going on
in Paris in regard to my operas. A young author from that city
wrote asking me to entrust him with the translation of my
Tannhauser, as the manager of the Theatre Lyrique, M. Carvalho,
was taking steps to produce that opera in Paris. I was alarmed at
this, as I was afraid that the copyright of my works had not been
secured in France, and that they might dispose of them there at
their own sweet will. To this I most strongly objected. I was
well aware how this undertaking would be carried out, from an
account I had read a short time before of the performance of
Weber's Euryanthe at that very Theatre Lyrique, and of the
objectionable elaborations or rather mutilations which had been
effected for the purposes of production. As Liszt's elder
daughter Blandine had recently married the famous lawyer E.
Ollivier, and I could consequently rely on substantial help from
them, I made up my mind to go to Paris for a week, and look after
the matter about which I had been approached, and, at any rate,
secure my author's rights legally. In addition to this I was in a
very melancholy state of mind, to which overwork and constant
occupation on the kind of task that Semper had, perhaps with
justice, denounced as being too serious, had contributed by
reason of the strain on my mental powers.

If I remember rightly, I gave evidence of this state of mind
(which curiously enough led me to despise all worldly cares) in a
letter I wrote to my old friend Alwine Frommann on New Year's Eve
1857.

With the beginning of the new year 1858 the necessity for a break
in my work became so manifest, that I positively dreaded
beginning the instrumentation of the first act of Tristan und
Isolde, until I had allowed myself the trip for which I longed.
For at that moment, unfortunately, neither Zurich, nor my home,
nor the company of my friends afforded me any relaxation.

Even the agreeable and immediate proximity of the Wesendonck
family increased my discomfort, for it was really intolerable to
me to devote all my evenings to conversations and entertainments
in which my kind friend Otto Wesendonck felt obliged to take as
much part as myself and the rest of us. His apprehension that
everything in his house would very soon follow my lead instead of
his, gave him that peculiar aggressiveness with which a man who
believes himself neglected interpolates himself like an
extinguisher into every conversation carried on in his presence.

All this soon became oppressive and irksome to me, and no one who
did not realise my condition, and show signs of sympathising with
it, could excite my interest, and even then it was a very languid
one. So I made up my mind in the middle of the severe winter
weather, and notwithstanding the fact that for the present I was
quite unprovided with the necessary means, and was consequently
obliged to take all sorts of tiresome precautions, to carry out
my excursion to Paris. I felt a growing presentiment that I was
going away never to return. I reached Strasburg on the 15th of
January, too much upset to travel any further just then. From
there I wrote to Eduard Devrient at Karlsruhe, asking him to
request the Grand Duke to send an adjutant to meet me at Kehl on
my return from Paris, to accompany me on a visit to Karlsruhe, as
I particularly wanted to become acquainted with the artists who
were to sing in Tristan. A little later I was taken to task by
Eduard Devrient for my impertinence in expecting to have grand-
ducal adjutants at my disposal, from which I gathered that he had
attributed my request to a desire for some mark of honour,
whereas my idea had been that that was the only possible way in
which I, a political outlaw, could venture to visit Karlsruhe,
though my object was a purely professional one. I could not help
smiling at this strange misconception, but I was also startled at
this proof of shallowness in my old friend, and began to wonder
what he might do next.

I was trudging wearily along in the twilight through the public
promenade of Strasburg, to restore my overwrought nerves, when I
was suddenly taken aback by seeing on a theatre poster the word
TANNHAUSER. Looking at the bill more closely, I saw that it was
the Overture to Tannhauser that was to be given as a prelude to a
French play. The exact meaning of this I did not quite
understand, but of course I took my seat in the theatre, which
was very empty. The orchestra, looking all the larger from
contrast with the empty house, was assembled in a huge space and
was a very strong one. The rendering given of my overture under
the conductor's baton was really a very good one.

As I was sitting rather near the front in the stalls, I was
recognised by the man who was playing the kettledrum, as he had
taken part in my Zurich performances in 1853. The news of my
presence spread like wildfire through the whole orchestra until
it reached the ears of the conductor, and led to great
excitement. The small audience, who had evidently put in
appearance simply on account of the French play, and who were not
at all inclined to pay any particular attention to the overture,
were very much astonished when, at the conclusion of the
overture, the conductor and the whole orchestra turned round in
the direction of my stall, and gave vent to enthusiastic
applause, which I had to acknowledge with a bow. All eyes
followed me eagerly as I left the hall after this scene, to pay
my respects to the conductor. It was Herr Hasselmann, a native of
Strasburg, and apparently a very good-natured, amiable fellow. He
accompanied me to my hotel and, amongst other things, told me the
circumstances connected with the performance of my overture.
These somewhat surprised me. According to the terms of a legacy
left by a wealthy citizen of Strasburg, a great lover of music,
who had already contributed very largely to the building of the
theatre, the orchestra, whose flourishing condition was due to
his beneficence, had to give, during the usual theatrical
performances, one of the greater instrumental works with a full
band once a week. This time, as it happened, it was the turn for
the overture to Tannhauser. The feeling that was uppermost in my
mind was one of envy that Strasburg should have produced a
citizen whose like had never seen the light of day in any of the
towns in which I had been connected with music, and more
particularly Zurich.

Whilst I was discussing the state of music in Strasburg with
Conductor Hasselmann, Orsini's famous attempt on the life of the
Emperor took place in Paris. I heard some vague rumours of it on
my journey the following morning, but it was not until the 17th,
on my arrival in Paris, that I heard the full details of it from
the waiter in my hotel. I looked upon this event as a malicious
stroke of fate, aimed at me personally. Even at breakfast on the
following morning, I feared I should see my old acquaintance, the
agent of the Ministry of the Interior, walk in and demand my
instant departure from Paris as a political refugee. I presumed
that as a visitor at the Grand Hotel du Louvre, then newly
opened, I should be regarded by the police with greater respect,
than at the little hotel at the corner of the Rue des Filles St.
Thomas, where I had once stayed for the sake of economy. I had
originally intended to take up my quarters at an hotel I knew in
the Rue le Pelletier, but the outrage had been perpetrated just
at that spot, and the principal criminals had been pursued and
arrested there. It was a strange coincidence! Supposing I had
arrived in Paris just two days earlier, and had gone there!!!

After thus apostrophising the demon of my fate, I hunted up M.
Ollivier and his young wife. In the former I soon found a very
taking and active friend, who at once resolutely took in hand the
matter which was my chief object in Paris. One day we called on a
notary who was a friend of his, and who seemed to be under an
obligation to him. I there gave Ollivier a formal and carefully
considered power of attorney, to represent my proprietary rights
as author, and in spite of many official formalities in the way
of stamps I was treated with perfect hospitality, so that I felt
I was well sheltered under my friend's protection. In the course
of my walks with my friend Ollivier in the Palais de Justice and
in the Salle des pas perdus, I was introduced to the most
celebrated lawyers in the world strolling about there in their
berrettas and robes, and I was soon on such intimate terms with
them that they formed a circle around me, and made me explain the
subject of Tannhauser. This pleased me greatly. I was no less
delighted by my conversation with Ollivier regarding his
political views and position. He still believed in the Republic
which would come to stay after the inevitable overthrow of the
Napoleonic rule. He and his friends did not intend to provoke a
revolution, but they held themselves in readiness for the moment
when it should come, as it necessarily must, and fully resolved
this time not to give it up again to the plunder of base
conspirators. In principle he agreed with the logical conclusions
of socialism; he knew and respected Proudhon, but not as a
politician; he thought nothing could be founded on a durable
basis except through the initiative of political organisation. By
means of simple legislation, which had already passed several
enactments protecting the public good against the abuses of
private privilege, even the boldest demands for a commonwealth
based on equal rights for all would gradually be met.

I now noticed with great satisfaction that I had made
considerable progress in the development of my character, as I
could listen to and discuss these and other topics without
getting into a state of excitement, as I used formally to do in
similar discussions.

Blandine impressed me at the same time most favourably with her
gentleness, her cheerfulness, and a certain quiet wit added to a
quick mental perception. We very soon understood each other; the
slightest suggestion sufficed to create a mutual understanding on
any subject in which we were interested.

Sunday arrived, and with it a concert at the Conservatoire. As I
had hitherto been present only at rehearsals, and had never got
so far as the performances, my friends succeeded in procuring a
seat for me in the box of Mme. Herold, the widow of the composer,
a woman of sympathetic disposition, who at once declared herself
warmly in favour of my music. It is true her knowledge of it was
slight, but she had been won over to it by the enthusiasm of her
daughter and son-in-law, who, as I have previously mentioned, had
heard Tannhauser during their honeymoon in Vienna and Berlin.
This was really a pleasant surprise. Added to this, I now heard
for the first time in my life a performance of Haydn's Seasons,
which the audience enjoyed immensely, as they thought the steady
florid vocal cadences, which are so rare in modern music, but
which so frequently occur at the conclusion of the musical
phrases in Haydn's music, very original and charming. The rest of
the day was spent very pleasantly in the bosom of the Herold
family. Towards the end of the evening a man came in whose
appearance was hailed with marked attention. This was Herr Scudo,
who, I found out afterwards, was the famous musical editor of the
Revue des deux Mondes. His influence with other journals was
considerable, but so far it had certainly not been in my favour.
The kind hostess wished me to make his acquaintance, so that he
might have a good impression of me, but I told her such an object
could not be attained through the medium of a drawing-room
conversation, and later on I was confirmed in my opinion that the
reasons why a gentleman of this type, who possesses no knowledge
of the subject, declares himself hostile to an artist, having
nothing whatever to do with his convictions or even with his
approval or disapproval. On a subsequent occasion these good
people had to suffer for having interested themselves in me, as,
in a report of my concerts by Herr Scudo, they were held up to
ridicule as a family of strong democratic tendencies.

I now looked up my friend Berlioz, whose acquaintance I had
recently renewed in London, and on the whole I found him kindly
disposed.

I informed him that I had only just come to Paris on a short
pleasure trip. He was at that time busy composing a grand opera,
Die Trojaner. In order to get an impression of the work, I was
particularly anxious to hear the libretto Berlioz had written
himself, and he spent an evening reading it out to me. I was
disappointed in it, not only as far as it was concerned, but also
by his singularly dry and theatrical delivery. I fancied that in
the latter I could see the character of the music to which he had
set his words, and I sank into utter despair about it, as I could
see that he regarded this as his masterpiece, and was looking
forward to its production as the great object of his life.

I also received an invitation with the Olliviers from the Erard
family, at whose house I again met my old friend the widow of
Spontini. We spent a rather charming evening there, during which,
strange to say, I had to be responsible for the musical
entertainment at the piano. They declared they had thoroughly
entered into the spirit of the various selections I had played
from my operas in my now characteristic fashion, and that they
had enjoyed them immensely. At any rate, such intimate heartfelt
playing had never before been heard in that gorgeous drawing-
room. Apart from this, I made one great acquisition, through the
friendly courtesy of Mme. Erard and her brother-in-law Schaffer,
who since the death of her husband had carried on the business,
in the shape of a promise of one of the celebrated grand-pianos
of their manufacture. With this the gloom of my excursion to
Paris seemed to be turned into light, for I was so rejoiced at
it, that I looked upon every other result as chimerical, and upon
this as the only reality.

After that I left Paris on the 2nd of February in a more cheerful
frame of mind, and on my homeward journey went to look up my old
friend Kietz in Epernay, where M. Paul Chandon, who had known
Kietz since boyhood, had interested himself in the ruined painter
by taking him into his house, and giving him a number of
commissions for portraits. As soon as I arrived I was
irresistibly drawn into Chandon's hospitable house, and could not
refuse to remain there for a couple of days. I found in Chandon a
passionate admirer of my operas, particularly of Rienzi, the
first performance of which he had witnessed during his Dresden
days. I also visited the marvellous wine vaults at Champagne,
which extended for miles into the heart of the rocky ground.
Kietz was painting a portrait in oils, and the opinion
entertained by every one that it would very soon be finished
rather amused me.

After much superfluous entertainment I at last freed myself from
this unexpected hospitality and returned to Zurich on the 5th of
February, where I had arranged by letter for an evening party
immediately after my arrival, as I thought I had much to relate
which I could tell them all collectively instead of by means of
long and wearisome communications to individual friends. Semper,
who was one of the company, was annoyed that he had stayed in
Zurich whilst I had been in Paris, and he became quite furious
over my cheerful adventures and declared I was an impudent child
of fortune, while he looked upon it as the greatest calamity that
he should be chained to that wretched hole Zurich. How I smiled
inwardly at his envy of my fortune!

My affairs were making but little progress, as my operas had been
sold to almost every theatre and I had very little left out of
the proceeds. I now heard nothing about all these performances
except that they were yielding very little money. I resigned
myself to the fact of bringing out Rienzi, as it was just suited
to our inferior class of theatre. Before offering it for sale, it
was desirable to have it performed again in Dresden; but this, it
was said, was impossible on account of the impression created by
the Orsini outrage. So I worked on at the instrumentation of the
first act of Tristan, and during that time I could not help
feeling that most probably other objections, besides those of
political captiousness, would be raised against the spread of
this work. I therefore continued my work vaguely and somewhat
hopelessly.

In the month of March Frau Wesendonck informed me that she
thought of having a kind of musical entertainment in her house to
celebrate her husband's birthday. She had a predilection for a
little serenade music, which, with the help of eight
instrumentalists from Zurich, I had arranged during the winter
for the occasion of her own birthday. The pride of the Wesendonck
villa was a spacious hall which had been very elegantly decorated
by Parisian stucco-workers, and I had once remarked that music
would not sound at all badly there. We had tested it on a small
scale, but now it was to be tried on a larger one. I offered to
bring together a respectable orchestra to perform fragments of
the Beethoven symphonies, consisting mainly of the brighter
parts, for the entertainment of the company. The necessary
preparations required a good deal of time, and the date of the
birthday had to be overstepped. As it was, we had nearly reached
Easter, and our concert took place almost at the end of March.
The musical At Home was most successful. A full orchestra for the
Beethoven pieces played with the greatest eclat under my
conductorship, to the assembly of guests scattered about in the
surrounding rooms, selections from the symphonies. Such an
unprecedented home concert seemed to throw every one into a great
state of excitement.

The young daughter of the house presented me at the beginning of
the performance with an ivory baton, carved from a design by
Semper, the first and only complimentary one I ever received.
There was no lack of flowers and ornamental trees, under which I
stood when conducting, and when to suit my taste for musical
effect we concluded, not with a loud, but with a deeply soothing
piece, like the Adagio from the Ninth Symphony, we felt that
Zurich society had indeed witnessed something quite unique, and
my friends on whom I had bestowed this mark of distinction were
deeply touched by it.

This festival left on me the most melancholy impressions; I felt
as though I had reached the meridian of my life, that I had in
fact passed it, and that the string of the bow was over-
stretched. Mme. Wille told me afterwards that she had been
overcome by similar feelings on that evening. On the 3rd of April
I sent the manuscript of the score of the first act of Tristan
und Isolde to Leipzig to be engraved; I had already promised to
give Frau Wesendonck the pencil-sketch for the instrumentation of
the prelude, and I sent this to her accompanied by a note in
which I explained to her seriously and calmly the feelings that
animated me at the time. My wife had for some time been anxious
as to her relations with our neighbour; she complained with
increasing bitterness that she was not treated by her with the
attention due to the wife of a man whom Frau Wesendonck was so
pleased to welcome in her house, and that when we did meet, it
was rather by reason of that lady's visits to me than to her. So
far she had not really expressed any jealousy. As she happened to
be in the garden that morning, she met the servant carrying the
packet for Frau Wesendonck, took it from him and opened the
letter. As she was quite incapable of understanding the state of
mind I had described in the letter, she readily gave a vulgar
interpretation to my words, and accordingly felt herself
justified in bursting into my room and attacking me with the most
extraordinary reproaches about the terrible discovery she had
made. She afterwards admitted that nothing had vexed her so much
as the extreme calmness and apparent indifference with which I
treated her foolish conduct. As a matter of fact I never said a
word; I hardly moved, but simply allowed her to depart. I could
not help realising that this was henceforth to be the intolerable
character of the conjugal relations I had resumed eight years
before. I told her peremptorily to keep quiet and not be guilty
of any blunder either in judgment or in act, and tried to make
her realise to what a serious state of affairs this foolish
occurrence had brought us. She really seemed to understand what I
meant, and promised to keep quiet and not to give way to her
absurd jealousy. Unfortunately the poor creature was already
suffering from a serious development of heart disease, which
affected her temper; she could not throw off the peculiar
depression and terrible restlessness which enlargement of the
heart causes, and only a few days after she felt that she must
relieve her feelings, and the only possible way in which she
could think of doing so was by warning our neighbour, Frau
Wesendonck, with an emphasis she thought was well meant, against
the consequences of any imprudent intimacy with me.

As I was returning from a walk I met Herr Wesendonck and his wife
in their carriage just starting for a drive. I noticed her
troubled demeanour in contrast to the peculiarly smiling and
contented expression of her husband. I realised the position
clearly when I afterwards met my wife looking wonderfully
cheerful. She held out her hand to me with great generosity,
assuring me of her renewed affection. In answer to my question,
whether she had by any chance broken her promise, she said
confidently that like a wise woman she had been obliged to put
things into proper order. I told her she would very probably
experience some very unpleasant consequences through breaking her
word. In the first place, I thought it essential she should take
steps to improve her health as we had previously arranged, and
told her she had better go as soon as possible to the health
resort she had been recommended at Brestenberg on the Hallwyler
Lake. We had heard wonderful accounts of the cures of heart
disease which the doctor there had effected, and Minna was quite
prepared to submit to his treatment. A few days later, therefore,
I took her and her parrot to the pleasantly situated and well-
appointed watering-place which was about three hours distant.
Meantime, I avoided asking any questions as to what had taken
place in regard to our neighbours. When I left her at Brestenberg
and took my leave she quite seemed to realise the painful
seriousness of our position. I could say very little to comfort
her, except that I would try, in the interests of our future life
together, to mitigate the dreaded consequences of her having
broken her word.

On my return home I experienced the unpleasant effects of my
wife's conduct towards our neighbour. In Minna's utter
misconstruction of my purely friendly relations with the young
wife, whose only interest in me consisted in her solicitude for
my peace of mind and well-being, she had gone so far as to
threaten to inform the lady's husband. Frau Wesendonck felt so
deeply insulted at this, as she was perfectly unconscious of
having done any wrong, that she was absolutely astounded at me,
and said she could not conceive how I could have led my wife into
such a misunderstanding. The outcome of this disturbance was
that, thanks to the discreet mediation of our mutual friend Mme.
Wille, I was absolved from any responsibility for my wife's
conduct; still, I was given to understand that henceforth it
would be impossible for the injured lady to enter my house again,
or indeed to continue to have any intercourse with my wife. They
did not seem to realise, and would not admit, that this would
entail the giving up of my home and my removal from Zurich. I
hoped that although my relations with these good friends had been
disturbed, they were not really destroyed, and that time would
smooth things over. I felt that I must look forward to an
improvement in my wife's health, when she would admit her folly,
and thus be able to resume her intercourse with our neighbours in
a reasonable manner.

Some time elapsed, during which the Wesendonck family took a
pleasure trip of several weeks to Northern Italy.

The arrival of the promised Erard grand-piano made me painfully
conscious of what a tin kettle my old grand-piano from Breitkopf
und Hartel had been, and I forthwith banished it to the lower
regions, where my wife begged she might keep it as a souvenir 'of
old times.'  She afterwards took it with her to Saxony, where she
sold it for three hundred marks. The new piano appealed to my
musical sense immensely, and whilst I was improvising I seemed to
drift quite naturally into the soft nocturnal sounds of the
second act of Tristan, the composition of which I now began to
sketch out. This was at the beginning of May. My work was
unexpectedly interrupted by the command of the Grand Duke of
Weimar to meet him on a certain day in Lucerne, where he was
staying after his return from Italy. I availed myself of this
opportunity to have a lengthy interview at the hotel in
Chamberlain von Beaulieu's room, with my former nominal patron
whose acquaintance I had made at the time of my flight.

From this interview with Karl Alexander I gathered that my
attitude towards the Grand Duke of Baden, in regard to the
performance of Tristan, in Karlsruhe, had made an impression on
the Weimar court, for while he made particular mention of that
matter, I gathered from what he said that he was also anxious
about my Nibelungen work, in which he declared he had always
taken the liveliest interest, and wanted my assurance that this
composition would be produced at Weimar. I had no serious
objection to that. Moreover, I was vastly entertained by the
personality of this free-and-easy good-natured Prince, who,
though he sat chatting next to me on a narrow sofa, was evidently
anxious by his singularly choice language to impress me as a man
of culture. I was much struck to find that his dignified bearing
was not in the least disturbed when Herr von Beaulieu, with the
object of amusing us, made some rather clumsy remarks which were
meant to be witty. After the Grand Duke had asked me in the most
guarded way my opinion of Liszt's compositions, I was surprised
to notice by his general bearing that he was not at all
uncomfortable when the chamberlain expressed the most
contemptuous opinions about the Grand Duke's famous friend,
saying that Liszt's composing was a mere mania on his part. This
gave me a strange insight into this royal friendship, and I had
some difficulty in keeping serious during the interview. I had to
pay the Grand Duke another visit on the following morning, but on
that occasion I saw him without his chamberlain, whose absence
certainly had a favourable effect on the Prince's remarks about
his friend.

Liszt, whose inspiring conversation and advice he loudly asserted
that he could not praise enough. I was surprised to see the Grand
Duchess walk in upon us, and was received by her with a most
condescending bow, the formality of which I have never forgotten.
I looked upon my meeting with these exalted personages as an
exceedingly amusing adventure in my travels. I have never heard
from them since. [Footnote: This was dictated in 1869] Later on,
when I called on Liszt at Weimar, just before he left there, he
could not even induce the Grand Duke to receive me!

A short time after my return from that expedition Karl Tausig
called with a letter of introduction from Liszt; he was then
sixteen years of age, and astonished everybody by his dainty
appearance and his unusual precocity of understanding and
demeanour. He had already been greeted in Vienna, on his public
appearance as a pianist, as a future Liszt. He gave himself all
the airs of a Liszt, and already smoked the strongest cigars to
such an extent that I felt a perfect horror of them. Otherwise I
was very glad he had made up his mind to spend some time in the
neighbourhood, all the more so as I could appreciate to the
utmost his amusing, half-childish, though very intelligent and
knowing personality, and, above all, his exceptionally finished
piano-playing and quick musical faculty. He played the most
complicated pieces at sight, and knew how to use his astonishing
facility in the most extravagant tricks for my entertainment. He
afterwards came to live quite near us; he was my daily guest at
all meals, and accompanied me on my usual walks to the Sihlthal.
He soon tried to wriggle out of these, however. He also went with
me on a visit to Minna at Brestenberg. As I had to repeat these
expeditions regularly every week, being anxious to watch the
result of the treatment, Tausig endeavoured to escape from these
also, as neither Brestenberg nor Minna's conversation seemed to
appeal to him. However, he could not avoid meeting her when,
feeling obliged to interrupt her cure for a few days to look
after her household affairs, she returned at the end of May. I
noticed by her manner that she no longer attached any importance
to the recent domestic upheaval; the view she took of the matter
was that there had been a little 'love affair' which she had put
straight. As she referred to this with a certain amount of
unpleasant levity, I was obliged, though I would willingly have
spared her on account of the state of her health, to explain
clearly and firmly, that in consequence of her disobedience and
her foolish conduct towards our neighbour, the possibility of our
remaining on the estate, where we had only just settled with so
much difficulty, was a matter of the most serious doubt, and I
felt bound to warn her that we must be prepared for the necessity
of a separation, as I was fully determined that if this dreaded
event took place, I would not agree to live under similar
domestic conditions elsewhere. The earnestness with which I dwelt
on the character of our past life together, on that occasion, so
impressed and shocked her that, fully realising it was through
her fault that the home it had cost us so much pain to build up
had been destroyed, she broke into a low wail of lamentation for
the first time in our lives. This was the first and only occasion
on which she gave me any token of loving humility, when late at
night she kissed my hand as I withdrew. I was deeply touched at
this, and the idea flashed across my mind that possibly a great
and decided change might take place in the character of the poor
woman, and this determined me to renew my hope of the possibility
of continuing the life we had resumed.

Everything contributed to the maintenance of this hope: my wife
returned to Brestenberg to complete the second part of her cure;
the most glorious summer weather favoured my disposition to work
at the second act of Tristan; the evenings with Tausig cheered me
up, and my relations with my neighbours, who had never borne me
any ill-will, seemed to me to favour the possibility of a
dignified and desirable understanding in the future. It was quite
probable that if my wife went on a visit to her friends in Saxony
after her cure, time would eventually cover the past with
oblivion, and her own future conduct as well as the changed
attitude of our deeply offended neighbour, would make it possible
to renew our mutual intercourse in a dignified way.

I was still further cheered by the prospect of the arrival of an
agreeable visitor, as well as by some satisfactory negotiations
with two of the most important German theatres.

In June the Berlin manager approached me about Lohengrin, and we
soon came to an agreement. In Vienna, too, the forced intrusion
of Tannhauser had produced its effect on the attitude of the
management of the court theatre. Just recently the well-known
conductor, Karl Eckert, had been entrusted with the technical
management of the Opera. He seized the happy opportunity afforded
by the possession of a very good company of singers, and by the
closing of the theatre for much needed restoration, to give the
company time to study Lohengrin, with the object of securing the
acceptance of this new and difficult work by the court
authorities. He thereupon made me his offers. I wanted to insist
on the author's rights on the same terms as those granted in
Berlin, but he would not agree to this, because the takings of
the house were very small, owing to the lack of space in the old
theatre. On the other hand, Conductor Esser called on me one day;
he had come from Vienna to make all arrangements, and in the name
of the management he offered me about two thousand marks, cash
down, for the first twenty performances of Lohengrin, and
promised me a further sum of two thousand marks on their
completion. The frank and genial manner of the worthy musician
won me over, and I closed with him at once. The result was that
Esser went through the score of Lohengrin with me there and then,
with great conscientiousness and zeal, and paid special attention
to all my wishes. With every confidence in a favourable result I
bid him farewell, and he hurried back to Vienna to set to work at
once.

I then completed the composition sketches for the second act of
Tristan in excellent spirits, and began the more detailed
execution of it, but I did not get quite through the first scene,
as I was exposed to continual interruptions. Tichatschek came to
pay me another visit, and took up his abode in my little spare
room, to recover, as he said, from the effects of his recent
exertions. He boasted that he had again introduced my operas,
which had been repeatedly forbidden, into the repertoire of the
Dresden theatre, and had also taken part in them himself with
great success.

Lohengrin was also to be produced there. Although this was very
gratifying, I did not in the least know what to do with the good
man at such close quarters. Fortunately I was able to hand him
over to Tausig, who understood my embarrassment, and kept
Tichatschek to himself pretty well the whole day, by playing
cards with him. The young tenor Niemann, of whose great talent I
had heard so much, soon arrived with his bride, the famous
actress Seebach, and owing to his almost gigantic frame, he
struck me as being just the man for Siegfried. The fact of having
two famous tenors with me at the same time gave rise to the
annoyance that neither of them would sing anything to me, as they
were ill at ease in each other's presence. I quite believed,
however, that Niemann's voice must be on a par with his imposing
personality. About that time (15th July) I fetched my wife from
Brestenberg. During my absence my servant, who was a cunning
Saxon, had thought fit to erect a kind of triumphal arch to
celebrate the return of the mistress of the house. This led to
great complications, as, much to her delight, Minna was convinced
that this flower-bedecked triumphal arch would greatly attract
the attention of our neighbours, and thought this would be
sufficient to prevent them from regarding her return home as a
humiliating one. She insisted with triumphant joy upon the
decorations remaining up for several days. About the same time
the Bulows, true to their promise, paid another visit. The
unfortunate Tichatschek again put off his departure, and
consequently continued to occupy our one small spare room, so I
was obliged to let my friends stay at the hotel several days
longer. However, the visits they paid to the Wesendoncks as well
as to me soon afforded me an opportunity of hearing, much to my
surprise, of the effect the triumphal arch had produced on our
neighbour's young wife, who was still nursing her injured
feelings. When I heard of her passionate protests I realised to
what a pass things had come, and immediately gave up all hope of
putting a peaceful end to the discordant situation. Those were
days of terrible anxiety. I wished myself in the most distant
desert, and yet was in the awkward position of having to keep my
house open to a succession of visitors. At last Tichatschek took
his departure, and I could at least devote the remainder of my
stay to the pleasant duty of entertaining favourite guests. The
Bulows really seemed to me to have been providentially sent for
the purpose of quelling the horrible excitement that prevailed in
the house. Hans made the best of things when, on the day of his
arrival, he caught me in the midst of a terrific scene with
Minna, as I had just told her plainly that from what I could see
of the present position of affairs, our stay here was no longer
possible, and that I was only deferring my departure until after
the visit of our young friends. This time, however, I had to
admit that she was not altogether to blame.

We spent another whole month together in the cottage, which, by
the way, I had unconsciously christened Asyl. It was an extremely
trying period, and the experiences I went through every day only
confirmed me in my decision to give up the house. Under the
circumstances my young guests also had to suffer, as my worry
communicated itself to all who were in sympathy with me.
Klindworth, who was coming on a visit from London, to add to the
gloom of this extraordinary menage, soon joined us. So the house
was suddenly filled, and the table surrounded by sad,
mysteriously depressed guests, whose wants were ministered to by
one who was shortly to leave her home for ever.

It seemed to me that there must be one human being in existence
specially qualified to bring light and reconciliation, or at
least tolerable order, into the gloom and trouble by which we
were all surrounded. Liszt had promised me a visit, but he was so
happily situated beyond the reach of these harassing conditions,
he had had such experience of the world, and possessed that
innate aplomb to such an extraordinary degree, that he did not
seem to me to be very likely to approach these misunderstandings
in a rational spirit. I almost felt inclined to make my final
decision dependent on the effect of his expected visit. It was in
vain that we begged of him to hasten his journey; he offered to
meet me at the Lake of Geneva a month later! Then my courage
failed. Intercourse with my friends now afforded me no
satisfaction, for although they could not understand why I should
be turned out of a home that suited me so well, yet it was
apparent to every one that I could not remain under these
conditions. We still had music every now and then, but it was in
a half-hearted and absent-minded fashion. To make matters worse,
we had a national vocal festival inflicted upon us, during which
I was obliged to face all kinds of demands; matters did not
always pass off without unpleasantness, as amongst others I had
to decline to see Franz Lachner, who had been specially engaged
for the festival, and did not return his call. Tausig certainly
delighted us by carolling Lachner's 'Old German Battle Song' in
the upper octave, which, thanks to his boyish falsetto, was
within his reach; however, even his pranks were no longer able to
cheer us. Everything, which under other circumstances would have
made this summer month one of the most stimulating in my life,
now contributed to my discomfort, as did also the stay of the
Countess d'Agoult, who, having come on a visit to her daughter
and son-in-law, attached herself to our party for the time being.
By way of filling up the house, Karl Ritter also came after much
grumbling and sulking, and once again proved himself to be very
interesting and original.

As the time for the general leave-taking at last drew near, I had
arranged all the details connected with the breaking up of my
home. I settled the necessary business part by a personal visit
to Herr Wesendonck, and in the presence of Bulow I took leave of
Frau Wesendonck, who, in spite of her ever-recurring
misconceptions on the matter, eventually reproached herself
bitterly when she saw that these misunderstandings had ended by
breaking up my home. My friends were much distressed at parting
from me, whilst I could only meet their expressions of sorrow
with apathy. On the 16th August the Bulows also left; Hans was
bathed in tears and his wife Cosima was gloomy and silent. I had
arranged with Minna that she should remain there for about a week
to clear up and dispose of our little belongings as she thought
best. I had advised her to entrust these unpleasant duties to
some one else, as I hardly thought it possible that she would be
fitted for such a wretched task, which, under the circumstances,
would be very trying to her. She replied reproachfully that 'it
would be a fine thing if, with all our misfortunes, we neglected
our property. Order there must be.' I afterwards learned to my
disgust that she carried out the removal and her own departure
with such formality, by advertising in the daily papers that the
effects would be sold cheaply owing to sudden departure, and
thereby exciting much curiosity, that perplexed rumours were
spread about giving the whole affair a scandalous signification,
which afterwards caused much unpleasantness both to me and the
Wesendonck family.

On the 17th August, the day after the departure of the Bulows
(whose stay had been the only reason for detaining me), I got up
at early dawn after a sleepless night, and went down into the
dining-room, where Minna was already expecting me to breakfast,
as I intended to start by the five o'clock train. She was calm;
it was only when accompanying me in the carriage to the station
that she was overpowered by her emotion under the trying
circumstances. It was the most brilliant summer day with a
bright, cloudless sky; I remember that I never once looked back,
or shed a tear on taking leave of her, and this almost terrified
me. As I travelled along in the train I could not conceal from
myself an increasing feeling of comfort; it was obvious that the
absolutely useless worries of the past weeks could not have been
endured any longer, and that my life's ambition demanded a
complete severance from them. On the evening of the same day I
arrived in Geneva; here I wished to rest a little and pull myself
together, so as to arrange my plan of life calmly. As I had an
idea of making another attempt to settle in Italy, I proposed,
after my former experience, to wait till the cooler autumn
weather, so as not to expose myself again to the malignant
influence of the sudden change of climate. I arranged to stay for
a month at the Maison Fazy, deluding myself into the idea that a
lengthy stay there would be very pleasant. I told Karl Ritter,
who was at Lausanne, of my intention of going to Italy, and to my
surprise he wrote saying that he also intended to give up his
home and go to Italy alone, as his wife was going to Saxony for
the winter on account of family affairs. He offered himself as my
travelling companion. This suited me excellently, and as Ritter
also assured me that he knew, from a previous visit, that the
climate of Venice was quite agreeable at this season, I was
induced to make a hasty departure. I had, however, to arrange
about my passport. I expected that the embassies in Berne would
corroborate the fact that as a political refugee I should have
nothing to fear in Venice, which, although belonging to Austria,
did not form part of the German Confederation. Liszt, to whom I
also applied for information on this point, advised me on no
account to go to Venice; on the other hand, the report that some
of my friends in Berne obtained from the Austrian ambassador
pronounced it as quite safe; so, after barely a week's stay in
Geneva, I informed Karl Ritter of my readiness to start, and
called for him at his villa in Lausanne, so that we might begin
the journey together.

We did not talk much on the way, but gave ourselves up silently
to our impressions. The route was over the Simplon to Lake
Maggiore, where I again visited the Borromean Islands from
Baveno. There, on the terrace garden of Isola Bella, I spent a
wonderful late summer morning in the company of my young friend,
who was never obtrusive, but, on the contrary, inclined to be too
silent. For the first time I felt my mind entirely at rest, and
filled with the hope of a new and harmonious future. We continued
our journey by coach through Sesto Calende to Milan; and Karl was
filled with such a longing for his beloved Venice, that he could
barely grant me time to admire the famous Duomo; but I had no
objection to being hurried with this object in view. As we were
looking from the railway dike at Venice rising before us from the
mirror of water, Karl lost his hat out of the carriage owing to
an enthusiastic movement of delight; I thought that I must follow
suit, so I too threw my hat out; consequently we arrived in
Venice bareheaded, and immediately got into a gondola to go down
the Grand Canal as far as the Piazzetta near San Marco. The
weather had suddenly become gloomy, and the aspect of the
gondolas quite shocked me; for, in spite of what I had heard
about these peculiar vessels draped in black, the sight of one
was an unpleasant surprise: when I had to go under the black
awning, I could not help remembering the cholera-scare some time
earlier. I certainly felt I was taking part in a funeral
procession during a pestilence. Karl assured me that every one
felt the same at first, but that one soon got accustomed to it.
Next came the long sail through the twists and turns of the Grand
Canal. The impression that everything made on me here did not
tend to dispel my melancholy frame of mind. Where Karl, on
looking at the ruined walls, only saw the Ca d'Oro of Fanny Elser
or some other famous palace, my doleful glances were completely
absorbed by the crumbling ruins between these interesting
buildings. At last I became silent, and allowed myself to be put
down at the world-famous Piazzetta, and to be shown the palace of
the Doges, though I reserved to myself the right of admiring it
until I had freed myself from the extremely melancholy mood into
which my arrival in Venice had thrown me.

Starting on the following morning from the Hotel Danieli, where
we had found only a gloomy lodging, I began by looking for a
residence that would suit me for my prolonged stay. I heard that
one of the three Giustiniani palaces, situated not far from the
Palazzo Foscari, was at present very little patronised by
visitors, on account of its situation, which in the winter is
somewhat unfavourable. I found some very spacious and imposing
apartments there, all of which they told me would remain
uninhabited. I here engaged a large stately room with a spacious
bedroom adjoining. I had my luggage quickly transferred there,
and on the evening of 30th August I said to myself, 'At last I am
living in Venice.' My leading idea was that I could work here
undisturbed. I immediately wrote to Zurich asking for my Erard
'Grand' and my bed to be sent on to me, as, with regard to the
latter, I felt that I should find out what cold meant in Venice.
In addition to this, the grey-washed walls of my large room soon
annoyed me, as they were so little suited to the ceiling, which
was covered with a fresco which I thought was rather tasteful. I
decided to have the walls of the large room covered with hangings
of a dark-red shade, even if they were of quite common quality.
This immediately caused much trouble; but it seemed to me that it
was well worth surmounting, when I gazed down from my balcony
with growing satisfaction on the wonderful canal, and said to
myself that here I would complete Tristan. I also had a little
more decorating done; I arranged to have dark-red portieres, even
if they were of the cheapest material, to cover the common doors
which the Hungarian landlord had had put into the ruined palace
in place of the original valuable ones, which had probably been
sold. In addition, the host had contrived to get some showy
furniture, such as a few gilded chairs, covered with common
cotton plush; but the most prominent article was a finely carved
gilded table-pedestal, on which was placed a vulgar pinewood top
which I had to cover with a plain red cloth. Finally the Erard
arrived; it was placed in the middle of the large room, and now
wonderful Venice was to be attacked by music.

However, the dysentery I had previously suffered from in Genoa
laid hold of me again, and rendered me incapable of any
intellectual activity for weeks. I had already learned to
appreciate the matchless beauty of Venice, and I was full of hope
that my joy in it would give me back my power to satisfy my
reviving artistic yearnings. On one of my first promenades on the
Riva I was accosted by two strangers, one of whom introduced
himself as Count Edmund Zichy, the other as Prince Dolgoroukow.
They had both left Vienna barely a week before, where they had
been present at the first performances of my Lohengrin; they gave
me the most satisfactory reports about the result of it, and by
their enthusiasm I could see that their impressions were very
favourable. Count Zichy left Venice soon afterwards, but Prince
Dolgoroukow decided to stay on for the winter. Although I
certainly intended to avoid company, this Russian, who was about
fifty years of age, soon managed to make me yield to his
persuasions. He had an earnest and extremely expressive face (he
prided himself on being of direct Caucasian descent), and showed
remarkable culture in every respect, a wide knowledge of the
world, and above all a taste for music, in the literature of
which he was also so well versed that it amounted to a passion. I
had at first explained to him that owing to the state of my
health I was bound to renounce all society, and that I needed
quiet more than anything. Apart from the difficulty of avoiding
him altogether on the limited walks in Venice, the restaurant at
Albergo San Marco where I joined Ritter every day for meals led
to inevitable meetings with this stranger, to whom I eventually
became sincerely attached. He had taken up his abode in that
hotel, and I could not prevent him from taking his meals there.
During my stay in Venice we met almost daily, and continued to be
on very friendly terms. On the other hand I had a great surprise,
on returning to my apartments one evening, to be informed that
Liszt had just arrived. I rushed eagerly to the room pointed out
to me as his, and there, to my horror, saw Winterberger the
pianist, who had introduced himself to my host as a mutual friend
of myself and of Liszt, and in the confusion of the moment the
host had concluded that the new arrival was Liszt himself. As a
matter of fact I had recently got to know this young man as a
follower of Liszt during his comparatively long stay in Zurich;
he was considered an excellent organist, and was also called into
requisition as second at the piano when there were arrangements
for two pianofortes. Except for some foolish behaviour on his
part I had not noticed anything particular about him. I was
surprised, however, that he should have selected my address as
his lodging in Venice. He told me that he was merely the
precursor of a certain Princess Galitzin, for whom he had to
arrange winter quarters in Venice; that he knew nobody there, but
having heard in Vienna that I was staying here, it was very
natural he should apply first at my hotel. I argued with him that
this was not an hotel, and announced that if his Russian Princess
thought of taking up her abode next to me, I should move out at
once. He then reassured me, by telling me that he had only wanted
to make a good impression on the host by mentioning the Princess,
as he thought she had already engaged rooms elsewhere. As I again
asked what he thought of doing in this palace, and drew his
attention to the fact that it was very expensive, and that I put
up with the large outlay simply because it was most essential
that I should be undisturbed, and have no neighbours, and hear no
piano, he tried to pacify me by the assurance that he would
certainly not be a burden to me, and that I could make my mind
easy about his presence in the same house until he could arrange
to move elsewhere. His next attempt was to work his way into the
good graces of Karl Ritter; they both discovered a living-room in
the palace at a sufficient distance from mine to be out of
earshot. In this way I consented to put up with his proximity,
although it was a long time before I allowed Ritter to bring him
to me of an evening.

A Venetian piano-teacher, Tessarin by name, was more successful
than Winterberger in winning favour with me. He was a typical
handsome Venetian, with a curious impediment in his speech; he
had a passion for German music, and was well acquainted with
Liszt's new compositions, and also with my own operas. He
admitted that having regard to his surroundings he was a 'white
raven' in matters musical. He also succeeded in approaching me
through Ritter, who seemed to be devoting himself in Venice to
the study of human nature rather than to work. He had taken a
small and extremely modest dwelling on the Riva dei Schiavoni,
which, being in a sunny position, required no artificial heating.
This was in reality less for himself than for his scanty luggage,
as he was hardly ever at home, but was running about in the
daytime after pictures and collections; in the evening, however,
he studied human nature in the cafes on the Piazza San Marco. He
was the only person I saw regularly every day; otherwise I
rigorously avoided any other society or acquaintance. I was
repeatedly asked by the Princess Galitzin's private physician to
call upon that lady, who came to Venice very shortly and appeared
to be living in grand style. Once, when I wanted the piano scores
of Tannhauser and Lohengrin, and had heard that the Princess was
the only person in Venice who possessed them, I was bold enough
to ask her for them, but I did not feel it incumbent on me to
call on her for that purpose. On only one occasion did any
stranger succeed in interrupting my seclusion, and then it was
because his appearance had pleased me when I had met him in the
Albergo San Marco; this was Rahl the painter, from Vienna. I once
went so far as to arrange a sort of soiree for him, Prince
Dolgoroukow, and Tessarin the pianoforte teacher, at which a few
of my pieces were played. It was then that Winterberger made his
debut.

All my social experiences during the seven months I spent in
Venice were limited to these few attempts at friendly
intercourse, and apart from these my days were planned out with
the utmost regularity during the whole time. I worked till two
o'clock, then I got into the gondola that was always in waiting,
and was taken along the solemn Grand Canal to the bright
Piazzetta, the peculiar charm of which always had a cheerful
effect on me. After this I made for my restaurant in the Piazza
San Marco, and when I had finished my meal I walked alone or with
Karl along the Riva to the Giardino Pubblico, the only pleasure-
ground in Venice where there are any trees, and at nightfall I
came back in the gondola down the canal, then more sombre and
silent, till I reached the spot where I could see my solitary
lamp shining from the night-shrouded facade of the old Palazzo
Giustiniani. After I had worked a little longer Karl, heralded by
the swish of the gondola, would come in regularly at eight
o'clock for a few hours' chat over our tea. Very rarely did I
vary this routine by a visit to one of the theatres. When I did,
I preferred the performances at the Camploi Theatre, where
Goldoni's pieces were very well played; but I seldom went to the
opera, and when I did go it was merely out of curiosity. More
frequently, when bad weather deprived us of our walk, we
patronised the popular drama at the Malibran Theatre, where the
performances were given in the daytime. The admission cost us six
kreuzers. The audiences were excellent, the majority being in
their shirt-sleeves, and the pieces given were generally of the
ultra-melodramatic type. However, one day to my great
astonishment and intense delight I saw there Le Baruffe
Chioggiote, the grotesque comedy that had appealed so strongly to
Goethe in his day, at this very theatre. So true to nature was
this performance that it surpassed anything of the kind I have
ever witnessed.

There was little else that attracted my attention in the
oppressed and degenerate life of the Venetian people, and the
only impression I derived from the exquisite ruin of this
wonderful city as far as human interest is concerned was that of
a watering-place kept up for the benefit of visitors. Strangely
enough, it was the thoroughly German element of good military
music, to which so much attention is paid in the Austrian army,
that brought me into touch with public life in Venice. The
conductors in the two Austrian regiments quartered there began
playing overtures of mine, Rienzi and Tannhauser for instance,
and invited me to attend their practices in their barracks. There
I also met the whole staff of officers, and was treated by them
with great respect. These bands played on alternate evenings amid
brilliant illuminations in the middle of the Piazza San Marco,
whose acoustic properties for this class of production were
really excellent. I was often suddenly startled towards the end
of my meal by the sound of my own overtures; then, as I sat at
the restaurant window giving myself up to impressions of the
music, I did not know which dazzled me most, the incomparable
piazza magnificently illuminated and filled with countless
numbers of moving people, or the music that seemed to be borne
away in rustling glory to the winds. Only one thing was wanting
that might certainly have been expected from an Italian audience:
the people were gathered round the band in thousands listening
most intently, but no two hands ever forgot themselves so far as
to applaud, as the least sign of approbation of Austrian military
music would have been looked upon as treason to the Italian
Fatherland. All public life in Venice also suffered by this
extraordinary rift between the general public and the
authorities; this was peculiarly apparent in the relations of the
population to the Austrian officers, who floated about publicly
in Venice like oil on water. The populace, too, behaved with no
less reserve, or one might even say hostility, to the clergy, who
were for the most part of Italian origin. I saw a procession of
clerics in their vestments passing along the Piazza San Marco
accompanied by the people with unconcealed derision.

It was very difficult for Ritter to induce me to interrupt my
daily arrangements even to visit a gallery or a church, though,
whenever we had to pass through the town, the exceedingly varied
architectonic peculiarities and beauties always delighted me
afresh. But the frequent gondola trips towards the Lido
constituted my chief enjoyment during practically the whole of my
stay in Venice. It was more especially on our homeward journeys
at sunset that I was always over-powered by unique impressions.
During the first part of our stay in the September of that year
we saw on one of these occasions the marvellous apparition of the
great comet, which at that time was at its highest brilliancy,
and was generally said to portend an imminent catastrophe. The
singing of a popular choral society, trained by an official of
the Venetian arsenal, seemed like a real lagoon idyll. They
generally sang only three-part naturally harmonised folk-songs.
It was new to me not to hear the higher voice rise above the
compass of the alto, that is to say, without touching the
soprano, thereby imparting to the sound of the chorus a manly
youthfulness hitherto unknown to me. On fine evenings they glided
down the Grand Canal in a large illuminated gondola, stopping
before a few palaces as if to serenade (when requested and paid
for so doing, be it understood), and generally attracted a number
of other gondolas in their wake. During one sleepless night, when
I felt impelled to go out on to my balcony in the small hours, I
heard for the first time the famous old folk-song of the
gondolieri. I seemed to hear the first call, in the stillness of
the night, proceeding from the Rialo to about a mile away like a
rough lament, and answered in the same tone from a yet further
distance in another direction. This melancholy dialogue, which
was repeated at longer intervals, affected me so much that I
could not fix the very simple musical component parts in my
memory. However, on a subsequent occasion I was told that this
folk-song was of great poetic interest. As I was returning home
late one night on the gloomy canal, the moon appeared suddenly
and illuminated the marvellous palaces and the tall figure of my
gondolier towering above the stern of the gondola, slowly moving
his huge sweep. Suddenly he uttered a deep wail, not unlike the
cry of an animal; the cry gradually gained in strength, and
formed itself, after a long-drawn 'Oh!' into the simple musical
exclamation 'Venezia!' This was followed by other sounds of which
I have no distinct recollection, as I was so much moved at the
time. Such were the impressions that to me appeared the most
characteristic of Venice during my stay there, and they remained
with me until the completion of the second act of Tristan, and
possibly even suggested to me the long-drawn wail of the
shepherd's horn at the beginning of the third act.

These sensations, however, did not manifest themselves very
easily or consecutively. Bodily sufferings and my usual cares,
that never quite left me, often considerably hindered and
disturbed my work. I had scarcely settled down comfortably in my
rooms, the northerly aspect of which exposed them to frequent
gusts of wind (from which I had practically no protection in the
form of heating appliances), and had barely got over the
demoralising effect of dysentery, when I fell a victim to a
specific Venetian complaint, namely a carbuncle on my leg, as the
result of the extreme change of climate and of air. This happened
just when I was intending to resume the second act, that had been
so cruelly interrupted. The malady, which I had first regarded as
slight, soon increased and became exceedingly painful, and I was
obliged to call in a doctor, who had to treat me carefully for
nearly four weeks. It was in the late autumn, towards the end of
November, that Ritter left me to pay a visit to his relations and
friends in Dresden and Berlin; I therefore remained quite alone
during this long illness, with no other society than that of the
servants of the house. Incapable of work, I amused myself by
reading the History of Venice by Count Daru, in which I became
much interested, as I was on the spot. Through it I lost some of
my popular prejudices against the tyrannical mode of government
in ancient Venice. The ill-famed Council of Ten and the State
Inquisition appeared to me in a peculiar, although certainly
horrible, light; the open admission that in the secrecy of its
methods lay the guarantee of the power of the state, seemed to me
so decidedly in the interests of each and every member of the
marvellous republic, that the suppression of all knowledge was
very wisely considered a republican duty. Actual hypocrisy was
entirely foreign to this state constitution; moreover the
clerical element, however respectfully treated by the government,
never exercised an unworthy influence on the development of the
character of the citizens as in other parts of Italy. The
terrible selfish calculations of state reasons were turned into
maxims of quite an ancient heathen character, not really evil in
themselves, but reminiscent of similar maxims among the
Athenians, which, as we read in Thucydides. were adopted by them
in all simplicity, as the foundations of human morality. In
addition to this I once more took up, by way of a restorative, as
I had often done before, a volume of Schopenhauer, with whom I
became on intimate terms, and I experienced a sensation of relief
when I found that I was now able to explain the tormenting gaps
in his system by the aids which he himself provided.

My few associations with the outer world now became calmer, but
one day I was distressed by a letter from Wesendonck in which he
informed me of the death of his son Guido, who was about four
years old; it depressed me to think that I had refused to stand
godfather to him, on the pretext that I might bring him bad luck.
This event touched me deeply, and as I was longing for a thorough
rest, I mapped out for myself a short journey across the Alps,
with the idea that I might spend Christmas with my old friends,
and offer them my condolences. I informed Mme. Wille of this
idea, and in reply received, strange to say, from her husband
instead of from herself, some quite unexpected particulars
regarding the extremely unpleasant curiosity which my sudden
departure from Zurich had caused, especially in reference to the
part my wife had played in it, and at which the Wesendonck family
had been so much annoyed. As I also heard how skilfully
Wesendonck had treated the matter, some agreeable communications
followed couched in conciliatory terms. It was much to Minna's
credit that in her relations towards me she had by her letters
proved herself wise and considerate, and while staying in
Dresden, where she met her old friends, she lived quietly, and I
always provided for her amicably. By so doing she strengthened
the impression she had made on me at the time of that touching
nocturnal scene, and I willingly put before her the possibility
of a domestic reunion, provided that we could establish a home
that promised to be a permanent one, which at that time I could
only picture to myself as feasible in Germany, and if possible in
Dresden. To obtain some idea as to whether it was possible to
carry out such an arrangement, I lost no time in applying to
Luttichau, as I had received favourable reports from Minna about
his kindly feeling and warm attachment to me. I really went so
far as to write to him cordially and in detail. It was another
lesson for me when in return I received occasionally a few dry
lines in a businesslike tone, in which he pointed out that at
that moment nothing could be done with respect to my desired
return to Saxony. On the other hand, I learned through the police
authorities in Venice, that the Saxon ambassador in Vienna
ardently wished to drive me even out of Venice. This proved
unsuccessful, however, as I was sufficiently protected by a Swiss
passport, which to my great delight the Austrian authorities duly
respected. The only hope I had with regard to my longed-for
return to Germany was based on the friendly efforts of the Grand
Duke of Baden. Eduard Devrient, to whom I also applied for more
definite information respecting our project of a first
performance of Tristan, informed me that the Grand Duke looked
upon my presence at the performance as an understood thing;
whether he was taking any steps on his own account against the
League, in case his direct efforts to obtain the King of Saxony's
permission should be fruitless, or whether he intended to
accomplish it in some other way, he did not know. Consequently I
realised that I could not count on the possibility of an early
settlement in Germany.

A great deal of my time was taken up in correspondence with the
object of procuring the necessary means of subsistence, which at
that time, owing to the divided household, made no small calls
upon my purse. Fortunately a few of the larger theatres had not
yet come to terms about my operas, so I might still expect some
fees from them, whereas those from the more active theatres had
already been spent. The Stuttgart Court Theatre was the last to
apply for Tannhauser. At that time I had a particular affection
for Stuttgart, owing to the reasons I have already mentioned;
this was also true of Vienna, which had been the first place to
produce Lohengrin, and, in consequence of its success, thought it
necessary to secure Tannhauser. My negotiations with Eckert, who
was director at that time, quickly led to satisfactory results.

All this happened during the course of the winter and early
spring of 1859. Otherwise I lived very quietly and with great
regularity, as I have described. After recovering the use of my
leg, I was able in December to begin my regular gondola trips to
the Piazzetta again and the return journeys in the evening, and
also to give myself up for some time uninterruptedly to my
musical work. I spent Christmas and New Year's Eve quite alone,
but in my dreams at night I often found myself in society, which
had a very disturbing effect on my rest.

At the beginning of 1859 Karl Ritter suddenly turned up again at
my rooms for his usual evening visits. His anxiety about the
performance of a dramatic piece he had written had taken him to
the shores of the Baltic. This was a work he had completed a
short time before ARMIDA, much of which again showed his great
talent. The tendency of the whole play is to show terrible
glimpses of the poet's soul, and these prevent one from passing a
favourable judgment on some parts of the piece, but other parts,
notably the meeting of Rinaldo with Armida, and the violent birth
of their love, are depicted by the author with real poetic fire.
As is the case with all such works, which are in reality always
hampered by the superficiality of the dilettante, much should
have been altered and rewritten for stage effect. Karl would not
hear of this; on the contrary, he thought he had discovered, in
an intelligent theatrical manager in Stettin, the very man who
would lay aside any such considerations as were peculiar to me.
He had, however, been disappointed in this hope, and had come
back to Venice intending to carry out his fond desire of living
aimlessly. To wander through Rome clad in the garb of a capuchin,
studying the treasures of art from hour to hour, was the kind of
existence he would have preferred to any other.

He would not hear of a remodelled version of ARMIDA, but declared
his intention to set to work on some new dramatic material which
he had taken from Machiavelli's FLORENTINE HISTORIES. He would
not specify what this material was more definitely, lest I should
dissuade him from using it, inasmuch as it contained only
situations, and absolutely no indication of any purpose. He
seemed no longer to have any desire to give himself up to musical
work, although even in this respect the young man showed himself
to me in a thoroughly interesting light by a fantasy for the
piano which he had written soon after his arrival in Venice.
Nevertheless he displayed a more highly intelligent appreciation
than before of the development of the second act of Tristan, in
which I had at last made regular progress. In the evening I
frequently played to him, Winterberger and Tessarin, the portions
I had completed during the day, and they were always deeply
moved. During the previous interruption in my work, which had
lasted rather a long time, Hartel had engraved the first act of
the score, and Bulow had arranged it for the piano. Thus a
portion of the opera lay before me in monumental completeness,
while I was still in a fruitful state of excitement with regard
to the execution of the whole. And now in the early months of the
year the orchestration of this act, which I continued to send in
groups of sheets to the publisher to be engraved, also neared
completion. By the middle of March I was able to send off the
last sheets to Leipzig.

It was now necessary to make new decisions for my plan of life.
The question presented itself as to where I was going to compose
the third act; for I wished to begin it only in a place where I
had a prospect of finishing it undisturbed. It seemed as if this
was not destined to be the case in Venice. My work would have
occupied me until late into the summer, and on account of my
health I did not think I dared spend the hot weather in Venice.
Its climate about this time of the year did not commend itself to
me. Already I had found great disadvantages and anything but
favourable results from the fact that it was not possible to
enjoy the invigorating recreation of rambling about in this
place. Once in the winter, when I wanted a good walk, I had gone
by train to Viterbo to take my fill of exercise by tramping
inland for several miles towards the mountains. Inhospitable
weather had opposed my progress, and this, added to other
unfavourable circumstances, resulted in my bringing away from my
excursion nothing more valuable than a favourable opinion of the
city of lagoons, to which I fled as to a place of refuge against
the dust of the streets and the spectacle of horses being cruelly
used. Moreover, it now turned out that my further stay in Venice
no longer depended wholly on my own will. I had been recently
cited (very politely) before a commissioner of police, who
informed me, without mincing the matter, that there had been an
incessant agitation on the part of the Saxon embassy in Vienna
against my remaining in what was a part of the Austrian Empire.
When I explained that I only wished to extend my stay to the
beginning of spring, I was advised to obtain permission to do so
from the Archduke Maximilian, who as viceroy resided in Milan,
preferring my request on the ground of ill-health as alleged by a
doctor's certificate. I did this, and the Archduke issued
immediate instructions by telegram to the Administrative
Government of Venice, to leave me in peace.

But soon it became clear to me that the political situation,
which was putting Austrian Italy into a state of ferment, might
develop into an occasion for renewing active precautionary
measures against strangers. The outbreak of war with Piedmont and
France became more and more imminent, and the evidence of deep
agitation in the Italian population grew more unmistakable every
moment. One day, when I was sauntering up and down the Riva with
Tessarin, we came upon a fairly large crowd of strangers, who,
with a mixture of respect and curiosity, were watching the
Archduke Maximilian and his wife as they were taking the air
during a short visit to Venice. The situation was rapidly
conveyed to me by my Venetian pianist, who nudged me violently
and sought to drag me away from the spot by my arm: in order
that, as he explained, I might be spared the necessity of raising
my hat to the Archduke. Seeing the stately and very attractive
figure of the young Prince passing along, I slipped by my friend
with a laugh, and took honest pleasure in being able by my
greeting to thank him for his protection, although, of course, he
did not know who I was.

Soon, however, everything began to assume a more serious aspect,
and to look gloomy and depressing. Day by day the Riva was so
crowded with troops newly disembarked, that it became quite
unavailable for a promenade. The officers of these troops, on the
whole, made a very favourable impression on me, and their homely
German tongue, as they chatted harmlessly with one another,
reminded me pleasantly of home. In the rank and file, on the
other hand, I could not possibly feel any confidence, for in them
I saw chiefly the dull servile features of certain leading Slav
races in the Austrian monarchy. One could not fail to recognise
in them a certain brute force, but it was no less clear that they
were entirely devoid of that naive intelligence which is such an
attractive characteristic of the Italian people. I could not but
grudge the former race their victory over the latter. The facial
expression of these troops recurred forcibly to my memory in the
autumn of this year in Paris, when I could not avoid comparing
the picked French troops, the Chasseurs de Vincennes and the
Zouaves, with these Austrian soldiers; and without any scientific
knowledge of strategy, I understood in a flash the battles of
Magenta and Solferino. For the present I learned that Milan was
already in a state of seige and was almost completely barred to
foreigners. As I had determined to seek my summer refuge in
Switzerland on the Lake of Lucerne, this news accelerated my
departure; for I did not want to have my retreat cut off by the
exigencies of war. So I packed up my things, sent the Erard once
more over the Gotthard, and prepared to take leave of my few,
acquaintances. Ritter had resolved to remain in Italy; he
intended to go to Florence and Rome, whither Winterberger, with
whom he had struck up a friendship, had hurried in advance.
Winterberger declared that he was provided by a brother with
money enough to enjoy Italy--an experience which he declared
necessary for his recreation and recovery, from what disease I do
not know. Ritter therefore counted upon leaving Venice within a
very short time. My leave-taking with the worthy Dolgoroukow,
whom I left in great suffering, was very sincere, and I embraced
Karl at the station, probably for the last time, for from that
moment I was left without any direct news of him, and have not
seen him to this day.

On the 24th of March, after some adventures caused by the
military control of strangers, I reached Milan, where I allowed
myself to stay three days to see the sights. Without any official
guide to help me, I contented myself with following up the
simplest directions I could obtain to the Brera, the Ambrosian
Library, the 'Last Supper' of Leonardo da Vinci, and the
cathedral. I climbed the various roofs and towers of this
cathedral at all points. Finding, as I always did, that my first
impressions were the liveliest, I confined my attention in the
Brera chiefly to two pictures which confronted me as soon as I
entered; they were Van Dyck's 'Saint Anthony before the Infant
Jesus' and Crespi's 'Martyrdom of Saint Stephen.' I realised on
this occasion that I was not a good judge of pictures, because
when once the subject has made a clear and sympathetic appeal to
me, it settles my view, and nothing else counts. A strange light,
however, was shed on the effect made by the purely artistic
significance of a masterpiece, when I stood before Leonardo da
Vinci's 'Last Supper' and had the same experience as every one
else. This work of art, although it is almost entirely destroyed
as a picture, produces such an extraordinary effect on the mind
of the spectator, that even after a close examination of the
copies hanging beside it representing it in a restored state,
when he turns to the ruined picture the fact is suddenly revealed
to the eye of his soul that the contents of the original are
absolutely inimitable. In the evening I made all haste to get to
the Italian comedy again. I grew very fond of it, and found it
had installed itself here in the tiny Teatro Re for the benefit
of a small audience of the lower orders. The Italians of to-day
unfortunately despise it heartily. Here, too, the comedies of
Goldoni were played with, as it seemed to me, considerable and
ingenious skill. On the other hand, it was my fate to be present
at a performance in the Scala Theatre, where, in a setting of an
external magnificence that was extraordinary, it was proved true
that Italian taste was degenerating sadly. Before the most
brilliant and enthusiastic audience one could wish for, gathered
together in that immense theatre, an incredibly worthless fake of
an opera by a modern composer, whose name I have forgotten, was
performed. The same evening I learned, however, that although the
Italian public was passionately fond of song, it was the ballet
which they regarded as the main item; for, obviously, the dreary
opera, at the beginning was only intended to prepare the way for
a groat choreographic performance on a subject no less pretentious
than that of Antony and Cleopatra. In this ballet I saw even the
cold politician Octavianus, who until now had not so far lost his
dignity as to appear as a character in any Italian opera, acting
in pantomime and contriving fairly successfully to maintain an
attitude of diplomatic reserve. The climax, however, was reached
in the scene of Cleopatra's funeral. This afforded the immense
staff of the ballet an opportunity for displaying the most varied
picturesque effects in highly characteristic costumes.

After receiving these impressions all by myself, I travelled to
Lucerne one brilliant spring day by way of Como, where everything
was in full blossom, through Lugano, which I knew already, and
the Gotthard, which I had to cross in small open sledges along
towering walls of snow. When I reached Lucerne the weather was
bitterly cold, in contrast with the genial spring I had enjoyed
in Italy. The allowance of money I had made for my stay in
Lucerne was based on the assumption that the big Hotel
Schweizerhof was quite empty from about this time until the
summer season began, and that without further preliminaries I
should be able to find a lodging there both spacious and free
from noise. This hope had not been entertained in vain. The
courteous manager of the hotel, Colonel Segesser, allotted to me
a whole floor in the annexe on the left, to occupy at my
pleasure. I could make myself quite comfortable here in the
larger rooms at a moderate price. As the hotel at this time of
the year had only a very small staff of servants, it was left to
me to make arrangements for some one to wait upon me. For this
purpose I found a careful woman well suited to look after my
comfort. Many years afterwards, remembering the good services she
had rendered me, especially later on when the number of guests
had increased, I engaged her as my housekeeper.

Soon my things arrived from Venice. The Erard had been obliged to
cross the Alps again when the snow was on the ground. When it was
set up in my spacious drawing-room, I said to myself that all
this trouble and expense had been incurred to enable me at last
to complete the third act of Tristan und Isolde. There were times
when this seemed to me to be an extravagant ambition; for the
difficulties in the way of finishing my work seemed to make it
impossible. I compared myself to Leto who, in order to find a
place in which to give birth to Apollo and Artemis, was hunted
about the world and could find no resting-place until Poseidon,
taking compassion on her, caused the island of Delos to rise from
the sea.

I wished to regard Lucerne as this Delos. But the terrible
influence of the weather, which was intensely cold and
continuously wet, weighed upon my spirits in a most unfriendly
fashion until the end of May. As such great sacrifice had been
made to find this new place of refuge, I thought every day had
been uselessly frittered away which had not contributed something
to my work of composing. For the greater part of my third act I
was occupied with a subject sad beyond words; it came to such a
pass that it is only with a shudder that I can recall the first
few months of this emigration to Lucerne.

A few days after my arrival I had already visited the Wesendoncks
in Zurich. Our meeting was melancholy, but in no way embarrassed.
I spent some days in my friends' house, where I saw my old Zurich
acquaintances again, and felt as though I were passing from one
dream to another. In fact, everything assumed an air of
unsubstantiality for me. Several times in the course of my stay
in Lucerne I repeated this visit, which was twice returned to me,
once on the occasion of my birthday.

Besides the work on which I was now somewhat gloriously engaged,
I was also heavy with cares about keeping myself and my wife
alive. Of my own accord and out of necessary respect for the
circumstances in which my friends the Ritters were placed, I had
already in Venice felt myself for the future obliged to decline
their voluntary support. I was beginning to exhaust the little
that I could contrive to extract with difficulty from those of my
operas which up to this period it had been possible to produce.
It was settled that I should take up the Nibelungen work when
Tristan was finished, and I thought it my duty to find out some
way of making my future existence easier. This Nibelungen work
spurred me to the attempt. The Grand Duke of Weimar still kept up
his interest in it, to judge from the communications I had
received from him during the previous year. I therefore wrote to
Liszt and repeated my request that he would make a serious
proposal to the Grand Duke to buy the copyright of the work and
arrange for its publication, with the right of disposing of it to
a publisher on his own terms. I enclosed my former negotiations
with Hartel, which had been broken off, and which were now
intended to serve as a fair basis for what may be called the
business arrangement that Liszt was to enter into with the Grand
Duke. Liszt soon gave me an embarrassed hint that his Royal
Highness was not really keen on it. This was quite enough for me.

On the other hand, I was driven by circumstances to come to an
agreement with Meser in Dresden about the unfortunate copyright
of my three earlier operas. The actor Kriete, one of my principal
creditors, was making piteous demands for the return of his
capital. Schmidt, a Dresden lawyer, offered to put the matter
right, and after a long and heated correspondence it was arranged
that a certain H. Muller, successor to Meser, who had died a
short time before, should enter into possession of the copyright
of these publications. On this occasion I heard of nothing but of
the costs and expenditure to which my former agent had been put;
but it was impossible to get any clear account of the receipts he
had taken from my works beyond the fact that the lawyer admitted
to me that the late Meser must have put aside some thousands of
thalers, which, however, it would not be possible to lay hands
on, as he had not left his heirs any funds at all.

In order to pacify the woeful Kriete, I was eventually obliged to
agree to sell my rights in the works Meser had published for nine
thousand marks, which represented the exact sum I owed to Kriete
and another creditor who held a smaller share. With regard to the
arrears of interest still owing on the money at compound rate, I
remained Kriete's personal debtor; the joint sum amounted in the
year 1864 to five thousand four hundred marks, which were duly
claimed of me about this time with all the pressure of the law.
In the interests of Pusinelli, my chief creditor, who could only
be provided under this arrangement with inadequate payment, I
reserved to myself the French copyright of these three operas, in
the event of this music being produced in France through my
efforts at finding a publisher to purchase it in that country.

According to the contents of a letter from the lawyer Schmidt,
this reservation of mine had been accepted by the present
publisher in Dresden. Pusinelli in a friendly spirit forbore to
take advantage of the benefits accruing to him from this
arrangement, in regard to the capital he had formerly lent me. He
assured me he would never claim it. Thus one possibility remained
open to me for the future: that if my operas could make their way
into France, although there would be no question of any profit
coming to me through those works of mine, I should be reimbursed
for the capital I had spent on them and for that which I had been
obliged to guarantee. When, later on, my Paris publisher Flaxland
and I came to make out an agreement, Meser's successor in Dresden
announced himself as absolute proprietor of my operas, and
actually succeeded in putting so many obstacles in Flaxland's way
in the conduct of his French business, that the latter was
compelled to purchase peace at the price of six thousand francs.
The natural result of this was that Flaxland was placed in the
position of being able to deny that it was I who owned the French
copyright of my work. Upon this I made repeated appeals to Adolph
Schmidt, the lawyer, to give evidence in my favour, asking
nothing more of him than that he should forward to me a copy of
the correspondence referring to the rights I had reserved, which
had become valid in the Lucerne transaction. To all the letters
addressed to him on this subject, however, he obstinately refused
an answer, and I learned later on from a Viennese lawyer that I
must give up hoping to get this kind of evidence, as I had no
legal means in my possession to force the advocate to give it, if
he were not so inclined.

While, owing to this, I had little opportunity of improving my
prospects for the future, I had at least the satisfaction of
seeing the score of Tannhauser engraved at last. As the stock of
my earlier autograph copies had come to an end, chiefly through
the wasteful management of Meser, I had already persuaded Hartel
when I was in Venice to have the score engraved. Meser's
successor had acquired the complete rights of this work, and
therefore regarded it as a point of honour not to give up the
score to another publisher; consequently he took over the task of
producing it at his own cost. Unluckily fate demanded that just a
year later I had to revise and reconstruct the first two scenes
completely. To this day it is a subject of regret to me not to
have been able to introduce this fresh piece of work into the
engraved score.

The Hartels, never faltering in their assumption that Tristan
might provide good food for the theatre, set their men busily to
work upon engraving the score of the second act, while I was at
work on the third. The process of registering corrections, while
I was in the throes of composing the third act--one long ecstasy-
-wielded over me a strange, almost uncanny influence; for in the
first scenes of this act it was made clear to me that in this
opera (which had been most unwarrantably assumed to be an easy
one to produce), I had embodied the most daring and most exotic
conception in all my writings. While I was at work on the great
scene of Tristan, found myself often asking whether I was not mad
to want to give such work to a publisher to print for the
theatre. And yet I could not have parted with a single accent in
that tale of pain, although the whole thing tortured me to the
last degree.

I tried to overcome my gastric troubles by using (among other
things) Kissingen water in moderate doses. As I was fatigued and
made incapable of work by the early walks I had to take during
this treatment, it occurred to me to take a short ride instead.
For this purpose the hotel manager lent me a horse, aged twenty-
five, named Lise. On this animal I rode every morning as long as
it would carry me. It never conveyed me very far, but turned back
regularly at certain spots without taking the slightest notice of
my directions.

Thus passed the months of April, May, and the greater part of
June, without my completing even half of my composition for the
third act, and all the while I was contending with a mood of the
deepest melancholy. At last came the season for the visitors to
arrive; the hotel with its annexes began to fill, and it was no
longer possible to think of maintaining my exceptional privilege
with regard to the use of such choice quarters. It was proposed
to move me to the second storey of the main building, where only
travellers who spent the night on their way to other places in
Switzerland were put up, whereas in the annexes people were
lodged who came to make a long stay, and who used their rooms day
and night. As a matter of fact, this arrangement answered
admirably. From this time forward I was completely undisturbed
during the hours of my work in my little sitting-room with its
adjoining bedchamber, as the rooms engaged for the night by
strangers in this storey were perfectly empty in the daytime.

Really splendid summer weather set in eventually, lasting a good
two months with a continuously cloudless sky. I enjoyed the
curious charm of protecting myself against the extremes of the
sun's heat by carefully keeping my room cool and dark, and going
out on to my balcony only in the evening to surrender myself to
the influence of the summer air. Two good horn-players gave me
great pleasure by providing a performance of simple folk-songs
almost regularly in a skiff on the lake. In my work, too, I had
now luckily passed the critical point, and in spite of its
sorrowful character, the more subdued mood of that part of my
poem which I had still to master, threw me into a sincere
spiritual ecstasy, during which I completed the composition of
the whole work by the beginning of August, fragments only
remaining to be orchestrated.

Lonely as was my life, the exciting events of the Italian war
provided me plenty of interest. I followed this struggle, as
unexpected as it was significant, through the thrilling course of
its successes and reverses. Still I did not remain entirely
without company. In July, Felix Drasecke, whom I had not known
before, came to Lucerne for a lengthy visit. After hearing a
performance of the prelude to Tristan und Isolde conducted by
Liszt, he had almost immediately determined to make himself
personally acquainted with me. I was completely terrified by his
arrival, and was at a loss to know what to do with him. Moreover,
as his talk was in a certain facetious vein, overflowing with
stories of persons and circumstances for which I was gradually
losing all appreciation, he soon began to bore me, a fact which
astonished him, and which he recognised so clearly that he
thought he had better leave after a few days. This made me in my
turn embarrassed, and I now took special care to deprive him of
the bad opinion he had formed of me. I soon learned to like him,
and for a considerable time, until shortly before his departure
from Lucerne, he was my daily companion, from whose intercourse I
derived much pleasure, as he was a highly gifted musician and by
no means a prig. But Drasecke was not my only visitor.

Wilhelm Baumgartner, my old Zurich acquaintance, came to spend a
few weeks in Lucerne out of kindness to me. And lastly Alexander
Seroff from St. Petersburg came to stay some time in the
neighbourhood. He was a remarkable man, of great intelligence,
and openly prepossessed in favour of Liszt and myself. He had
heard my Lohengrin in Dresden and wanted to know more of me--an
ambition I was obliged to satisfy by playing Tristan to him in
the rough-and-ready fashion which was peculiar to me. I went up
Mount Pilatus with Drasecke, and again had to look after a
companion who suffered from giddiness. To celebrate his departure
I invited him to take an excursion to Brunnen and the Grutli.
After this we took leave of each other for the time being, as his
moderate resources did not permit him to remain any longer, and I
too was seriously thinking of taking my departure.

The question now arose as to where I was to go. I had addressed
letters, first through Eduard Devrient, and finally direct to the
Grand Duke of Baden, asking the latter for a guarantee that I
might settle, if not in Karlsruhe itself, at least in some small
place in the neighbourhood. This would suffice to set at rest a
craving, which could no longer be suppressed, for intercourse now
and then with an orchestra and a company of singers, if only to
hear them play. I learned later that the Grand Duke had really
bestirred himself in the matter by writing to the King of Saxony.
But the view still prevailed in that quarter that I could not be
granted an amnesty, but could only hope to receive an act of
grace; it being assumed, of course, that I would first have to
report myself to a magistrate for examination. Thus the
fulfilment of my wish remained impossible, and I shrank in dismay
before the problem of how to secure a performance of my Tristan
which I could superintend in person, as I had determined to do. I
was assured that the Grand Duke would know what measures to
resort to in order to meet the situation. But the question was,
where was I to turn for a place in which to settle with some
prospect of being able to remain there. I longed for a permanent
home again. After due consideration I decided that Paris was the
only place where I could make sure of now and then hearing a good
orchestra and a first-class quartette. Without these stimulating
influences Zurich at last became unbearable, and in no other city
but Paris, where I could stay undisturbed, could I safely reckon
on being able to obtain artistic recreation of a sufficiently
high standard.

At last I had to bestir myself to come to a decision about my
wife. We had now been apart from each other for a whole year.
After the hard lessons she had received from me, and which,
according to her letters, had left a deep impression upon her, I
was justified in assuming that the renewal of our life in common
might be made tolerable; especially as it would remove the grave
difficulty of her maintenance. I therefore agreed with her that
she should join me late in the autumn in Paris. In the meantime I
was willing to look for a possible abode there, and undertook to
arrange for the removal of our furniture and household goods to
the French capital. In order to carry out this plan financial
assistance was imperative, as the means at my disposal were quite
inadequate. I then made to Wesendonck the same offer in regard to
my Nibelungen that I had made to the Grand Duke of Weimar, that
is to say, I proposed that he should buy the copyright for
publishing the work. Wesendonck acceded to my wishes without
demur, and was ready to buy out each of the completed portions of
my work in turn for about the same sum as it was reasonable to
suppose a publisher would pay for it later on. I was not able to
fix my departure, which took place on the 7th of September, when
I went for a three days' visit to my friends in Zurich. I spent
these days at the Wesendonck's, where I was well looked after and
saw my former acquaintances, Herwegh, Semper, and Gottfried
Keller. One of the evenings I spent with them was marked by an
animated dispute with Semper over the political events of the
time. Semper professed to recognise, in the recent defeat of
Austria, the defeat of the German nationality; in the Romance
element represented by Louis Napoleon, he recognised a sort of
Assyrian despotism which he hated both in art and politics. He
expressed himself with such emphasis that Keller, who was
generally so silent, was provoked into a lively debate. Semper in
his turn was so aggravated at this, that at last in a fit of
desperation he blamed me for luring him into the enemy's camp, by
being the cause of his invitation to the Wesendonck's. We made it
up before we parted that night, and met again on several
occasions after this, when we took care never again to let our
discussions become so passionate. From Zurich I went to
Winterthur to visit Sulzer. I did not see my friend himself, but
only his wife and the boy she had borne to him since my last
visit; the mother and child made a very touching and friendly
impression on me, particularly when I realised that I must now
regard my old friend in the light of a happy father.

On the 15th of September I reached Paris. I had intended to fix
my abode somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Champs Elysees,
and with this object in view at once looked out for temporary
lodgings in that district, which I found eventually in the Avenue
de Matignon. My main object was to discover my desired peaceful
place of refuge in some small house remote from the
thoroughfares. I at once bestirred myself to find this, and
thought it my duty to make use of every acquaintance I could call
to mind. The Olliviers were not in Paris at the time; Countess
d'Agoult was ill, and was also busy arranging her departure for
Italy, and unable to receive me. She referred me to her daughter
the Countess Charnace, upon whom I called, but without being able
to explain to her the purpose I had in view. I also looked up the
Herold family, who had received me in such a friendly way on my
last visit to Paris; but I found Mme. Herold in a strange and
morbidly excitable state of mind, the result of ill-health, so
that instead of discussing my views with her, my only thought was
to keep her calm and avoid upsetting her by even the slightest
appeal for help. In my passionate longing to find a home I
decided to get no further information, but set about the matter
myself. At last I discovered in the Rue Newton near the Barriere
de l'Etoile, a side street off the Champs Elysees, not yet
completed in accordance with a former plan of Paris, a nice
little villa with a small garden. I took this on a three-years'
agreement at a rent of four thousand francs a year. Here, at all
events, I might look for complete quiet and total isolation from
the noise of the streets. This fact alone prepossessed me very
much in taking the little house, the late occupier of which had
been the well-known author Octave Feuillet, who was at that time
under the patronage of the imperial court. But I was puzzled that
the building, in spite of my being unable to detect anything old
in its structure, had been so neglected inside. The proprietor
could in no way be induced to do anything to restore the place
and make it habitable, even if I had consented to pay a higher
rent. The reason of this I discovered some time afterwards: the
estate itself was doomed in consequence of the plans for the
rebuilding of Paris; but the time had not yet come to make the
official announcement of the government's intentions to the
proprietors, because, had this been done, their claims to
compensation would have become valid at once. I consequently
laboured under the pleasant delusion that whatever I was obliged
to spend on interior decoration and on restoring the property
would, in the course of years, prove to be money well invested. I
therefore proceeded to give the necessary instructions for the
work without hesitating, and ordered my furniture to be sent from
Zurich, thinking that as fate had driven me to my choice, I could
regard myself as a resident of Paris for the rest of my life.

While the house was being prepared, I tried to get my bearings as
to what could be extracted for my future existence out of the
popularity of my artistic works. The first thing I did was to
look up M. de Charnal and to get information from him about the
translation of the libretto of my Rienzi with which he had been
entrusted. It turned out that M. Carvalho, the director of the
Theatre Lyrique, would hear of absolutely nothing but Tannhauser.
I prevailed upon Carvalho to visit me to talk the matter over. He
declared that he was most certainly inclined to produce one of my
operas, only it must be Tannhauser, because, as he explained,
this opera was identified with me among the Parisians, who would
think it ridiculous to produce any other work under the name of
'Wagner.' As to my choice of a translator for the poem of this
opera he seemed to entertain grave doubts: he asked whether I had
not made a mistake, whereupon I tried to get more definite
information about the capabilities of M. de Charnal, and
discovered to my horror that this charming young man, who boasted
that he had collaborated in a melodrama called Schinderhannes,
which he thought was a German romantic subject, had not had the
slightest conception of the character of the work he was
handling.

As his enthusiasm moved me, I tried to shape some verses with him
and make them practicable for musical purposes; but I failed
utterly, and all my trouble was in vain. Bulow had once drawn my
attention to Auguste de Gasperini, a young doctor who had ceased
to practise, and whose acquaintance he had made in Baden-Baden,
where he discovered that he was extraordinarily fond of my music.
I called upon him without loss of time, and as he was not in
Paris, I wrote to him. This man sent his friend Leroy to me with
a letter of recommendation. He was a well-educated Parisian
music-master, who won my esteem by his attractive personality. My
confidence in him was aroused, because he at once dissuaded me
from associating myself with an obscure journalist on a
theatrical newspaper (in which character M. de Charnal finally
disclosed himself), and advised me to go to Roger, a highly
gifted and experienced operatic singer, who had been a favourite
with the Parisian public and was master of the German language.
This lifted a load from my heart: I accepted the invitation which
Leroy arranged for me through another friend, who took me down to
Roger's country place one day to meet him. I have forgotten the
name of this large estate which was occupied by the Paris tenor,
whose fame had been so celebrated up to that time; the chateau
had once belonged to a marquis, and was built in a very sumptuous
style and surrounded by extensive hunting-grounds. It was the
desire to handle a gun and make use of these grounds (which he
loved) that, only a short time before, had landed this charming
singer in a terrible disaster which had shattered his right arm.

I found Roger, some months after the accident, completely
recovered; but the forearm had had to be amputated. The question
now was whether a famous mechanician, who had promised to make
him a perfect substitute for the lost limb even in the matter of
free gesticulation, would be able to carry out his task. He
succeeded fairly well, as I saw with my own eyes some time later,
when I witnessed Roger act in a benefit performance which the
Grand Opera had given him, and use his arm so ingeniously that he
received great applause for this reason alone. In spite of this
he had to accept the fact that he was regarded as 'disabled,' and
that his career at the Grand Opera in Paris had come to a close.
For the time being he seemed to be glad to secure for himself
some sort of literary occupation, and accepted with much pleasure
my proposal that he should make a translation of Tannhauser for
practical use. He sang to me the French text of some of the main
themes which he had already translated, and they seemed to me
good. After I had spent a day and a night with the singer, who
had once been such a popular favourite, and was now condemned to
look forward to a sad decline, I felt in very good spirits and
full of hope, more especially as his intelligent way of
approaching my opera gave me a pleasing idea of the extent to
which it was possible to cultivate the French mind. In spite of
this I had soon to give up the notion of Roger's working for me,
as for a long time he was entirely absorbed in trying to make
secure the position into which he had fallen through his terrible
accident. He was so busy with his own affairs that he could
hardly give me an answer to my inquiries, and for the time being
I lost sight of him altogether.

I had come to this arrangement with Roger more by chance than out
of necessity, as I continued to adhere firmly to my plan simply
to seek a suitable pied-a-terre in Paris. My serious artistic
enterprises, on the other hand, were still directed to Germany,
from which, from another point of view, I was an enforced exile.
Soon, however, the whole aspect of affairs changed: the proposed
performance of Tristan in Karlsruhe, on which I had continued to
keep an eye, was finally announced as abandoned. I had to remain
uncertain as to the precise reason why this undertaking had been
given up, which at an earlier stage had apparently been pursued
with so much zeal. Devrient pointed out to me that all his
attempts to secure an appropriate representation of the rule of
Isolde had been shattered by my deciding against the singer
Garrigues (who had already married young Schnorr), and that he
felt his incapacity to offer advice on the rest of the business
all the more keenly because Schnorr, the tenor, whose devotion to
me was so great, had himself despaired of being able to execute
the last portion of the task assigned to him. I realised at once
that this was an obstacle which I should have been able to
overcome, together with all its disastrous consequences, if I had
been permitted, even for a brief space of time, to visit
Karlsruhe. But the mere expression of this wish seemed, as soon
as it was reiterated, to arouse the bitterest feelings against
me. Devrient expressed his opinion on the matter with so much
violence and brutality that I could not help seeing that what
kept me from Karlsruhe was mainly his personal disinclination to
have me there, or to be interfered with in the conduct of his
theatre.

A less potent factor in the situation I found in the painful
feeling now aroused in the Grand Duke at the prospect of not
being able to fulfil the promise he had once held out to me, that
I should visit him in Karlsruhe, where he was in residence; if
the main object for the visit were to subside under pressure of
other considerations, he could only regard this circumstance in
the light of an almost desirable event. At the same time I
received from Bulow, who had gone several times to Karlsruhe,
fairly broad hints as to what Devrient was aiming at. Full light
was shed on the affair at a later stage; for the present it was a
matter of the utmost importance for me to face the fact that I
was entirely cut off from Germany, and must think of a fresh
field for the production of Tristan, which lay so near my heart.
I rapidly sketched a plan for starting a German theatre in Paris
itself, such as had existed in bygone years with the co-operation
of Schroder-Devrient. I thought I could safely rely on the
possibility of doing so, as the most eminent singers of the
German theatre were known to me, and would gladly follow me if I
were to summon them to Paris on such a mission. I received
messages of ready acceptance, in the event of my succeeding in
founding a German opera season in Paris on a solid basis, from
Tichatschek, Mitterwurzer, Niemann the tenor, and also Luise
Meyer in Vienna. My immediate and besetting care was then to
discover in Paris a suitable man for the task, who would
undertake the execution of my plan at his own risk. My object was
to secure the Salle Ventadour for a spring season of two months
after the close of the Italian opera. There would then be
performances of my operas, Tannhauser, Lohengrin, and finally
Tristan, by a chosen company and chorus of German singers, for
the benefit of the Parisian public in general and myself in
particular.

With this purpose in mind, my anxieties and endeavours now took a
totally different direction from that towards which they had
tended when I first settled again in Paris; to cultivate
acquaintances, especially among those who had influence, was now
of the utmost importance to me. For this reason I was glad to
hear that Gasperini had arrived in Paris for good. Although I had
only known him very slightly before, I now immediately
communicated my plans to him, and was introduced in the
friendliest way to a rich man who was well disposed towards him,
a M. Lucy, who, so I was told, was not without influence, and was
at that time Receiver-General in Marseilles. Our deliberations
convinced us that the most necessary, and indeed indispensable,
thing was to find some one to come forward and finance our
enterprise. My friend Gasperini could not but agree that, on the
strength of the opinions he had himself advanced, it was natural
I should look upon M. Lucy as the very man we wanted; but he
thought it advisable to put our wishes before his friend with
some caution, for though Lucy had much chaleur de coeur, he was
principally a man of business and understood but little of music.
Above all, it was necessary that my compositions should become
well known in Paris, so that further enterprises might be founded
on the results thus obtained. With this object in view I decided
to arrange a few important concerts. To effect this I had to
welcome my old friend Belloni, Liszt's former secretary, into the
circle of my closer acquaintances. He immediately enlisted a
companion of his in our cause, a highly intelligent man called
Giacomelli, whom I never knew to be anything but good-natured. He
was the editor of a theatrical journal and was cordially
recommended to me by Belloni, as much for his excellent French as
for his exceptional capabilities in other respects. My new
protector's strange editorial office became from this time one of
my most important places of rendezvous, which I frequented almost
daily, and where I met all the curious creatures with whom, for
the purpose of theatrical and similar matters, one is obliged to
mix in Paris. The next thing to be considered was how to obtain
the most suitable hall for my intended concerts. It was evident
that I should appear to greatest advantage before the Parisian
public if I could secure the theatre and orchestra of the Grand
Opera.

For this I had to address myself to the Emperor Napoleon, which I
did in a concise letter composed for me by Gasperini. The
hostility of Fould, who was at that time the Minister of the
Household to Napoleon, would probably have to be reckoned with,
on account of his friendly relations to Meyerbeer. The injurious
and dreaded influence of this personage we hoped to counteract by
that of M. Mocquard, Napoleon's secretary, who, as Ollivier
declared, composed all the imperial speeches. In an elan of fiery
generosity Lucy decided to appeal to the friend of his youth, for
as such he regarded Mocquard, in a letter of recommendation to
him on my behalf. As even this communication received no answer
from the Tuileries, I and my more practical friends, Belloni and
Giacomelli, with whom I held consultations, grew more doubtful
every day of our own power as opposed to that of the Minister of
the Household, and we therefore entered into negotiations with
Calzado, the director of the Italian Opera, instead. We met with
a direct refusal in this quarter, whereupon I finally decided to
seek a personal interview with the man. By a power of persuasion
which astonished even myself, and, above all, by holding out the
prospect of my Tristan at the Italian Opera possibly proving a
huge success, I actually succeeded in at last obtaining his
consent to let the Salle Ventadour for three evenings with a
week's interval between each. But even my passionate eloquence,
which Giacomelli extolled on our way home, could not persuade him
to lower the rent, which he fixed at four thousand francs an
evening, merely for the hire and lighting of the hall.

After this the most important point was to get a first-class
orchestra for my concerts, and my two agents had, for the time
being, more than enough to do in this respect. In consequence of
their endeavours on my behalf I now began to notice the first
signs of a hostile, and hitherto unsuspected, attitude towards me
and my undertaking on the part of my old friend Berlioz. Full of
the favourable impression he had made upon me when we met in
London in 1855, which was strengthened by a friendly
correspondence he had kept up for a time, I had called at his
house as soon as I arrived in Paris. As he was not in I turned
back into the street, where I met him on his way home, and
noticed that the sight of me occasioned a convulsive movement of
fright, which showed itself in his whole physiognomy and bearing
in a way which was almost gruesome. I saw at a glance how matters
stood between us, but concealed my own uneasiness under an
appearance of natural concern about his state of health, which he
immediately assured me was one of torture, and that he could only
bear up against the most violent attacks of neuralgia with the
help of electric treatment, from which he was just returning. In
order to allay his suffering I offered to leave him immediately,
but this made him so far ashamed of his attitude that he pressed
me to return with him to his house. Here I succeeded in making
him feel somewhat more friendly towards me by disclosing my real
intentions in Paris: even the concerts I proposed giving were
merely to serve the purpose of so far attracting public attention
as to make it possible to establish German opera here, so that
when I wished to do so I could superintend the representation of
such of my own works I had not yet heard; while, on the other
hand, I completely renounced the idea of a French production of
Tannhauser, such as the manager Carvalho had seemed to
contemplate. In consequence of these explanations I was
apparently for a time on quite a friendly footing with Berlioz. I
consequently thought that, with regard to the engagement of
musicians for the proposed concerts, I could not on this occasion
do better than refer my agents to this experienced friend, whose
advice would certainly prove invaluable. They afterwards informed
me that Berlioz had at first shown himself sympathetically
inclined, but his manner had suddenly changed one day when Mme.
Berlioz entered the room where they were discussing matters, and
exclaimed in a tone of angry surprise, 'Comment, je crois que
vous donnez des conseils pour les concerts de M. Wagner?' Belloni
then discovered that this lady had just accepted a valuable
bracelet sent her by Meyerbeer. Being a man of the world he said
to me, 'Do not count upon Berlioz,' and there the whole matter
ended.

From this time forward Belloni's bright face was clouded over
with an expression of the deepest anxiety. He thought he had
discovered that the whole Parisian press was exceedingly hostile
towards me, which he had not the slightest doubt was due to the
tremendous agitation Meyerbeer had set on foot from Berlin. He
discovered that an urgent correspondence had been carried on from
there with the editors of the principal Paris journals, and that
amongst others the famous Fiorentino had already taken advantage
of Meyerbeer's alarm at my Parisian enterprise, to threaten him
with praise of my music, thus naturally exciting Meyerbeer to
further bribery. This increased Belloni's anxiety, and he advised
me, above all, to try and find financial support for my plans, or
if I had no prospect of this, to rely on the imperial power
alone. He pointed out that it was absolutely impossible for me to
carry out the concerts entirely on my own responsibility without
financial support, and his arguments had the effect of making me
decide to be careful; for what with my journey to Paris and my
installation there, my funds were thoroughly exhausted. So I was
again forced to enter into negotiations with the Tuileries about
the letting of the Opera House and its orchestra free of charge.
Ollivier now came forward with judicious advice and
introductions, which brought me into touch with all kinds of
people, and, amongst others, with Camille Doucet (a leading
member of Fould's ministry and also a dramatic author). By this
means I hoped to penetrate into the presence of Meyerbeer's
admirer, the unapproachable and terrible Minister of State. One
result of these introductions, however, was that I formed a
lasting friendship with Jules Ferry, though our acquaintance
proved quite useless to the immediate purpose in hand. The
Emperor and his secretary remained obstinately silent, and this
even after I had obtained the Grand Duke of Baden's consent to
the intercession of his ambassador in Paris on my behalf, and
also that of the Swiss ambassador, Dr. Kern, whose combined
forces were to try and enlighten me, and possibly also the
Emperor, about Fould's manoeuvres. But it was useless--all
remained silent as before.

Under these circumstances I regarded it as a freak of fate that
Minna should announce her readiness to join me in Paris, and that
I should have to expect her arrival shortly. In the selection as
well as in the arrangement of the little house in the Rue Newton
I had had particular regard to our future existence together. My
living-room was separated from hers by a staircase, and I had
taken care that the part of the house to be occupied by her
should not be wanting in comfort. But, above all, the affection
which had been revived by our last reunion in Zurich had prompted
me to furnish and decorate the rooms with special care, so that
they might have a friendly appearance and make life in common
with this woman, who was becoming quite a stranger to me, more
possible to bear. On account of this I was afterwards reproached
with a love of luxury. There was also a possibility of arranging
a drawing-room in our house, and though I had not intended to be
extravagant, I finally discovered that, in addition to the
trouble of negotiations with unreliable Parisian workmen, I was
drawn into expenses I had not counted upon. But I comforted
myself with the reflection that, as it could not be helped now,
Minna would at least be pleased when she entered the house she
was henceforth to manage. I also thought it necessary to get a
maid for her, and a particularly suitable person was recommended
me by Mme. Herold. I had also engaged a man-servant as soon as I
arrived, and although he was rather a thick-headed Swiss from
Valais, who had at one time belonged to the Pope's bodyguard, he
soon became quite devoted to me. In addition to these two
servants there was my wife's former cook, whom she had taken with
her from Zurich, and by whom she was accompanied when at last I
was able to go and meet her at the station on the 17th of
November. Here Minna immediately handed me the parrot and her dog
Fips, which involuntarily reminded me of her arrival in the
harbour of Rorschach ten years ago. Just as she had done on that
occasion also, she now immediately gave me to understand that she
did not come to me out of need, and that if I treated her badly
she knew quite well where to go. Moreover, there was no denying
that since then a not unimportant change had taken place in her;
she owned that she was filled with a similar anxiety and fear
like a person feels who is about to enter a new situation, and
did not know whether she would be able to stand it. Here I sought
to divert her thoughts by acquainting her with my public
position, which as my wife she would naturally share.
Unfortunately she could not understand this at all, and it failed
to make any appeal to her, while her attention was immediately
absorbed by the interior arrangement of our house. The fact of my
having taken a man-servant merely filled her with scorn; but
that, under the title of lady's maid, I should have provided her
with what I had really considered a very necessary attendant,
made her furious. This person, whom Mme. Herold had recommended
to me with the assurance that she had shown angelic patience in
the care of her sick and aged mother, speedily became so
demoralised by Minna's treatment of her that, at the end of a
very short time, I of my own accord hurriedly dismissed her, and
in doing so was violently reproached by my wife for giving the
woman a small tip. To an even greater extent did she succeed in
spoiling my man-servant, who finally refused to obey her orders,
and when I found fault with him became so impertinent towards me
also that I had to send him away at the shortest notice. He left
a very good complete set of livery behind, which I had just
bought at great expense, and which remained on my hands, as I
felt no inclination ever to have a man-servant again. On the
other hand, I cannot but bear the highest testimony in favour of
the Swabian Therese, who from this time forward performed the
entire service of the household alone during the whole of my
sojourn in Paris. This woman, who was gifted with unusual
penetration, at once grasped my painful position towards her
mistress, and understanding my wife's faults, succeeded by her
indefatigable activity in turning matters to the best advantage
for me as well as for the household, and thus neutralising their
bad effect.

So in this last reunion with Minna I once more entered upon a
state of existence which I had repeatedly lived through before,
and which it seemed was now to start afresh. This time it was
almost a blessing that there could be no question of quiet
retirement, but that, on the contrary, it was necessary to enter
upon an endless succession of worldly relations and activities,
to which I was again driven by fate entirely against my choice
and inclination.

With the opening of the year 1860 a very unexpected turn of
affairs made it seem possible that I should succeed in carrying
out my plans. The musical director Esser in Vienna informed me
that Schott, the music publisher of Mayence, wished to obtain a
new opera by me for publication. I had nothing to offer at
present but the Rhieingold; the peculiar composition of this
work, meant only as a prelude to the Nilielungen trilogy I meant
to write, made it difficult for me to offer it as an opera
without adding any further explanation. However, Schott's
eagerness, at all costs, to have a work of mine to add to his
catalogue of publications was so great that I no longer
hesitated, and, without concealing from him the fact that he
would have great difficulty in propagating this work, I offered
to place it at his disposal for the sum of ten thousand francs,
promising him at the same time the option of purchasing the three
main operas which were to follow at the same price for each. In
the event of Schott accepting my offer, I immediately formed a
plan of spending the sum thus unexpectedly acquired for the
furthering of my Paris undertaking.

Tired out with the obstinate silence maintained by the imperial
cabinet, I now commissioned my agents to close with Signor
Calzado for three concerts to be given at the Italian Opera, as
well as to obtain the necessary orchestra and singers. When the
arrangements for this had been set in motion, I was again made
anxious by Schott's tardy offers of lower terms; in order not to
alienate him, however, I wrote to the musical director Schmidt in
Frankfort commissioning him to continue the negotiations with
Schott on considerably reduced terms, to which I gave my consent.
I had scarcely sent off this letter when an answer from Schott
reached me, in which he at last expressed his willingness to pay
me the sum of ten thousand francs for which I had asked. I
thereupon sent a telegram to Schmidt promptly cancelling the
commission with which I had just charged him.

With renewed courage I and my agents now followed up our plans,
and the necessary preparations for the concerts engaged my whole
attention. I had to look out for a choir, and for this I thought
it necessary to reinforce the expensively paid company of the
Italian Opera by a German society of singers who had been
recommended to me and who were under the direction of a certain
Herr Ehmant. In order to ingratiate myself with its members, I
had one evening to visit their meeting-place in the Rue du
Temple, and cheerfully accommodate myself to the smell of beer
and the fumes of tobacco with which the atmosphere was laden, and
in the midst of which sturdy German artists were to reveal their
capabilities to me. I was also brought into contact with a M.
Cheve, the teacher and director of a French national choral
society, whose rehearsals took place in the Ecole de Medecine. I
there met an odd enthusiast, who, by his method of teaching
people to sing without notes, hoped to bring about the
regeneration of the French people's genius. But the worst trouble
was occasioned by the necessity of my having the different
orchestral parts of the selections I was going to have played
copied out for me. For this task I hired several poor German
musicians, who remained at my house from morning till night, in
order to make the necessary arrangements, which were often rather
difficult, under my direction.

In the midst of these absorbing occupations Hans von Bulow looked
me up. He had come to Paris for some length of time, as it turned
out, more to assist me in my undertaking than to follow his own
pursuit as a concert virtuoso. He was staying with Liszt's
mother, but spent the greater part of the day with me, in order
to give help wherever it was needed, as, for instance, with the
immediate preparation of the copies. His activity in all
directions was extraordinary, but he seemed, above all, to have
set himself the task of making certain social connections, that
he and his wife had formed during their visit to Paris the year
before, useful to my undertaking. The result of this was felt in
due course, but for the present he helped me to arrange the
concerts, the rehearsals for which had begun.

The first of these took place in the Herz Hall, and led to such
an agitation on the part of the musicians against me that it was
almost as bad as a riot. I had continually to remonstrate with
them about habits on their part, which I on my side felt unable
to overlook, and tried to prove, on common-sense grounds, how
impossible it was to give way to them. My 6/8 time, which I took
as 4/4 time, particularly incensed them, and with tumultuous
protestations they declared it should be taken alla-breva. In
consequence of a sharp call to order and an allusion on my part
to the discipline of a well-drilled orchestra, they declared they
were not 'Prussian soldiers,' but free men.

At last I saw that one of the chief mistakes had lain in the
faulty setting up of the orchestra, and I now formed my plan for
the next rehearsal. After a consultation with my friends I went
to the concert-room on the next occasion the first thing in the
morning and superintended the arranging of the desks myself, and
ordered a plentiful lunch for the musicians to which, at the
beginning of the rehearsal, I invited them in the following
manner. I told them that on the result of our meeting of that day
depended the possibility of my giving my concerts; that we must
not leave the concert-room till we were quite clear about it. I
therefore requested the members to rehearse for two hours, then
to partake of a frugal lunch prepared for them in the adjoining
salon, whereupon we would immediately hold a second rehearsal for
which I would pay them. The effect of this proposal was
miraculous: the advantageous arrangement of the orchestra
contributed to the maintenance of the general good-humour, and
the favourable impression made upon every one by the prelude to
Lohengrin, which was then played, rose to enthusiasm, so that at
the conclusion of the first rehearsal both players and audience,
amongst whom was Gasperini, were delighted with me. This friendly
disposition was most agreeably displayed at the principal
rehearsal, which took place on the stage of the Italian Opera
House. I had now gained sufficient control to allow me to dismiss
a careless cornet-player from the orchestra with a severe
reproof, without incurring any difficulties owing to their esprit
de corps.

At last the first concert took place on the 25th of January
(1860); all the pieces which I had chosen from my various operas,
including Tristan und Isolde, met with an entirely favourable,
nay enthusiastic, reception from the public, and I even had the
experience of one of my pieces, the march from Tannhauser, being
interrupted by storms of applause. The pleasure thus expressed
was aroused, it seems, because the audience was surprised to find
that my music, of which there had been so many contradictory
reports, contained such long phrases of connected melody. Well
satisfied as I was, both with the way in which the concert had
been carried out and its enthusiastic reception, I had on the
following days to overcome contrary impressions caused by the
papers giving vent to their feelings against me. It was now clear
that Belloni had been quite right in supposing that they were
hostile to me, and his foresight, which had led us to omit
inviting the press, had merely roused our opponents to greater
fury. As the whole undertaking had been arranged more for the
stimulation of friends than to excite praise, I was not so much
disturbed by the blustering of these gentlemen as by the absence
of any sign from the former. What caused me most anxiety was that
the apparently well-filled house should not have brought us
better returns than was found to be the case. We had made from
five to six thousand francs, but the expenses amounted to eleven
thousand francs. This might be partially covered if, in the case
of the two less expensive concerts still to come, we could rely
on considerably higher returns. Belloni and Giacomelli shook
their heads, however; they thought it better not to close their
eyes to the fact that concerts were not suited to the taste of
the French people, who demanded the dramatic element as well,
that is to say, costumes, scenery, the ballet, etc., in order to
feel satisfied. The small number of tickets sold for the second
concert, which was given on the 1st of February, actually put my
agents to the necessity of filling the room artificially, so as
at least to save appearances. I had to allow them to do as they
thought best in this matter, and was afterwards astonished to
learn how they had managed to fill the first places in this
aristocratic theatre in such a way as to deceive even our
enemies. The real receipts amounted to little over two thousand
francs, and it now required all my determination and my contempt
for the miseries that might result not to cancel the third
concert to be given on the 8th of February. My fees from Schott,
a part of which, it is true, I had to devote to the household
expenses of my troubled domestic existence, were all spent, and I
had to look round for further subsidies. These I obtained with
great difficulty, through Gasperini's mediation, from the very
man to win whose assistance in a much wider sense had been the
whole object of the concerts. In short, we had to have recourse
to M. Lucy, the Receiver-General of Marseilles, who was to come
to Paris at the time my concerts were being given, and upon whom
my friend Gasperini had assumed that an important Parisian
success would have the effect of making him declare his readiness
to finance my project of establishing German opera in Paris. M.
Lucy, on the contrary, did not appear at the first concert at
all, and was only present at a part of the second, during which
he fell asleep. The fact that he was now called upon to advance
several thousands of francs for the third concert naturally
seemed to him to protect him against any further demands on our
part, and he felt a certain satisfaction at being exempt from all
further participation in my plans, at the price of this loan.
Although, as a matter of fact, this concert now seemed useless,
it nevertheless gave me great pleasure, as much through the
spirited performance itself as on account of its favourable
reception by the audience, which, it is true, my agents had again
to supplement in order to give the appearance of a full hall, but
which, nevertheless, showed a marked increase in the number of
tickets paid for.

The realisation of the deep impression I had made on certain
people had more effect upon me at this time than the dejection I
felt at having to all outward appearances failed in this
enterprise. It was undeniable that the sensation I had produced
had directly, as the comments of the press had indirectly,
aroused extraordinary interest in me. My omission to invite any
journalists seemed to be regarded on all sides as a wonderful
piece of audacity on my part. I had foreseen the attitude likely
to be adopted by the majority of reporters, but I was sorry that
even such men as M. Franc-Marie, the critic of the Patrie, who at
the end of the concert had come forward to thank me with deep
emotion, should have found themselves forced to follow the lead
of the others, without compromising, and even to go so far as to
deny their true opinion of me. Berlioz aroused a universal
feeling of anger amongst my adherents, by an article which began
in a roundabout way, but ended with an open attack on me which he
published in the Journal des Debats. As he had once been an old
friend, I was determined not to overlook this treatment, and
answered his onslaught in a letter which, with the greatest
difficulty, I managed to get translated into good French, and
succeeded, not without trouble, in having it inserted in the
Journal des Debats. It so happened that this very letter had the
effect of drawing those on whom my concerts had already made an
impression more enthusiastically towards me. Amongst others a M.
Perrin introduced himself to me; he had formerly been director of
the Opera Comique, and was now a well-to-do bel esprit and
painter, and later became director of the Grand Opera. He had
heard Lohengrin and Tannhauser performed in Germany, and
expressed himself in such a way as led me to suppose that he
would make it a point of honour to bring these operas to France
should he at any time be in a position to do so. A certain Count
Foucher de Careil had also become acquainted with my operas in
the same way, through seeing them performed in Germany, and he
too became one of my distinguished and lasting friends. He had
made a name by various publications on German philosophy, and
more especially through a book on Leibnitz, and it could not but
prove interesting to me to be brought through him into touch with
a form of the French genius as yet unknown to me.

It is impossible to record all the passing acquaintances with
whom I was brought in contact at this time, amongst whom a
Russian Count Tolstoi was conspicuously kind; but I must here
mention the excellent impression made upon me by the novelist
Champfleury's amiable pamphlet, of which I and my concerts formed
the subject. In a series of light and airy aphorisms he displayed
such a comprehension of my music, and even of my personality,
that I had never again met with such a suggestive and masterly
appreciation, and had only come across its equal once before in
Liszt's lucubrations on Lohengrin and Tannhauser. My personal
acquaintance with Champfleury, which followed, brought me face to
face with a very simple and in a certain sense easy-tempered
individual, such as one seldom meets, and belonging to a type of
Frenchman fast becoming extinct.

The advances made me by the poet Baudelaire were in their way
still more significant. My acquaintance with him began with a
letter in which he told me his impressions of my music and the
effect it had produced upon him, in spite of his having thought
till then that he possessed an artistic sense for colouring, but
none for sound. His opinions on the matter, which he expressed in
the most fantastic terms and with audacious self-assurance,
proved him, to say the least, a man of extraordinary
understanding, who with impetuous energy followed the impressions
he received from my music to their ultimate consequences. He
explained that he did not put his address to his letter in order
that I might not be led to think that he wanted something from
me. Needless to say, I knew how to find him, and had soon
included him among the acquaintances to whom I announced my
intention of being at home every Wednesday evening.

I had been told by my older Parisian friends, amongst whom I
continued to count the faithful Gasperini, that this was the
right thing to do in Paris; and so it came about that, in
accordance with the fashion, I used to hold a salon in my small
house in the Rue Newton, which made Minna feel that she occupied
a very dignified position, though she only knew a few scraps of
French, with which she could barely help herself out. This salon,
which the Olliviers also attended in a friendly way, was crowded
for a time by an ever-growing circle. Here an old acquaintance of
mine, Malwida von Meysenburg, again came across me, and from that
time forth became a close friend for life. I had only met her
once before; this was during my visit to London in 1855, when she
had made herself known to me by a letter in which she
enthusiastically expressed her agreement with the opinions
contained in my book Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft. The occasion on
which we had met in London had been at an evening party at the
house of a family called Althaus, when I found her full of the
desires and projects for the future perfection of the human race
to which I had given expression in my book, but from which, under
the influence of Schopenhauer and a profound realisation of the
intense tragedy of life and the emptiness of its phenomena, I had
turned away with almost a feeling of irritation. I found it very
painful in discussing the question, not to be understood by this
enthusiastic friend and to have to appear to her in the light of
a renegade from a noble cause. We parted in London on very bad
terms with one another. It was almost a shock to me to meet
Malwida again in Paris. Very soon, however, all unpleasant
recollections of our discussion in London were wiped out, as she
at once explained to me, that our dispute had had the effect of
making her decide to read Schopenhauer at once. When, by earnest
study, she had made herself acquainted with his philosophy, she
came to the conclusion that the opinions she had at that time
expressed and eagerly maintained concerning the happiness of the
world must have vexed me on account of their shallowness. She
then declared herself to be one of my most zealous followers in
the sense that she, from now, became a true friend who was ever
anxious for my welfare. When the laws of propriety compelled me
to introduce her as a friend of mine to my wife, she could not
help noticing at the first glance the misery of our merely
nominal life in common, and realising the discomfort resulting
from it; made it her business to interpose with affectionate
solicitude. She also quickly saw the difficult position in which
I was placed in Paris with my almost purposeless enterprises and
the absence of all material security. The tremendous expenses I
had incurred in giving the three concerts had not remained a
secret from any of those concerned about me. Malwida also soon
guessed the difficulties in which I found myself, since no
prospect was opened on any side which could be looked upon as a
practical result of my enterprise and a compensation for the
sacrifices I had made. Entirely of her own accord she felt it her
duty to try and obtain help for me, which she endeavoured to get
from a certain Mme. Schwabe, the widow of a rich English
tradesman, in whose house she had found shelter as governess to
the eldest daughter, and whom she now proposed to introduce to
me. She did not conceal from herself or from me what a
disagreeable task the cultivation of this acquaintance might be
to me; nevertheless she relied on the kindness she thought this
somewhat grotesque woman possessed, as well as on her vanity,
which would prompt her to repay me for the distinction she
obtained by frequenting my salon. As a matter of fact I was
entirely at the end of my resources, and I only found courage to
deny my poverty-stricken condition in public on account of the
horror I felt when I learned that a collection was being made for
me amongst the Germans in Paris to indemnify me for the expense I
had incurred in giving the three concerts. When the news of this
reached me I immediately interfered with the declaration that the
idea that I was in distress in consequence of the losses I had
sustained was founded on a false report, and that I should be
obliged to refuse all efforts made on my behalf. On this
supposition Mme. Schwabe, who regularly attended my soirees and
as regularly fell asleep while any music was going on, was
however induced, through the solicitations of Malwida, to offer
me her personal assistance. She gave me about three thousand
francs, of which at this moment I was certainly in the greatest
need; as I did not wish to accept this money as a gift, I gave
the lady, who in no way exacted it, a written agreement of my own
accord, by which I undertook to return this sum at the end of a
year. She good-naturedly accepted this, not as a security but
merely in order to satisfy my feelings. When, at the end of this
time, I found it impossible to meet my obligation, I turned to
Malwida, who was still in Paris, and asked her to tell Mme.
Schwabe, who had left, how matters stood, and to obtain her
consent to the renewal of the agreement for another year. Malwida
earnestly assured me I need not take the trouble to ask for a
renewal, as Mme. Schwabe had never looked upon the sum given me
as anything but a contribution towards rny undertaking, in which
she flattered herself that she took great interest. We shall see
later on how the case really stood.

During this stirring time I was deeply moved and surprised to
receive a present from an admirer in Dresden called Richard
Weiland; it was an artistic silver ornament representing a sheet
of music surrounded by a crown of laurels; upon the sheet were
engraved the first bars from the principal themes of my various
operas up to Rheingold and Tristan. The modest fellow once paid
me a visit afterwards and told me that he had gone regularly to
different places in order to see the productions of my operas,
which had given him the opportunity of comparing the
representation of Tannhauser in Prague, in which the overture had
lasted twenty minutes, with the one in Dresden, which, under my
direction, had only taken twelve minutes.

My acquaintance with Rossini also proved agreeably stimulating to
me in another way; a comic writer had attributed an anecdote to
him according to which, when his friend Caraffa declared himself
an admirer of my music, he had served him his fish without sauce
at dinner, and explained in so doing that his friend liked music
without melody. Rossini openly protested against this in an
article in which he designated the story as a mauvaise blague and
at the same time declared that he would never allow himself such
a jest at the expense of a man who was trying to extend his
influence in the artistic world. When I heard of this, I did not
for a moment hesitate to pay Rossini a visit, and was received by
him in the friendliest manner, which I afterwards described in a
memorandum devoted to reminiscences of him. I was also glad to
hear that my old acquaintance Halevy, during the controversy
occasioned by my music, had taken my part in a kindly way, and I
have already described my visit to him and our conversation on
that occasion.

In spite of all these pleasant and stimulating events, nothing
occurred to make my position less uncertain. I was still kept in
doubt as to whether I should receive an answer from the Emperor
Napoleon to my request for the use of the Opera House for the
repetition of my concerts. Only by obtaining this, and having no
preliminary expenses in consequence, could I gain the benefit
which was becoming more and more necessary to me. It remained an
understood thing that the Minister Fould was assiduously using
his influence to turn the Emperor against me. As, on the other
hand, I had made the surprising discovery that Marshal Magnan had
been present at all three of my concerts, I hoped to enlist this
gentleman's sympathy, which might be turned to good account, as
the Emperor was particularly indebted to him since the events of
the 2nd of December. I was anxious to circumvent Fould's
intrigues, as the man had become most obnoxious to me, and I
consequently introduced myself to the Marshal, and was one day
surprised to see a hussar ride up to my door, who got down from
his horse, rang the bell, and handed my astonished man-servant a
letter from Magnan, in which he summoned me to his presence.

I was therefore duly received at the Commandant's residence by
this military man, whose bearing struck me as stately, almost to
the point of rudeness. He chatted very intelligently with me,
frankly confessing his delight in my music, and listening very
attentively to the report of my flagrantly futile addresses to
the Emperor, as well as to my expressions of suspicion regarding
Fould. I was told later that he spoke very plainly to Fould that
very evening at the Tuileries on my behalf.

This much at least is certain, that from that moment I noticed
that my affairs took a more favourable turn in that quarter. Yet
the deciding factor was found at last in a movement on my behalf
from a source I had hitherto entirely disregarded. Bulow,
arrested by his interest in the outcome of these matters,
continued to prolong his stay in Paris. He had come with letters
of introduction from the Princess-Regent of Prussia to the
Ambassador, Count Pourtales. His hope that the latter might
eventually express a desire to have me presented to him had so
far remained unfulfilled. In order, therefore, to compel him to
make my acquaintance, he finally adopted the plan of inviting the
Prussian Ambassador and his attache, Count Paul Hatzfeld, to
lunch at Vachette's, a first-class restaurant, where I was to
accompany him. The result of this meeting was certainly
everything that could be desired. Not only did Count Pourtales
charm me with the simplicity and undisguised warmth of his
conversation and attitude towards me, but from this time forward
Count Hatzfeld used to visit me and also frequented my Wednesday
evening At Homes, and at last brought me the news that there was
a distinct movement in my favour at the Tuileries. Finally, one
day he requested me to go with him to call on the Emperor's
military chamberlain, Count Bacciochi, and from this official I
received the first hints of a reply to my earlier application to
his Imperial Majesty, who now expressed a wish to know why I
wanted to give a concert in the Grand Opera House. No one, he
said, took any serious interest in such enterprises, and it could
do me no good. He thought it might perhaps be better if he were
to persuade M. Alphonse Royer, the director of this imperial
institution, to come to some understanding with me respecting the
composition of an opera written on purpose for Paris. As I would
not agree to his suggestion, this and other subsequent interviews
remained for the time being without result. On one of these
occasions Bulow accompanied me, and we were both struck by a
ridiculous habit peculiar to this singular old man, whom Belloni
said he had known in his youth as a box-office clerk at the Scala
Theatre in Milan. He suffered from involuntary spasmodic
movements of the hands, the result of certain not very creditable
physical infirmities, and probably to conceal these he
continually toyed with a small stick, which he tossed to and fro
with seeming affectation. But even after I had at last succeeded
in gaining access to the imperial officials, it seemed as though
next to nothing would be done on my behalf, when suddenly one
morning Count Hatzfeld overwhelmed me with news that on the
preceding evening the Emperor had given orders for a performance
of my Tannhauser. The decisive word had been spoken by Princess
Metternich. As I happened to be the subject of conversation near
the Emperor, she had joined the circle, and on being asked for
her opinion, she said she had heard Tannhauser in Dresden, and
spoke in such enthusiastic terms in favour of it that the Emperor
at once promised to give orders for its production. It is true
that Fould, on receiving the imperial command the same evening,
broke out into a furious rage, but the Emperor told him he could
not go back upon his promise, as he had pledged his word to
Princess Metternich. I was now once more taken to Bacciochi, who
this time received me very seriously, but first of all made the
singular inquiry as to what was the subject of my opera. This I
had to outline for him, and when I had finished, he exclaimed
with satisfaction, 'Ah! le Pape ne vient pas en scene? C'est bon!
On nous avait dit que vous aviez fait paraitre le Saint Pere, et
ceci, vous comprenez, n'aurait pas pu passer. Du reste, monsieur,
on sait a present que vous avez enormement de genie; l'Empereur a
donne l'ordre de representer votre opera.' He moreover assured me
that every facility should be placed at my disposal for the
fulfilment of my wishes, and that henceforth I must make my
arrangements direct with the manager Royer. This new turn of
affairs put me into a state of vague agitation, for at first my
inner conviction could only make me feel that singular
misunderstandings would be sure to arise. For one thing, all hope
of being able to carry out my original plan of producing my work
in Paris with a picked German company was now at an end, and I
could not conceal from myself that I had been launched upon an
adventure which might turn out well or badly. A few interviews
with the manager Royer sufficed to enlighten me as to the
character of the enterprise entrusted to me. His chief anxiety
was to convince me of the necessity of rearranging my second act,
because according to him it was absolutely necessary for a grand
ballet to be introduced at this point. To this and similar
suggestions I hardly deigned to reply, and as I went home asked
myself what I should do next, in case I decided to refuse to
produce my Tannhauser at the Grand Opera.

Meanwhile other cares, more immediately connected with my
personal affairs, pressed heavily upon me, and compelled me to
devote every effort to their removal. With this object in view I
decided at once to carry out an undertaking suggested to me by
Giacomelli, namely, a repetition of my concerts in Brussels. A
contract had been made with the Theatre de la Monnaie there for
three concerts, half the proceeds of which, after the deduction
of all expenses, was to be mine. Accompanied by my agent, I
started on 19th March for the Belgian capital, to see whether I
could not manage to recoup the money lost on my Paris concerts.
Under the guidance of my mentor I found myself compelled to call
upon all sorts of newspaper editors and, among other Belgian
worthies, a certain M. Fetis pere. All I knew about him was that,
years before, he had allowed himself to be bribed by Meyerbeer to
write articles against me, and I now found it amusing to enter
into conversation with this man, who, although he assumed great
airs of authority, yet in the end declared himself entirely of my
opinion.

Here also I made the acquaintance of a very remarkable man, the
Councillor of State Klindworth, whose daughter, or, as some said,
his wife, had been recommended to me by Liszt when I was in
London. But I had not seen her on that occasion, and I now had
the pleasant surprise of being invited to call upon her in
Brussels. While she, on her part, showed the greatest cordiality
towards me, M. Klindworth provided me with inexhaustible
entertainment by the narrative of his wonderful career as a
diplomatist in numerous transactions of which I had hitherto
known nothing. I dined with them several times, and met Count and
Countess Condenhoven, the latter being a daughter of my old
friend Mme. Kalergis. M. Klindworth showed a keen and lasting
interest in me, which even prompted him to give me a letter of
recommendation, to Prince Metternich, with whose father he said
he had been on very familiar terms. He had a strange habit of
interlarding his otherwise frivolous conversation with continual
references to an omnipotent Providence, and when, during one of
our later interviews, I once hazarded a risky retort, he quite
lost his temper, and I fancied he was going to break off our
connection. Fortunately this fear was not realised, either at
that time or afterwards.

But except for these interesting acquaintances, I gained nothing
in Brussels but anxiety and fruitless exertion. The first
concert, for which season-tickets were suspended, drew a large
audience. But, owing to my misconception of a clause in our
agreement, the cost of musical accompaniment, which was put down
to me alone, was reckoned at so high a figure by the managers,
that next to nothing was left over by way of profit. This
deficiency was to be recouped from the second concert, to which,
however, season-ticket holders were admitted free. But beyond
these persons, who, I was told, almost filled the house, there
were few single-ticket holders, so that there was not enough left
to pay my travelling and hotel expenses, which had been increased
by the inclusion of my agent and servant. I consequently gave up
the idea of having a third concert, and set off once more for
Paris in a not very cheerful frame of mind, but with the gift of
a vase of Bohemian glass from Mme. Street, Klindworth's daughter
whom I have already mentioned. Nevertheless, my stay in Brussels,
including a short trip from there to Antwerp, had served to
distract my thoughts a little. As I did not at that moment feel
at all inclined to devote my precious time to looking at works of
art, I contented myself in Antwerp with a cursory glance at its
outward aspect, which I found less rich in antiquities than I had
anticipated. The situation of its famous citadel proved
peculiarly disappointing. In view of the first act of my
Lohengrin I had presumed that this citadel, which I imagined as
the ancient keep of Antwerp, would from the opposite side of the
Scheldt be a prominent object to the eye. Instead of which,
nothing whatever was to be seen but a monotonous plain, with
fortifications sunk into the earth. After this, whenever I saw
Lohengrin again, I could not restrain a smile at the scene-
painter's castle, perched aloft in the background on its stately
mountain.

On returning to Paris at the end of March my sole anxiety was how
to repair my impecunious and therefore hopeless position. The
pressure of these monetary cares seemed all the more incongruous
from the fact that the notoriety of my position had made my
house, where, of course, I allowed no signs of poverty to appear,
exceedingly popular. My Wednesday receptions became more
brilliant than ever. Interesting strangers sought me out, in the
hope that they, too, might attain to equal fortune through
knowing me. Fraulein Ingeborg Stark, who afterwards married young
Hans von Bronsart, put in an appearance among us, a vision of
bewitching elegance, and played the piano, in which she was
modestly assisted by Fraulein Aline Hund of Weimar. A highly
gifted young French musician, Camille Saint-Saens, also played a
very agreeable part in our musical entertainments; a noteworthy
addition to my other French acquaintances was made in the person
of M. Frederic Villot. He was Conservateur des Tableaux du
Louvre, an exceedingly polished and cultured man, whom I met for
the first time in Flaxland's music-shop, where I did a good deal
of business. To my surprise I happened to overhear him asking
about the score of Tristan, which he had ordered. On being
introduced to him I learned, in reply to my inquiry, that he
already possessed the scores of my earlier operas; and when I
then asked whether he thought it possible for me to make my
dramatic compositions pay, as I could not understand how he,
without any knowledge of the German language, could rightly
appreciate the music, which was so closely allied to the sense of
the poetry, he answered wittily that it was precisely my music
which afforded him the best guidance to a comprehension of the
poem itself. This reply strongly attracted me to the man, and
from that time I found great pleasure in keeping up an active
correspondence with him. For this reason, when I brought out a
translation of my operatic poems, I felt that its very detailed
preface could not be dedicated to any worthier man. As he was not
able to play the scores of my operas himself, he had them
performed for him by Saint-Saens, whom he apparently patronised.
I thus learned to appreciate the skill and talent of this young
musician, which was simply amazing. With an unparalleled sureness
and rapidity of glance with regard to even the most complicated
orchestral score, this young man combined a not less marvellous
memory. He was not only able to play my scores, including Tristan,
by heart, but could also reproduce their several parts, whether
they were leading or minor themes. And this he did with such
precision that one might easily have thought that he had the
actual music before his eyes. I afterwards learned that this
stupendous receptivity for all the technical material of a work
was not accompanied by any corresponding intensity of productive
power; so that when he tried to set up as a composer I quite lost
sight of him in the course of time.

I now had to enter into closer communication with the manager of
the Opera House, M. Royer, with regard to the production of
Tannhauser, which he had been commissioned to prepare. Two months
passed before I was able to make up my mind whether to say yes or
no to the business. At no single interview did this man fail to
press for the introduction of a ballet into the second act. I
might bewilder him, but with all the eloquence at my command I
could never convince him on the point. At last, however, I could
no longer refuse to consider the advisability of preparing a
suitable translation of the poem.

Arrangements for this work had so far progressed very slowly. As
I have already said, I had found M. de Charnal altogether
incompetent, Roger had permanently disappeared from my sight, and
Gasperini showed no real desire for the work. At last a certain
Herr Lindau came to see me, who protested that with the aid of
young Edmond Roche he could produce a faithful translation of
Tannhauser. This man Lindau was a native of Magdeburg, who had
fled to escape the Prussian military service. He had first been
introduced to me by Giacomelli on an occasion when the French
singer engaged by him to sing 'L'Etoile du Soir' at one of my
concerts had disappointed us, and he had recommended Lindau as a
very efficient substitute. This man promptly declared his
readiness to undertake this song, with which he was quite
familiar, without any rehearsal, an offer which led me to regard
him as a genius sent down from heaven on purpose for me. Nothing
could, therefore, equal my amazement at the unbounded impudence
of the man; for on the evening of the concert he executed his
task with the most amateurish timidity; he did not enunciate a
single note of the song clearly, and nothing but astonishment at
so unprecedented a performance appeared to restrain the audience
from breaking out into marked disapproval. Yet, in spite of this,
Lindau, who had all sorts of explanations and excuses to offer
for his short-comings, contrived to insinuate himself into my
house, if not as a successful singer, at least as a sympathetic
friend. There, thanks to Minna's partiality, he soon became an
almost daily guest. In spite of a certain inward repugnance
towards him, I treated him with tolerant good-nature, not so much
because of the 'enormous connection' he said he could influence,
but because he really showed himself to be a most obliging fellow
on all sorts of occasions.

But the fact that finally induced me to grant him a share in the
translation of Tannhauser was his suggestion that young Roche
should also participate in the work.

I had become acquainted with Roche immediately after my arrival
in Paris (in the September of the previous year), and this in a
somewhat remarkable and flattering way. In order to receive my
furniture on its arrival from Zurich I had to go to the Custom
House, where I was referred to a pale, seedy-looking young man,
who appeared full of life, however, with whom I had to settle my
business. When I wished to give him my name, he enthusiastically
interrupted me with the exclamation, 'O, je connais bien Monsieur
Richard Wagner, puisque j'ai son portrait suspendu au-dessus de
mon piano.' Much astonished, I asked what he knew about me, and
learned that by careful study of my pianoforte arrangements he
had become one of my most fervent admirers. After he had helped
me with self-sacrificing attentions to complete my tiresome
business with the Custom House, I made him promise to pay me a
visit. This he did, and I was able to obtain a clearer insight
into the necessitous position of the poor fellow, who, so far as
I was able to judge, showed signs of possessing great poetic
talent. He further informed me that he had tried to eke out a
precarious living as a violinist in the orchestras of the smaller
vaudeville theatres, but that being a married man he would, for
the sake of his family, much prefer a situation in some office
with a fixed salary and prospects of promotion. I soon found that
he thoroughly understood my music, which, he assured me, gave him
the only pleasure he had in his hard life. As regards his power
of poetical composition, I could only gather from Gasperini and
other competent judges that he could, at any rate, turn out very
good verse. I had already thought of him as a translator for
Tannhauser, and now that the only obstacle to his doing the work,
his ignorance of the German language, was removed by Lindau's
proffered collaboration, the possibility of such an arrangement
at once decided me to accept the latter's offer.

The first thing on which we agreed was that a fair prose
translation of the whole subject should be taken in hand, and
this task I naturally entrusted to Lindau alone. A serious delay,
however, intervened before this was delivered to me, which was
subsequently explained by the fact that Lindau was quite unable
to provide even this dry version, and had pressed the work on
another man, a Frenchman who knew German, and whom he induced to
undertake it by holding out hopes of a fee, to be squeezed out of
me later on. At the same time Roche turned a few of the leading
stanzas of my poem into verse, with which I was well contented.
As I was thus satisfied about the ability of my two helpers, I
visited Royer in order to make my position secure by obtaining
his authority for a contract with the two men. He did not seem to
like my placing the work in the hands of two perfectly unknown
people; but I insisted that they should at least have a fair
trial. As I was obstinately resolved not to withdraw the work
from Roche, but soon realised Lindau's complete inefficiency, I
joined in the task myself at a cost of much exertion. We
frequently spent four hours together in my room in translating a
few verses, during which time I often felt tempted to kick Lindau
out, for although he did not even understand the German text, he
was always ready with the most impudent suggestions. It was only
because I could not think of any other way of keeping poor Roche
in the business that I endured such an absurd association.

This irritating and laborious work lasted for several months,
during which I had to enter into fuller negotiations with Royer
respecting his preparations for the production of Tannhauser, and
particularly with regard to the cast and distribution of the
parts. It struck me as odd that hardly any of the leading singers
of the Opera were suggested by him. As a matter of fact none of
them aroused my sympathy, with the sole exception of Mme.
Gueymard, whom I would gladly have secured for Venus, but who,
for reasons I never clearly understood, was refused me. In order
to form an honest opinion of the company at my disposal, I now
had to attend several performances of such operas as La Favorita,
Il Trovatore, and Semiramis, on which occasions my inner
conviction told me so clearly that I was being hopelessly led
astray, that each time I reached home I felt I must renounce the
whole enterprise. On the other hand, I found continual
encouragement in the generous way in which M. Royer, in obedience
to authority, now offered to secure me any singer I might choose
to designate. The most important item was a tenor for the title-
role. I could think of no one but Niemann of Hanover, whose fame
reached me from every quarter. Even Frenchmen such as Foucher de
Careil and Perrin, who had heard him in my operas, confirmed the
report of his great talent. The manager also regarded such an
acquisition as highly desirable for his theatre, and Niemann was
accordingly invited to come to Paris with a view of being
engaged. Besides him, M. Royer wished me to agree to his securing
a certain Mme. Tedesco, a tragedienne, who, on account of her
beauty, would be a very valuable addition to the repertoire of
his theatre, protesting that he could think of no woman better
fitted for the part of Venus. Without knowing the lady I gave my
consent to this excellent proposal, and moreover agreed to the
engagement of a Mlle. Sax, a still unspoiled young singer with a
very beautiful voice, as well as of an Italian baritone, Morelli,
whose sonorous tones, as contrasted with the sickly French
singers of this class, had greatly pleased me during my visits to
the Opera. When these arrangements were concluded, I thought I
had done all that was really necessary, though I did not cherish
any very firm conviction on the matter.

Amid these labours I passed my forty-seventh birthday in a far
from happy frame of mind, to which, however, on the evening of
this day, the peculiarly bright glow of Jupiter gave me an omen
of better things to come. The beautiful weather, suitable to the
time of year, which in Paris is never favourable to the conduct
of business, had only tended to increase the stringency of my
needs. I was and still continued to be without any prospect of
meeting my household expenses, which had now become very heavy.
As I was ever anxious, amid all my other discomforts, to find
some relief from this burden, I had made an agreement with the
music-dealer Flaxland for the sale of all my French rights in the
Fliegender Hollander, Tannhauser, and Lohengrin for whatever they
would fetch. Our contract stipulated that for each of these three
operas he was to pay me a sum of one thousand francs down, and
further payments on their being performed in a Paris theatre,
namely, one thousand francs after the first ten performances, and
the same amount for the following performances up to the
twentieth. I at once notified my friend Pusinelli of this
contract, having made this condition in his favour when selling
my operas to Meser's successors. This I did by way of
guaranteeing him the repayment of the capital advanced for their
publication. I begged him, however, to allow me to retain
Flaxland's first instalment on account, as otherwise I should be
stranded in Paris without the means of bringing my operas to the
point of being profitable. My friend agreed to all my
suggestions. The Dresden publisher, on the contrary, was just as
disagreeable, and complained at once that I was infringing his
rights in France, and so worried Flaxland that the latter felt
justified in raising all sorts of difficulties against me.

I had almost become involved in fresh complications in
consequence, when one day Count Paul Hatzfeld appeared at my
house with a request that I would visit Mme. Kalergis, who had
just arrived in Paris, to receive certain communications from
her. I now saw the lady again for the first time since my stay in
Paris with Liszt in 1853. She greeted me by declaring how much
she regretted not having been present at my concerts in the
preceding winter, as she had thereby missed the chance of helping
me in a time of great stress. She had heard that I had suffered
great losses, the account of which she had been told ran to ten
thousand francs, and she now begged me to accept that sum from
her hand. Although I had thought it right to deny these losses to
Count Hatzfeld, when an application was made to the Prussian
embassy on behalf of the odious subscription-list, yet I had now
no reason whatever for hiding the truth from this noble-hearted
woman. I felt as though something were now being fulfilled which
I had always been entitled to expect, and my only impulse was an
immediate desire to show my gratitude to this rare lady by at
least doing something for her. All the friction which disturbed
our later intercourse sprang solely from my inability to fulfil
this desire, in which I felt ever more and more confirmed by her
singular character and restless, unsettled life. For the present
I endeavoured to do something for her which should prove the
reality of my feeling of obligation. I improvised a special
performance of the second act of my Tristan, in which Mme.
Viardot was to share the singing parts with myself, and on which
occasion my friendship for the latter received a considerable
impetus; while for the pianoforte accompaniment I summoned
Klindworth at my own expense from London. This exceedingly select
performance took place in Mme. Viardot's house. Besides Mme.
Kalergis, in whose honour alone it was given, Berlioz was the
only person present. Mme. Viardot had specially charged herself
with securing his presence, apparently with the avowed object of
easing the strained relations between Berlioz and myself. I was
never clear as to the effect produced upon both performers and
listeners by the presentation under such circumstances of this
extraordinary selection. Mme. Kalergis remained dumb. Berlioz
merely expressed himself warmly on the chaleur of my delivery,
which may very well have afforded a strong contrast to that of my
partner in the work, who rendered most of her part in low tones.
Klindworth seemed particularly stirred to anger at the result.
His own share was admirably executed; but he declared that he had
been consumed with indignation at observing Viardot's lukewarm
execution of her part, in which she was probably determined by
the presence of Berlioz. By way of set-off to this, we were very
pleased by the performance, on another evening, of the first act
of the Walkure, at which, in addition to Mme. Kalergis, the
singer Niemann was present. This man had now arrived in Paris, at
the request of the manager Royer, to arrange a contract. I
confess I was astounded at the pose he assumed, and the airs with
which he presented himself at my door with the question, 'Well,
do you want me or do you not?' Nevertheless, when we went to the
manager's office he pulled himself together, so as to make a good
effect. In this he succeeded admirably, for every one was amazed
to meet a tenor of such extraordinary physical endowments.
Nevertheless, he had to submit to a nominal trial performance,
for which he chose the description of the pilgrimage in
Tannhauser, acting and singing it upon the stage of the Grand
Opera House. Mme. Kalergis and Princess Metternich, who were
secretly present at this performance, were both enthusiastically
prepossessed in Niemann's favour, as were also all the members of
the management. He was engaged for eight months at a monthly
salary of ten thousand francs. His contract referred solely to
Tannhauser, as I felt obliged to protest against the singer
appearing before this in other operas.

The conclusion of this agreement, and the remarkable
circumstances under which it had been brought about, filled me
with a hitherto unknown consciousness of the power thus suddenly
placed in my hands. I had also been drawn into closer contact
with Princess Metternich, who was undoubtedly the good fairy of
the whole enterprise, and I was now also received with flattering
cordiality by her husband and by the whole diplomatic circle to
which they belonged. To the Princess, in particular, people
attributed an almost omnipotent influence at the French Imperial
Court, where Fould, the otherwise influential Minister of State,
could effect nothing against her in matters pertaining to myself.
She instructed me to apply only to her for the fulfilment of all
my wishes, and said she would know how to find ways and means of
attaining the success of the project, on which she had now
evidently set her heart, all the more firmly because she saw that
I still had no real faith in the enterprise.

Under these more hopeful auspices I spent the months from summer
to autumn, when rehearsals were to begin. It was a great boon to
me that I was just then able to make provision for Minna's
health, as the doctors had urgently prescribed her a visit to the
baths of Soden, near Frankfort. She accordingly set off at the
beginning of July, when I promised myself the pleasure of
fetching her on the completion of her cure, as it happened that I
myself had occasion to visit the Rhine at that time.

It was just at this moment that an improvement took place in my
relations with the King of Saxony, who had hitherto obstinately
opposed to grant me an amnesty. I owed this to the growing
interest now taken in me by the other German embassies,
especially those of Austria and Prussia. Herr von Seebach, the
Saxon Ambassador, who was married to a cousin of my magnanimous
friend, Mme. Kalergis, had shown great kindness to me, and at
last he seemed to grow tired of being continually taunted by his
colleagues about my objectionable position as a 'political
refugee,' and consequently felt it his duty to make
representations to his court on my behalf. In this action he
appears to have been generously assisted by the Princess-Regent
of Prussia--once more through the intervention of Count
Pourtales. I heard that on the occasion of a meeting between the
German princes and the Emperor Napoleon in Baden she used her
influence on my behalf with the King of Saxony. The result was
that, after settling several ridiculous objections, all of which
Herr von Seebach had to repeat to me, the latter was able to
report that, although King John would not pardon me, nor permit
my return to the kingdom of Saxony, yet he would raise no
obstacle to my staying in any other state in the German
Confederation which I might have to visit in pursuit of my
artistic aims, provided such a state made no objection to my
presence. Herr von Seebach added the further hint, that it would
be advisable for me to present myself to the Princess-Regent on
the occasion of my next visit to the Rhineland, in order to
express my thanks for her kindly intercession, a courtesy which
he gave me to understand the King of Saxony himself appeared to
desire.

But before this project could be realised I had still to endure
the most harassing torments with my translators of Tannhauser.
Amid these anxieties, and indeed throughout all my previous
worries, I was again suffering from my old malady, which now
seemed to have settled in my abdomen. As a remedy I was advised
to take horse exercise. The painter Czermak, a friendly young
man, whom Fraulein Meysenburg had introduced to me, offered his
help for the necessary riding lessons. In return for a
subscription for a fixed period, a man from a livery stables
brought round his quietest horses, for which we had specially
bargained, for the use of myself and comrade, upon which we
ventured forth with the utmost caution for a ride in the Bois de
Boulogne. We chose the morning hours for this exercise, so as not
to meet the elegant cavaliers of the fashionable world. As I
placed implicit reliance on Czermak's experience, I was naturally
astonished to find that I far excelled him, if not in
horsemanship, at least in courage, for I was able to endure the
exceedingly disagreeable trot of my horse, whereas he loudly
protested against every repetition of the experience. As I grew
bolder I resolved one day to ride out alone. The groom who
brought me the horse prudently kept an eye on me as far as the
Barriere de l'Etoile, as he was doubtful of my ability to take my
horse beyond this point. And, in fact, as I drew near to the
Avenue de l'Imperatrice my steed obstinately refused to go any
further: he curveted sideways and backwards and frequently stood
stock-still. In this he persisted until at last I decided to
return, in which the prudent foresight of the groom luckily came
to my rescue. He helped me down from my beast in the open street
and led it home smiling. With this experience my last effort to
become a horseman came to an inglorious end, and I lost ten
rides, the vouchers for which remained unused in my desk.

By way of compensation I found abundant refreshment and regular
exercise in solitary walks in the Bois de Boulogne, gaily
accompanied by my little dog Fips, during which I learned once
more to appreciate the sylvan beauty of this artificial pleasure-
ground. Life also had become quieter, as is usually the case at
this season in Paris. Bulow, after hearing that his dejeuner at
Vachette's had produced the extraordinary result of an imperial
command for the production of Tannhauser, had long since gone
back to Germany; and in August I also set out on my carefully
planned excursion to the German Rhine districts. There I first
turned my steps, via Cologne, to Coblenz, where I expected to
find Princess Augusta of Prussia. Learning, however, that she was
in Baden, I made my way towards Soden, whence I fetched Minna for
a further tour, accompanied by her recently acquired friend,
Mathilde Schiffner. We touched at Frankfort, where I met my
brother Albert for the first time since leaving Dresden, as he
also happened to be passing through this city.

When I was there it occurred to me that this was the residence of
Schopenhauer, but a singular timidity restrained me from calling
upon him. My temper just then seemed too distraught and too far
removed from all that which might have formed a subject for
conversation with Schopenhauer, even if I had felt strongly
attracted towards him, and which alone could have furnished a
reason for intruding myself upon him, in spite of such
disinclination. As with so many other things in my life, I again
deferred one of its most precious opportunities until that
fervently expected 'more favourable season,' which I presumed was
sure to come some day. When, a year after this flying visit, I
again stayed some time in Frankfort to superintend the production
of my Meistersinger, I imagined that at last this more favourable
opportunity for seeing Schopenhauer had come. But, alas! he died
that very year, a fact which led me to many bitter reflections on
the uncertainty of fate.

During this earlier visit another fondly cherished hope also came
to nothing. I had reckoned on being able to induce Liszt to meet
me in Frankfort, but instead found only a letter declaring it
impossible to grant the fulfilment of my wish.

From this town we went straight to Baden-Baden. Here I abandoned
Minna and her friend to the seductions of the roulette-table,
while I availed myself of a letter of introduction from Count
Pourtales to Countess Hacke, a lady-in-waiting on her Royal
Highness, through whom I hoped to be presented to her exalted
patroness. After a little delay I duly received an invitation to
meet her in the Trinkhalle at five o'clock in the afternoon. It
was a wet, cold day, and at that hour the whole surroundings of
the place seemed absolutely devoid of life as I approached my
momentous rendezvous. I found Augusta pacing to and fro with
Countess Hacke, and as I approached she graciously stopped. Her
conversation consisted almost entirely of assurances that she was
completely powerless in every respect, in response to which I
imprudently cited the hint received from the King of Saxony that
I should offer her my personal thanks for previous intervention
on my behalf. This she seemed evidently to resent, and dismissed
me with an air of indifference meant to show that she took very
little interest in my concerns. My old friend Alwine Frommann
told me later that she did not know what there was about me that
displeased the Princess, but thought it might possibly be my
Saxon accent.

This time I left the much-praised paradise of Baden without
carrying away any very friendly impression, and at Mannheim
boarded a steamer, accompanied only by Minna, on which for the
first time I was borne along the famous Rhine. It struck me as
very strange that I should so often have crossed the Rhine
without having once made the acquaintance of this most
characteristic historical thoroughfare of mediaeval Germany. A
hasty return to Cologne concluded this excursion, which had
lasted only a week, and from which I returned to face once more
the solution of the problems of my Parisian enterprise, now
opening out painfully before me.

One factor which seemed likely greatly to relieve the
difficulties confronting me was to be found in the friendly
relationship into which the young banker, Emil Erlanger, was
pleased to enter towards me. This I owed, in the first place, to
an extraordinary man named Albert Beckmann, a former Hanoverian
revolutionary, and afterwards private librarian to Louis
Napoleon, who was at this time a press agent for several
interests, respecting which I was never quite clear. This man
succeeded in making my acquaintance as an open admirer, in which
capacity he showed himself remarkably obliging. He now informed
me that M. Erlanger, by whom he was also employed in connection
with the press, would be pleased to know me. I was on the point
of bluntly declining the honour, saying that I wanted to know
nothing about any banker except with regard to his money, when he
answered my jest by telling me in all seriousness that it was
precisely in this way that M. Erlanger desired to serve me. As a
result of this invitation I made the acquaintance of a genuinely
agreeable man, who, having often heard my music in Germany, had
become inspired by a sympathetic interest in my person. He
frankly expressed a desire that I should commit the management of
my financial business entirely to his hands, which meant, in
fact, nothing less than that he would permanently hold himself
responsible for any needful subsidies, in return for which I was
to assign to him all the eventual proceeds of my Paris
undertakings. This offer was distinctly novel, and moreover
exactly fell in with the needs of my peculiar situation. And, in
fact, so far as my subsequent financial security was concerned, I
had no further difficulties to encounter until my position in
Paris was fully decided. And although my later intercourse with
M. Erlanger was accompanied by many circumstances which no man's
kindly courtesy could have relieved, yet I ever found in him a
truly devoted friend, who earnestly studied both my own personal
welfare and the success of my enterprises.

This eminently satisfactory turn of events was calculated to
inspire me with high courage had the circumstances been somewhat
different. As it was, it had no power to excite in me even the
slightest enthusiasm for an undertaking of which the hollowness
and unsuitability for me personally were clearly revealed every
time I approached it. It was with a feeling of ill-humour that I
met every demand made by this venture, and yet it represented the
foundation of the confidence reposed in me. My mind was
subjected, however, to a certain refreshing uncertainty as to the
character of my scheme by a new acquaintance who was introduced
to me in connection with it. M. Royer informed me that he could
not 'pass' the translation which I had taken infinite pains to
conjure into existence through the two men who had volunteered to
help me. He most earnestly recommended a thorough revision by M.
Charles Truinet, whose pseudonym was Nuitter. This man was still
young and extraordinarily attractive, with something friendly and
open in his manner. He had called on me a few months ago to offer
his co-operation in the translation, of my operas, on the
introduction of Ollivier, his colleague at the Paris bar. Proud
of my connection with Lindau, however, I had refused his help;
but the time had now come when, in consequence of M. Royer's
strictures, Truinet's renewed offer of his services had to be
taken into consideration. He understood no German, but maintained
that as far as this was concerned he could place sufficient
reliance upon his old father, who had travelled for a long time
in Germany and had acquired the essentials of our language. As a
matter of fact, there was no need for special knowledge in this
respect, as the sole problem seemed to be to make the French
verses less stiff and stilted which poor Roche had constructed
under the shameful control of Lindau, who used to make out that
he knew everything better than any one else. The inexhaustible
patience with which Truinet proceeded from one change to another
in order to satisfy my requirements, even with regard to the
musical fitness of the version, won my sympathy for this last
collaborator. From this time forward we had to keep Lindau away
from the slightest interference in this new modelling of the
'book.' He had been recognised as quite incompetent. Roche, on
the other hand, was retained, in so far as his work served as a
basis for the new versification. As it was difficult for him to
leave his custom office, he was excused from troubling about the
remaining part of the work, as Truinet was quite free and could
keep in daily touch with me. I now saw that Truinet's law degree
was merely ornamental, and that he never had any thought of
conducting a case. His chief interests lay in the administration
of the Grand Opera, to which he was attached as keeper of the
archives. First with one collaborator and then with another he
had also worked at little plays for the vaudeville and theatres
of a lower order, and even for the Bouffes Parisiens; but he was
ashamed of these productions and always knew how to evade talking
about this sphere of activity. I was greatly obliged to him for
the final arrangement of a text to my Tannhauser which could be
sung and which was regarded on all sides as 'acceptable.' But I
cannot remember ever having been attracted by anything poetic or
even aesthetic in his nature. His value, however, as an
experienced, warm-hearted, staunchly devoted friend at all times,
especially in periods of the greatest distress, made itself more
and more clearly felt. I can hardly remember ever meeting a man
of such sound judgment on the most difficult points, or one so
actively ready when occasion arose to uphold the view I
advocated.

We had first of all to join forces in promoting an entirely new
piece of work. In obedience to a need I had always felt, I had
seized the occasion of this carefully prepared production of
Tannhauser to expand and considerably fill out the first Venus
scene. For this purpose I wrote the text in loosely constructed
German verses, so as to leave the translator quite free to work
them out in a suitable French form: people told me that Truinet's
verses were not at all bad; and with these as a basis I composed
the extra music for the scene, and only fitted a German text to
it afterwards. My annoying discussions with the management on the
subject of a big ballet had determined me to make extensive
additions to the scene of the 'Venusberg.' I thought that this
would give the staff of the ballet a choreographic task of so
magnificent a character that there would no longer be any
occasion to grumble at me for my obstinacy in this matter. The
musical composition of the two scenes occupied most of my time
during the month of September, and at the same time I began the
pianoforte rehearsals of Tannhauser in the foyer of the Grand
Opera.

The company, part of which had been freshly engaged for this
purpose, were now assembled, and I was interested in learning the
way in which a new work is studied at the French Opera.

The characteristic features of the system in Paris may be
described simply as extreme frigidity and extraordinary accuracy.
M. Vauthrot, the chorus-master, excelled in both these qualities.
He was a man whom I could not help regarding as hostile to me,
because I had never been able to win from him a single expression
of enthusiasm. On the other hand, he proved to me by the most
punctilious solicitude how conscientious he really was about his
work. He insisted on considerable alterations in the text, so as
to obtain a favourable medium for singing. My knowledge of the
scores of Auber and Boieldieu had misled me into assuming that
the French people were entirely indifferent as to whether the
mute syllables in poetry and singing were to be sounded or not.
Vauthrot maintained that this was only the case with composers,
but not with good singers. He was always feeling misgivings about
the length of my work, which I met with the observation that I
could not understand how he could be afraid of boring the public
with any opera after they had been accustomed to find pleasure in
Rossini's Semiramis, which was often produced. Upon this he
paused to reflect, and agreed with me so far as the monotony of
action and of music in that work was concerned. He told me not to
forget, however, that the public neither cared for action nor
music, but that their whole attention was directed to the
brilliancy of the singers. Tannhauser gave little scope for
brilliancy, and, as a matter of fact, I had none of that quality
at my disposal. The only singer in my company who had any claim
to such a distinction was Mme. Tedesco, a rather grotesque but
voluptuous type of Jewess who had returned from Portugal and
Spain after having had great triumphs in Italian operas. She did
not conceal her satisfaction at having secured an engagement at
the Paris Opera through my unwilling choice of her for the part
of Venus. She gave herself no end of trouble to solve the problem
to the best of her ability--a problem which was entirely beyond
her and which was suited only to a genuine tragedy actress. For a
certain time her efforts appeared to be crowned with success, and
several special rehearsals with Niemann led to a lively affinity
between Tannhauser and Venus. As Niemann mastered the French
pronunciation with considerable skill, these rehearsals, in which
Fraulein Sax also proved delightful, made genuine and encouraging
progress. Up to this point these rehearsals were undisturbed, as
my acquaintance with M. Dietzsch was as yet very slight.
According to the rules of the Opera House, Dietzsch had hitherto
only been present at the pianoforte rehearsals as chef
d'orchestre and future conductor of the opera, so as to make
himself accurately acquainted with the intentions of the singers.
Still less was I disturbed by M. Cormon, the stage manager, who
was also present at the rehearsals, and with a lively skill,
characteristic of the French people, conducted the numerous so-
called 'property' rehearsals, at which the way each scene was to
be played was determined. Even when M. Cormon or others did not
understand me, they were always ready to subordinate themselves
to my decisions; for I continued to be regarded as all-powerful,
and everybody thought that I could enforce what I wanted through
Princess Metternich, a belief which, indeed, was not without
foundation. For instance, I had learned that Prince Poniatowsky
was threatening to place a serious obstacle in the way of
continuing our rehearsals by reviving one of his own operas, the
production of which had fallen through. The undaunted Princess
met my complaints on this subject by obtaining an immediate order
that the Prince's opera should be laid aside. Naturally this did
not tend to ingratiate me with the Prince, and he did not fail to
make me feel his displeasure when I called upon him. In the midst
of all this work I was afforded some recreation by a visit from
my sister Louise with part of her family. To entertain her in my
own home presented the greatest difficulties owing to the strange
fact that it was now becoming absolutely dangerous to approach my
house. When I first took it, the proprietor gave me a fairly long
lease, but would not undertake any repairs. I now discovered the
reason of this was that it had just been decided by the Paris
Committee of Reconstruction to clear the Rue Newton with all its
side streets to facilitate the opening up of a broad boulevard
from one of the bridges to the Barriere de l'Etoile. But up to
the last moment this plan was officially denied, so as to avoid
for as long as possible the liability of paying compensation for
the land that was to be expropriated. To my astonishment I
noticed that excavations were being made close to my front door;
these increased in width, so that at first no carriages could
pass my door, and finally my house was unapproachable even on
foot. Under these circumstances the proprietor had no objection
to make to my leaving the house. His sole stipulation was that I
should sue him for damages, as that was the only way by which he
in his turn could sue the government. About this time my friend
Ollivier was debarred for three months on account of a
parliamentary misdemeanour; he therefore recommended me for the
conduct of my case to his friend Picard, who, as I saw later on
from the legal proceedings, acquitted himself of his task with
much humour. Nevertheless, there was no chance of damages for me
(whether the proprietor obtained any, I cannot say); but, at all
events, I had to content myself with being released from my
agreement. I also obtained leave to look about for another house,
and instituted my search in a neighbourhood less remote from the
Opera. I found a poor cheerless spot in the Rue d'Aumale. Late in
the autumn in stormy weather we completed the arduous task of
moving, in which Louisa's daughter, my niece Ottilie, proved a
capable and willing child. Unfortunately I caught a violent cold
in the course of moving and took few precautions to check it. I
again exposed myself to the growing excitement of the rehearsals,
and eventually I was struck down by typhoid fever.

We had reached the month of November. My relations had to go
home, leaving me behind in a state of unconsciousness, in which I
was consigned to the care of my friend Gasperini. In my fits of
fever I insisted on their calling in all imaginable medical aid,
and, as a matter of fact, Count Hatzfeld did bring in the doctor
attached to the Prussian embassy. The injustice thus done to my
friend, who took the greatest care of me, was due to no mistrust
of him, but to feverish hallucinations which filled my brain with
the most outrageous and luxuriant fancies. In this condition, not
only did I imagine that Princess Metternich and Mme. Kalergis
were arranging a complete court for me, to which I invited the
Emperor Napoleon, but I actually requested that Emil Erlanger
should place a villa near Paris at my disposal, and that I should
be removed to it, as it was impossible for me to recover in the
dark hole where I was. At last I insisted on being taken to
Naples, where I promised myself a speedy recovery in free
intercourse with Garibaldi. Gasperini held bravely out against
all this madness, and he and Minna had to use force in order to
apply the necessary mustard-plasters to the soles of my feet.
During bad nights later on in life similar vain and extravagant
fancies used to return to me, and on waking I have realised with
horror that they were the offspring of that period of fever.
After five days we mastered the fever; but I seemed to be
threatened with blindness, and my weakness was extreme. At last
the injury to my sight passed away, and after a few weeks I again
trusted myself to steal along the few streets between my house
and the Opera, to satisfy my anxiety for the continuation of the
rehearsals.

People here had indulged in the oddest ideas, and seemed to have
assumed that I was as good as dead. I learned that the rehearsals
had been needlessly suspended, and moreover gathered from one
indication after another that the affair had practically
collapsed, although in my intense desire for recovery I tried my
utmost to conceal this from myself. But I was much elated and
pleased to see that the translation of the four operatic
librettos which had so far appeared had been published. I had
written a very exhaustive preface to them addressed to M.
Frederic Villot. The translation of all this had been arranged
for me by M. Challemel Lacour, a man with whom I had become
acquainted at Herwegh's house in days gone by when he was a
political refugee. He was a highly intelligent translator, and
had now done me such admirable service that every one recognised
the value of his work. I had given J. J. Weber, the bookseller in
Leipzig, the German original of the preface to publish under the
title of Zukunftsmusik. This pamphlet also reached me now, and
pleased me, as it probably represented the only result of my
whole Paris undertaking, which looked so brilliant on the
surface.

At the same time I was now in a position to complete the new
composition for Tannhauser, of which the great dance scene in the
Venusberg was still incomplete. I finished it at three o'clock
one morning after staying up all night, just as Minna returned
home from a great ball at the Hotel de Ville to which she had
been with a friend. I had given her some handsome presents for
Christmas, but as far as I myself was concerned I continued, on
the advice of my doctor, to assist the slow process of recovery
by a beefsteak in the morning and a glass of Bavarian beer before
going to bed. We did not watch the old year out; on the contrary,
I retired to bed and slept calmly into 1861.

1861.--The slackness with which the rehearsals of Tannhauser were
being conducted when I fell ill changed at the beginning of the
new year into a more decided handling of all the details
connected with the intended performance. But I could not fail to
notice at the same time that the attitude of all those who took
part was substantially altered. The rehearsals, which were more
numerous than might be expected, gave me the impression that the
management was adhering to the strict execution of a command, but
were not fired by any hope of successful results. Certainly I now
obtained a clearer insight into the actual state of affairs. From
the press, which was entirely in the hands of Meyerbeer, I knew
long ago what I had to expect. The management of the Opera,
probably after repeated efforts to make the chief leaders in the
press tractable, were now likewise convinced that my Tannhauser
venture would only meet with a hostile reception from that
quarter. This view was shared even in the highest circles, and it
seemed as if an attempt was being made to discover some means
whereby to win over to my side that part of the operatic public
which could turn the scales. Prince Metternich sent me an
invitation one day to meet the new cabinet minister, Count
Walewsky. An air of ceremony pervaded the introduction, and made
it particularly significant when the Count in a persuasive speech
endeavoured to convince me that they entertained every wish for
my good fortune and desired to help me to a brilliant success. He
added in conclusion that the power to effect this was in my own
hands, if I would only consent to introduce a ballet into the
second act of my opera; the most celebrated ballet-dancers from
St. Petersburg and London had been proposed to me, and I had only
to make my selection; their engagement would be concluded as soon
as I had entrusted the success of my work to their co-operation.
In declining these proposals I think I was no less eloquent than
he in making them. My complete failure, however, was due to the
fact that I did not appear to understand the worthy minister when
he informed me that the ballet in the first act counted for
nothing, because those devotees of the theatre who only cared for
the ballet on an opera night were accustomed, according to the
new fashion, not to dine until eight o'clock, and so did not
reach the theatre until ten o'clock, when about half the
performance was over. I replied that I could not undertake myself
to oblige these gentlemen, but might well hope duly to impress
another part of the public. But with his imperturbable air of
ceremony he met me with the objection that these gentlemen's
support could alone be counted upon to produce a successful
result, inasmuch as they were powerful enough even to defy the
hostile attitude of the press. This precaution awakened no
response in me, and I offered to withdraw my work altogether,
whereupon I was assured with the greatest earnestness that,
according to the Emperor's command, which had to be universally
respected, I was master of the situation, and my wishes would be
followed in everything. The Count had only thought it his duty to
give me a friendly piece of advice.

The consequences of this conversation soon became evident in many
ways. I threw myself enthusiastically into the work of carrying
out the great dance scenes of the first act, and tried to win
Petitpas, the ballet-master, to my side. I asked for unheard-of
combinations quite different from those generally employed in the
ballet. I drew attention to the dances of the Maenads and
Bacchantes, and astounded Petitpas with the mere proposition that
he would be able to accomplish something of the kind with his
graceful pupils, as it was well within his powers. He explained
to me that by placing my ballet at the beginning of the first act
I had myself renounced all claim to the step-dancers attached to
the Opera, and all he could do was to offer to engage three
Hungarian dancers, who had formerly danced in the fairy scenes at
the Porte St. Martin, to fill the parts of the three graces. As I
was quite content to dispense with the distinguished dancers
belonging to the Opera, I insisted all the more that the rank and
file of the ballet should be actively coached. I wanted to know
that the male staff was present in full force, but I learned that
it was impossible to bring it up to my requirements, unless some
tailors were engaged who, for a monthly salary of fifty francs,
figured in a vague way in the wings during the performances of
the solo dancers. Finally I tried to produce my effects by means
of the costumes, and asked for considerable funds for that
purpose, only to learn, after I had been wearied by one
subterfuge after another, that the management was determined not
to expend a halfpenny on my ballet, which they regarded as
completely wasted. Such was the substance of what my trusty
friend Truinet conveyed to me. This was the first sign out of
many which soon revealed to me the fact, that even in the circles
of the operatic administration itself Tannhauser was already
regarded as labour lost and sheer waste of trouble.

The atmosphere created by this conviction now weighed with
increasing pressure upon everything which was undertaken for the
preparation of a performance which was postponed time after time.
With the beginning of the year the rehearsals had readied the
stage at which the scenes were arranged and the orchestral
practices begun. Everything was conducted with a care which
impressed me very agreeably at the beginning, until finally I was
bored by it, because I saw that the powers of the performers were
being relaxed by eternal repetition, and it was now evident that
I must trust to my own ability to pull the matter quickly through
as I thought best. But it was not the fatigue due to this system
that finally made Niemann, the main prop in my work, recoil from
the task which at the start he had undertaken with an energy full
of promise. He had been informed that there was a conspiracy to
ruin my work. From this time forward he was a victim to a
despondency to which, in his relations with me, he sought to lend
a sort of diabolical character. He maintained that so far he
could only see the matter in a black light, and he brought
forward some arguments that sounded very sensible; he criticised
the whole Opera as an institution and the public attached to it,
and also our staff of singers, of whom he maintained that not a
single one understood his part as I intended it; and he exposed
all the disadvantages of the undertaking, which I myself could
not fail to see as soon as I came to deal with the chef du chant,
the regisseur, the ballet-master, the conductor of the chorus,
but, particularly, with the chef d'orchestre. Above all, Niemann
(who at the beginning, with a full knowledge of what it involved,
had imposed upon himself the task of playing his part without
curtailments of any sort) insisted upon cutting down the score.
He met my expression of astonishment with the remark, that I must
not suppose that the sacrifice of this or that passage mattered,
but that we were in the throes of an undertaking which could not
be got through too quickly.

Under circumstances from which so little encouragement could be
derived, the study of Tannhauser dragged itself along to the
brink of the so-called 'dress' rehearsals. From all sides the
friends of my past life gathered together in Paris to be present
at the apotheosis of the first performance. Among these were Otto
Wesendonck, Ferdinand Prager, the unfortunate Kietz, for whom I
had to pay the costs of his journey and of his stay in Paris;
luckily M. Chandon from Epernay came, too, with a hamper of
'Fleur du Jardin,' the finest of all his champagne brands. This
was to be drunk to the success of Tannhauser. Bulow also came,
depressed and saddened by the burdens of his own life, and hoping
to be able to gather courage and renewed vitality from the
success of my undertaking. I did not dare to tell him in so many
words of the miserable state of affairs; on the contrary, seeing
him so depressed, I made the best of a bad matter. At the first
rehearsal, however, at which Bulow was present, he did not fail
to grasp how matters stood. I no longer concealed anything from
him; and we continued to indulge in sorrowful intercourse till
the night of the performance, which was again and again
postponed, and it was only his untiring efforts to be of use to
me that gave some life to our companionship. From whatever side
we regarded our grotesque undertaking, we encountered
unsuitability and incompetence. For instance, it was impossible
in the whole of Paris to find the twelve French horns which in
Dresden had so bravely sounded the hunting call in the first act.
In connection with this matter I had to deal with the terrible
man Sax, the celebrated instrument-maker. He had to help me out
with all kinds of substitutes in the shape of saxophones and
saxhorns; moreover, he was officially appointed to conduct the
music behind the scenes. It was an impossibility ever to get this
music properly played.

The main grievance, however, lay in the incompetence of M.
Dietzsch, the conductor, which had now reached a pitch hitherto
unsuspected. In the numerous orchestral rehearsals which had been
held hitherto, I had accustomed myself to use this man like a
machine. From my habitual position on the stage near his desk I
had conducted both conductor and orchestra. In this way I had
maintained my tempi in such a way that I felt no doubt that on my
removal all my points would remain firmly established. I found,
on the contrary, that no sooner was Dietzsch left to his own
resources than everything began to waver; not one tempo, not one
nuance was conscientiously and strictly preserved. I then
realised the extreme danger in which we were placed. Granted that
no one singer was suited to his task, or qualified to achieve it
so as to produce a genuine effect; granted that the ballet, and
even the sumptuous mounting and vitality of the Parisian
performances of the day, could contribute nothing on this
occasion, or at most but little; granted that the whole spirit of
the libretto, and that indefinable SOMETHING which even in the
worst performances of Tannhauser in Germany roused a feeling of
home, was likely here to strike an alien or at best an unfamiliar
note; yet in spite of all this the character of the orchestral
music, which if rendered with emphasis was full of suggestive
expression, led one to hope that it would make an impression even
upon a Parisian audience. But it was precisely in this particular
that I saw everything submerged in a colourless chaos, with every
line of the drawing obliterated; moreover, the singers became
more and more uncertain in their work; even the poor ballet-girls
were no longer able to keep time in their trivial steps; so that
at last I thought myself obliged to interpose with the
declaration that the opera required a different conductor, and
that in case of necessity I myself was ready to take his place.
This declaration brought to a climax the confusion that had grown
up around me. Even the members of the orchestra, who had long
recognised and openly ridiculed their conductor's incompetence,
took sides against me now that the matter concerned their
notorious chief. The press lashed itself into fury over my
'arrogance,' and in the face of all the agitation caused by the
affair, Napoleon III. could send me no better advice than to
forgo my requests, as in adhering to them I should only be
exposing the chances of my work to the greatest risks. On the
other hand, I was allowed to start fresh rehearsals and have them
repeated until I was satisfied.

This way out of the difficulty could lead to nothing but an
increase of fatigue for me and for the whole staff actively
engaged in the undertaking, and the fact still remained that M.
Dietzsch could not be depended upon for the tempo. Finally, by
sheer force of will rather than of conviction, I tried to imagine
I was doing a service by holding out for the correct
interpretation of a performance which, after all, had to be got
through; whereupon for the first time the impetuous musicians
broke out into rebellion against the excessive rehearsals. At
this stage I noticed that the guarantee of my practical control
given by the general management was not altogether made in good
faith, and in the face of the growing complaint on all sides
against being overfatigued I decided 'to demand the return of my
score' as they called it; that is to say, to dispense with the
production of the opera. I addressed an express request to this
effect to the cabinet minister Walewsky, but received the answer
that it was impossible to comply with my wishes, more
particularly on account of the heavy expenses which had already
been incurred in its preparation. I refused to abide by his
decision, and called a conference of those friends of mine who
were more closely interested in me, among whom were Count
Hatzfeld and Emil Erlanger. I took counsel with them as to the
means at my disposal for forbidding Tannhauser to be performed at
the Opera House. It happened that Otto Wesendonck was present at
this conference; he was still waiting in Paris hoping to have the
pleasure of attending the first performance, but he was now
thoroughly convinced that the situation was hopeless, and
promptly fled back to Zurich. Prager had already done likewise.
Kietz alone held out faithfully, and he busied himself in trying
to make some money in Paris to provide for his future, in which
attempt he was hampered by many difficulties that stood in the
way of his desire. This conference resulted in fresh
representations being made to the Emperor Napoleon, which,
however, met with the same gracious reply as before, and I was
authorised to institute a fresh course of rehearsals. At last,
weary to the depths of my soul, completely disillusioned, and
absolutely decided in my pessimistic view of the matter, I
determined to abandon it to its fate.

Having at last, in this frame of mind, given my consent to fix
the date of the first performance of my opera, I was now plagued
in another direction in the most astonishing way. Every one of my
friends and partisans demanded a good seat for the first night;
but the management pointed out that the occupation of the house
on such occasions was entirely in the hands of the court and
those dependent on it, and I was soon to realise clearly enough
to whom these seats were to be allotted. At present I had to
suffer the annoyance of being unable to serve many of my friends
as I should have liked. Some of them were very quick to resent
what they supposed to be my neglect of them. Champfleury in a
letter complained of this flagrant breach of friendship;
Gasperini started an open quarrel because I had not reserved one
of the best boxes for his patron and my creditor Lucy, the
Receiver-General of Marseilles. Even Blandine, who had been
filled with the most generous enthusiasm for my work at the
rehearsals she had attended, could not suppress a suspicion that
I was guilty of neglecting my best friends when I was unable to
offer her and her husband Ollivier anything better than a couple
of stalls. It needed all Emil's sang-froid to obtain from this
deeply offended friend a just appreciation of the honest
assurance that I was in an impossible position, in which I was
exposed to betrayal on all sides. Poor Bulow alone understood
everything; he suffered with me, and shirked no trouble to be of
use to me in all these difficulties. The first performance on the
13th of March put an end to all these complications; my friends
now understood that it was to no celebration of my triumphs, as
they supposed, to which they should have been invited.

I have already said enough elsewhere of the way in which this
evening passed off. I was justified in flattering myself that in
the end a favourable view of my opera prevailed, inasmuch as the
intention of my opponents had been to break up this performance
completely, and this they had found it impossible to do. But I
was grieved the next day to receive nothing but reproaches from
my friends, with Gasperini at the head of them, because I had
allowed the occupation of the house at the first performance to
be completely wrested out of my hands. Meyerbeer, they urged,
knew how to work such things differently; had he not, ever since
he first appeared in Paris, refused to allow the production of a
single one of his operas to take place without a guarantee that
he himself should fill the auditorium, to the remotest corner? As
I had not looked after my best friends, such as M. Lucy, was not
the ill-success of that evening to be ascribed to my own conduct?
Confronted with these and similar arguments, I had to spend the
whole day in writing letters and in devoting myself to the most
urgent efforts at propitiation. Above all, I was besieged with
advice as to how I might recover the lost ground at the
subsequent performances. As the management placed a very small
number of free seats at my disposal, money had to be found for
the purchase of tickets. In the pursuit of this object, which my
friends were so warmly advocating and which involved much that
was disagreeable, I shrank from approaching Emil Erlanger or
anybody else. Giacomelli, however, had found out that Aufmordt,
the merchant, a business friend of Wesendonck, had offered to
help to the extent of five hundred francs. I now allowed these
champions of my welfare to act according to their own ideas, and
was curious to see what assistance I should derive from these
resources which I had previously neglected and now utilised.

The second performance took place on the 18th of March, and,
indeed, the first act promised well. The overture was loudly
applauded without a note of opposition. Mme. Tedesco, who had
eventually been completely won over to her part of Venus by a wig
powdered with gold dust, called out triumphantly to me in the
manager's box, when the 'septuor' of the finale of the first act
was again vigorously applauded, that everything was now all right
and that we had won the victory. But when shrill whistling was
suddenly heard in the second act, Royer the manager turned to me
with an air of complete resignation and said, 'Ce sont les
Jockeys; nous sommes perdus.' Apparently at the bidding of the
Emperor, extensive negotiations had been entered into with these
members of the Jockey Club as to the fate of my opera. They had
been requested to allow three performances to take place, after
which they had been promised that it should be so curtailed as to
admit of its presentation only as a curtain-raiser to introduce a
ballet which was to follow. But these gentlemen had not agreed to
the terms. In the first place, my attitude during the first
performance (which had been such a bone of contention) had been
observed to be utterly unlike that of a man who would consent to
the proposed line of conduct; this being so, it was to be feared
that if two more performances were allowed to take place without
interruption, we might hope to win so many adherents that the
friends of the ballet would be treated to repetitions of this
work thirty times running. To guard against this they determined
to protest in time. The fact that these gentlemen meant business
was now realised by the excellent M. Royer; and from that time he
gave up all attempt to resist them, in spite of the support
granted to our party by the Emperor and his Consort, who
stoically kept their seats through the uproars of their own
courtiers.

The impression made by this scene had a disastrous effect upon my
friends. After the performance Bulow broke out into sobs as he
embraced Minna, who had not been spared the insults of those next
to her when they recognised her as the wife of the composer. Our
trusty servant Therese, a Swabian girl, had been sneered at by a
crazy hooligan, but when she realised that he understood German,
she succeeded in quieting him for a time by calling him
Schweinhund at the top of her voice. Poor Kietz was struck dumb
with disappointment, and Chandon's 'Fleur du Jardin' was growing
sour in the storeroom.

Hearing that in spite of everything a third performance was
fixed, I was confronted with only two possible solutions of the
difficulty. One was, to try once more to withdraw my score; the
other, to demand that my opera should be given on a Sunday, that
is to say, on a non-subscriber's day. I assumed that such a
performance could not be regarded by the usual ticket-holders as
a provocation, for they were quite accustomed on such days to
surrender their boxes to any of the general public who chanced to
come and buy them. My strategical proposal seemed to please the
management and the Tuileries, and was accepted. Only they refused
to conform to my wish to announce this as the third and LAST
performance. Both Minna and I stayed away from this, as it was
just as embarrassing for me to know that my wife was insulted as
to see the singers on the stage subjected to such behaviour. I
was really sorry for Morelli and Mlle. Sax, who had proved their
genuine devotion to me. As soon as the first performance was
over, I met Mlle. Sax in the corridor on her way home, and
chaffed her about being whistled off the stage. With proud
dignity she replied, 'Je le supporterai cent fois comme aujourd'
hui. Ah, les miserables!' Morelli found himself strangely
perplexed when he had to weather the onslaught of the hooligans.
I had explained to him in the minutest detail how to act his part
from the time when Elizabeth disappears in the third act, until
the beginning of his song to the evening star. He was not to move
an inch from his rocky ledge, and from this position, half
turning to the audience, he was to address his farewell to the
departing lady. It had been a difficult task for him to obey my
instructions, as he maintained that it was against all operatic
custom for the singer not to address such an important passage
straight to the public from the footlights. When in the course of
the performance he seized his harp to begin the song, there was a
cry from the audience, 'Ah! il prend encore sa harpe,' upon which
there was a universal outburst of laughter followed by fresh
whistling, so prolonged, that at last Morelli decided boldly to
lay aside his harp and step forward to the proscenium in the
usual way. Here he resolutely sang his evening carol entirely
unaccompanied, as Dietzsch only found his place at the tenth bar.
Peace was then restored, and at last the public listened
breathlessly to the song, and at its close covered the singer
with applause.

As the vocalists showed a courageous determination to encounter
fresh onslaughts, I could not protest. At the same time I could
not endure to be in the position of a passive spectator suffering
at the infliction of such unworthy methods, and as the third
performance was also likely to be attended with doubtful
consequences, I stayed at home. After the various acts messages
reached us informing us that after the first act Truinet at once
came round to my opinion that the score should be withdrawn; it
was found that the 'Jockeys' had not stayed away, as was their
custom, from this Sunday performance; on the contrary, they had
purposely taken their seats from the beginning, so as not to
allow a single scene to pass without a row. I was assured that in
the first act the performance had been twice suspended by fights
lasting a quarter of an hour each. By far the greater part of the
public obstinately took my part against the childish conduct of
the rowdies, without intending by their action to express any
opinion of my work. But in opposing their assailants they were at
a great disadvantage. When everybody on my side was utterly
wearied out with clapping and shouting applause and calling
'Order,' and it looked as if peace were about to reign once more,
the 'Jockeys' returned afresh to their task and began cheerfully
whistling their hunting-tunes and playing their flageolets, so
that they were always bound to have the last word. In an interval
between the acts one of these gentlemen entered the box of a
certain great lady, who in the excess of her anger introduced him
to one of her friends with the words, 'C'est un de ces
miserables, mon cousin.' The young man, completely unabashed,
answered, 'Que voulez-vous? I am beginning to like the music
myself. But, you see, a man must keep his word. If you will
excuse me, I will return to my work again.' He thereupon took his
leave. The next day I met Herr von Seebach, the friendly Saxon
Ambassador, who was as hoarse as he could be, as he and all his
friends had completely lost their voices through the uproar of
the previous night. Princess Metternich had remained at home, as
she had already had to endure the coarse insults and ridicule of
our opponents at the first two performances.

She indicated the height to which this fury had risen by
mentioning some of her best friends, with whom she had engaged in
so virulent a controversy that she had ended by saying: 'Away
with your free France! In Vienna, where at least there is a
genuine aristocracy, it would be unthinkable for a Prince
Liechtenstein or Schwarzenberg to scream from his box for a
ballet in Fidelio.' I believe she also spoke to the Emperor in
the same strain, so that he seriously debated whether by police
intervention some check could not be put upon the unmannerly
conduct of these gentlemen, most of whom, unfortunately, belonged
to the Imperial Household. Some rumour of this got abroad, so
that my friends believed they had really gained the day when, at
the third performance, they found the corridors of the theatre
occupied by a strong body of police. But it turned out later on
that these precautions had only been taken to ensure the safety
of the 'Jockeys,' as it was feared they might be attacked from
the pit as a punishment for their insolence. It seems that the
performance, which was again carried through to the end, was
accompanied from start to finish by an endless tumult. After the
second act the wife of von Szemere, the Hungarian revolutionary
minister, joined us in a state of complete collapse, declaring
that the row in the theatre was more than she could bear. No one
seemed able to tell me exactly how the third act had been got
through. As far as I could make out, it resembled the turmoil of
a battle thick with the smoke of gunpowder. I invited my friend
Truinet to visit me the next morning, so that with his help I
might compose a letter to the management withdrawing my work and,
as author, forbidding any further performance of the same, as I
did not wish to see my singers abused instead of myself by a
section of the public from whom the Imperial administration
seemed unable to protect them. The astonishing thing about the
whole matter was that in thus interfering I was guilty of no
bravado, for a fourth and fifth performance of the opera had been
already arranged, and the management protested that they were
under obligations to the public, who still continued to crowd to
this opera. But through Truinet I contrived to have my letter
published the next day in the Journal des Debats, so that at
last, though with great reluctance, the management gave their
consent to my withdrawal of the piece.

Thereupon the legal action taken on my behalf by Ollivier against
Lindau also came to an end. The latter had put in a claim on my
author's rights in the libretto, in which he said he was entitled
to a share as one of the three collaborators. His counsel, Maitre
Marie, based his plea on a principle which I was said to have
established myself, namely that the point of chief importance was
not the melody, but the correct declamation of the words of the
libretto, which obviously neither Roche nor Truinet could have
ensured, seeing that neither of them understood German.
Ollivier's argument for the defence was so energetic that he was
almost on the point of proving the purely musical essence of my
melody by singing the 'Abendstern.' Completely carried away by
this, the judges rejected the plaintiff's claim, but requested me
to pay him a small sum by way of compensation, as he seemed
really to have taken some part in the work at the beginning. In
any case, however, I could not have paid this out of the proceeds
of the Paris performances of Tannhauser, as I had decided with
Truinet, on withdrawing the opera, to hand over the whole of the
proceeds from my author's rights, both for libretto and music, to
poor Roche, to whom the failure of my work meant the ruin of all
his hopes for the amelioration of his position.

Various other connections were also dissolved by this outcome of
affairs. During the past few months I had busied myself with an
artistic club which had been founded, chiefly through the
influence of the German embassies, among an aristocratic
connection for the production of good music apart from the
theatres, and to stimulate interest in this branch of art among
the upper classes. Unfortunately, in the circular it had
published it had illustrated its endeavours to produce good music
by comparing them to those of the Jockey Club to improve the
breed of horses. Their object was to enrol all who had won a name
in the musical world, and I was obliged to become a member at a
yearly subscription of two hundred francs. Together with M.
Gounod and other Parisian celebrities, I was nominated one of an
artistic committee, of which Auber was elected president. The
society often held its meetings at the house of a certain Count
Osmond, a lively young man, who had lost an arm in a duel, and
posed as a musical dilettante. In this way I also learned to know
a young Prince Polignac, who interested me particularly on
account of his brother, to whom we were indebted for a complete
translation of Faust. I went to lunch with him one morning, when
he revealed to me the fact that he composed musical fantasies. He
was very anxious to convince me of the correctness of his
interpretation of Beethoven's Symphony in A major, in the last
movement of which he declared he could clearly demonstrate all
the phases of a shipwreck. Our earlier general meetings were
chiefly occupied with arrangements and preparations for a great
classical concert, for which I also was to compose something.
These meetings were enlivened solely by Gounod's pedantic zeal,
who with unflagging and nauseating garrulity executed his duties
as secretary, while Auber continually interrupted, rather than
assisted the proceedings, with trifling and not always very
delicate anecdotes and puns, all evidently intended to urge us to
end the discussions. Even after the decisive failure of
Tannhauser I received summonses to the meetings of this
committee, but never attended it any more, and sent in my
resignation to the president of the society, stating that I
should probably soon be returning to Germany.

With Gounod alone did I still continue on friendly terms, and I
heard that he energetically championed my cause in society. He is
said on one occasion to have exclaimed: 'Que Dieu me donne une
pareille chute!' As an acknowledgment of this advocacy I
presented him with the score of Tristan und Isolde, being all the
more gratified by his behaviour because no feeling of friendship
had ever been able to induce me to hear his Faust.

I now came into touch with energetic protagonists of my cause at
every turn. I was particularly honoured in the columns of those
smaller journals of which Meyerbeer had as yet taken no account,
and several good criticisms now appeared. In one of these I read
that my Tannhauser was la symphonie chantee. Baudelaire
distinguished himself by an exceedingly witty and aptly turned
pamphlet on this topic; and finally Jules Janin himself
astonished me by an article in the Journal des Debats, in which,
with burning indignation, he gave a somewhat exaggerated report,
in his own peculiar style, of the whole episode. Even parodies of
Tannhauser were given in the theatres for the delectation of the
public; and Musard could find no better means of attracting
audiences to his concerts than the daily announcement, in
enormous letters, of the Overture to Tannhauser. Pasdeloup also
frequently produced some of my pieces by way of showing his
sentiments. And lastly, Countess Lowenthal, the wife of the
Austrian military plenipotentiary, gave a great matinee, at which
Mme. Viardot sang various items from Tannhauser, for which she
received five hundred francs.

By some singular coincidence people managed to confound my fate
with that of a certain M. de la Vaquerie, who had also made a
dismal failure with a drama, Les Funerailles de l'Honeur. His
friends gave a banquet, to which I was invited, and we were both
enthusiastically acclaimed. Fiery speeches were made about the
encanaillemenl of the public, containing references to politics,
which were easily explained by the fact that my partner in the
festivity was related to Victor Hugo. Unfortunately particular
supporters had provided a small piano, on which I was literally
compelled to play favourite passages from Tannhauser. Whereupon
the evening became a festival in my honour alone.

But a much more important result than these was that people began
to recognise the reality of my popularity, and began to plan yet
greater undertakings. The manager of the Theatre Lyrique sought
everywhere for a tenor suitable for Tannhauser, and only his
inability to find one compelled him to renounce his intention of
producing my opera at once. M. de Beaumont, the manager of the
Opera Comique, who was on the verge of bankruptcy, hoped to save
himself with Tannhauser, with which intention he approached me
with the most urgent proposals. True, he hoped at the same time
to enlist Princess Metternich's intervention on his behalf with
the Emperor, who was to help him out of his embarrassments. He
reproached me with coldness when I failed to fall in with his
glowing dreams, in which I could find no pleasure. But I was
interested to learn that Roger, who now had a post at the Opera
Comique, had included part of the last act of Tannhauser in the
programme of a performance given for his own benefit, whereby he
drew down upon his head the fury of the more influential press,
but won a good reception from the public. Schemes now began to
multiply. A. M. Chabrol, whose journalistic name was Lorbach,
visited me on behalf of a company, whose director was an
enormously wealthy man, with a plan for founding a Theatre
Wagner, of which I refused to hear anything until it could secure
an experienced man of first-class reputation as manager.
Eventually M. Perrin was selected for the post. This man had
lived for years in the firm conviction that he would be some day
appointed manager of the Grand Opera, and thought, therefore,
that he ought not to compromise himself. It is true, he ascribed
the failure of Tannhauser entirely to Royer's incapacity, who
ought to have made it his business to win over the press to his
side. Nevertheless he was strongly tempted to share in the
attempt because of the opportunity it afforded him of proving
that, if he took the matter in hand, everything would at once
wear a different aspect, and Tannhauser become a great success.
But as he was an exceedingly cold and cautious man, he thought he
had discovered serious flaws in M. Lorbach's proposals, and when
the latter began to stipulate for certain commissions, Perrin
immediately fancied that he detected a not quite blameless savour
of speculation in the whole business, and declared that if he
wanted to found a Wagner Theatre, he would manage to procure the
necessary funds in his own way. As a matter of fact, he did
actually entertain the notion of securing a large cafe, the
'Alcazar,' and after that the 'Bazar de la Bonne Nouvelle,' for
the purposes of such a theatre. It also seemed possible that the
requisite capitalists would be found for his enterprise. M.
Erlanger believed he could succeed in getting ten bankers to
guarantee fifty thousand francs, thus placing a sum of five
hundred thousand francs at M. Perrin's disposal. But the latter
soon lost courage when he found that the gentlemen thus
approached were willing to risk their money on a theatre for
their own amusement, but not for the serious purpose of
acclimatising my music in Paris.

With this disappointing experience M. Erlanger now withdrew from
all further participation in my fate. From a business point of
view he regarded the arrangement made with me as a sort of deal,
in which he had not succeeded. The settlement of my financial
position seemed likely now to be undertaken by other friends, and
with this object in view the German embassies approached me with
great delicacy, commissioning Count Hatzfeld to inquire into my
necessities. My own view of the situation was simply that, in
obedience to the Emperor's command for the production of my
opera, I had wasted my time over an enterprise the failure of
which had not been my fault. With perfect justice my friends
pointed out how careless I had been not to secure from the first
certain stipulations about compensations, a demand which the
Frenchman's practical mind would at once have recognised as
reasonable and obvious. As matters stood, I had demanded no
return for my time and labour beyond certain author's rights in
case of success. Feeling how impossible it was for me to approach
either the management or the Emperor to retrieve this omission, I
was content to leave Princess Metternich to intercede on my
behalf. Count Pourtales had stayed on in Berlin to try and
persuade the Prince Regent to order a performance of Tannhauser
for my benefit. Unfortunately, the latter had been unable to
secure the execution of his order owing to the opposition of his
manager, Herr von Hulsen, who was hostile to me. As I had no
other prospect for a long time to come but one of complete
helplessness, I had no option but to leave the representation of
my claim for compensation to the kindly care of my royal
patroness. All these events had taken place within the short
space of a month after the production of Tannhauser, and now, on
the 15th April, I went for a short trip to Germany, to try and
find some solid ground for my future in that country.

The only person who really understood my deepest needs had
already set out on the same road, away from the chaos of Parisian
theatrical life. Bulow had just sent me news from Karlsruhe that
the grand-ducal family were favourably disposed towards me, and I
promptly formed the plan of immediately setting to work seriously
on the production there of my Tristan, which had been so fatally
deferred. Accordingly I went to Karlsruhe, and if anything could
have decided me to execute my hastily formed plan, it would
certainly have been the exceptionally cordial welcome I now
received at the hands of the Grand Duke of Baden. This exalted
personage seemed really desirous of awakening my sincerest
confidence in himself. During an exceedingly intimate interview,
at which his young wife was also present, the Grand Duke took
pains to convince me that his profound sympathy for me was less
as a composer of operas, whose excellence he neither wished nor
was able to appreciate, than as the man who had suffered so much
for his patriotic and independent opinions. As I naturally could
not attach much value to the political importance of my past
career, he imagined this arose from suspicious reticence, and
encouraged me by the assurance that, although great mistakes and
even offences might have been committed in this respect, these
only affected those who, while they had remained in Germany, had
not been made happy, and had thereby certainly atoned for their
misdeeds by inward suffering. On the other hand, it was now the
duty of all these guilty ones to repair the wrongs they had done
to those who had been driven into exile. He gladly placed his
theatre at my disposal, and gave the necessary orders to the
manager. This was my old 'friend' Eduard Devrient, and the
painful embarrassment he betrayed on my arrival fully justified
all that Bulow had said about the complete worthlessness of those
sentiments of sincere sympathy for me which he had hitherto
affected. But in the happy atmosphere created by the Grand Duke's
gracious reception I was soon able to bring Devrient--in
appearance at least--to do as I wished, and he was compelled to
assent to the proposed production of Tristan. As he was unable to
deny that, especially since Schnorr's departure for Dresden, he
did not possess the requisite singers for my work, he referred me
to Vienna, expressing at the same time his astonishment that I
did not try to have my operas produced there, where everything
required was ready to hand. It cost me some trouble to make him
understand why I preferred a few exceptionally fine performances
of my works in Karlsruhe to the mere chance of having them
inscribed on the repertoire of the Vienna Opera House. I obtained
permission to secure Schnorr, who of course would be engaged only
for the special performances at Karlsruhe, and was also allowed
to choose in Vienna the other singers for our intended 'model
performance.'

I was thus left to rely on Vienna, and had meanwhile to return to
Paris, so as to settle my affairs there in such a way as to suit
the execution of my latest project. I arrived here, after an
absence of only six days, and my sole occupation was to provide
money for the needs of the moment. Under these circumstances I
could only feel indifferent to the many sympathetic advances and
assurances which reached me with ever-growing cordiality,
although at the same time they filled me with apprehension.

In the meantime, the operations undertaken on a larger scale by
Princess Metternich to secure me some compensation dragged along
with mysterious slowness, and it was to a merchant named Sturmer,
whom I had previously known in Zurich, that I owed my deliverance
from my present troubles. He had constantly interested himself in
my welfare while in Paris, and now by his help I was enabled,
first to set my household affairs in order, and then to set off
for Vienna.

Liszt had announced that he was coming to Paris some time before,
and during the recent disastrous time I had longed for his
presence, as I thought that, with his recognised position in the
higher circles of Parisian society, he would have been able to
exert a very helpful influence upon my hopelessly involved
situation. A mysterious epistolary 'shrug of the shoulders' had
been the only answer I had received to my various inquiries as to
the cause of his delay. It seemed like irony on the part of Fate
that, just as I had arranged everything for my journey to Vienna,
news should come that Liszt would reach Paris in a few days. But
I could only yield to the pressure of my necessities which
sternly demanded that I should pick up new threads for my plan of
life, and I quitted Paris about the middle of May, without
awaiting my old friend's arrival.

I stopped first of all at Karlsruhe for another interview with
the Grand Duke, who received me as kindly as ever, and granted me
permission to engage in Vienna any singers I liked for a really
fine performance of Tristan in his theatre. Armed with this
command I went on to Vienna, where I stayed at the 'Erzherzog
Karl,' and there waited for Conductor Esser to fulfil the
promises he had made by letter to allow me to see a few
performances of my operas. It was here that for the first time I
saw my own Lohengrin. Although the opera had already been played
very frequently, the entire company was present at the full
rehearsal, as I desired. The orchestra played the prelude with
such delightful warmth, the voices of the singers and many of
their good qualities were so conspicuously and surprisingly
pleasing, that I was too much overcome by the sensation created
by them to have any desire to criticise the general performance.
My profound emotion seemed to attract attention, and Dr. Hanslick
probably thought this was a suitable moment for being introduced
to me in a friendly way as I sat listening on the stage. I
greeted him shortly, like a perfectly unknown person; whereupon
the tenor, Ander, presented him a second time with the remark
that Dr. Hanslick was an old acquaintance. I answered briefly
that I remembered Dr. Hanslick very well, and once more turned my
attention to the stage. It seems that exactly the same now
happened with my Vienna friends as once before in the case of my
London acquaintances, when the latter found me disinclined to
respond to their efforts to make me conciliate the dreaded
critics. This man, who as a budding young student had been
present at the earliest performances of Tannhauser in Dresden,
and had written glowing reports on my work, had since become one
of my most vicious antagonists, as was proved on the production
of my operas in Vienna. The members of the opera company, who
were all well disposed towards me, seemed to have devoted their
whole attention to reconciling me, as best they could, with this
critic. As they failed to do so, those who ascribe, to the enmity
thus aroused, the subsequent failure of every attempt to launch
my enterprise in Vienna, may be right in their opinion.

But for the present it seemed as though the flood of enthusiasm
would bear down all opposition. The performance of Lohengrin,
which I attended, was made the occasion of a frantic ovation,
such as I have only experienced from the Viennese public. I was
urged to have both my other operas presented also, but felt a
sort of shyness at the thought of a repetition of that evening's
occurrences. As I had now fully realised the serious weaknesses
in the performance of Tannhauser, I only agreed to a revival of
the Fliegender Hollander, for the reason that I wished to hear
the singer Beck, who excelled in that opera. On this occasion
also the public indulged in similar manifestations of delight, so
that, backed up by universal favour, I could begin to consider
the main business on which I had come. The students of the
University offered me the honour of a torchlight procession,
which I declined, thereby winning the hearty approval of Esser,
who, together with the chief officials of the Opera, asked me how
these triumphs could be turned to account. I then presented
myself to Count Lanckoronski, the Controller of the Emperor's
household, who had been described to me as a peculiar person,
totally ignorant of art and all its requirements. When I unfolded
to him my request that he would graciously grant leave of absence
for a fairly long period to the chief singers of his Opera,
namely, Frau Dustmann (nee Luise Meyer), Herr Beck, and probably
also Herr Ander, for the proposed performance of Tristan in
Karlsruhe, the old gentleman dryly answered that it was quite
impossible. He thought it much more reasonable, seeing I was
satisfied with his company, that I should produce my new work in
Vienna, and the courage necessary to refuse this proposition
melted completely away.

As I descended the steps of the Hofburg, lost in meditation over
this new turn of affairs, a stately gentleman of unusually
sympathetic mien came to meet me at the door, and offered to
accompany me in the carriage to my hotel. This was Joseph
Standhartner, a famous physician, who was exceedingly popular in
high circles, an earnest devotee of music, thenceforth destined
to be a faithful friend to me all my life.

Karl Tausig had also sought me out, and was now devoting his
energies to Vienna, with the express determination of conquering
this field for Liszt's compositions, and had opened his campaign
there during the previous winter with a series of orchestral
concerts, started and conducted by himself. He introduced me to
Peter Cornelius, who had also been drawn to Vienna, and whom I
only knew from our meeting in Bale in 1853. They both raved about
the recently published pianoforte arrangement of Tristan, which
Bulow had prepared. In my room at the hotel, whither Tausig had
transported a Bosendorff grand-piano, a musical orgy was soon in
full swing. They would have liked me to have started rehearsing
Tristan at once; and, in any case, I was now so bent on securing
the acceptance of the proposal that my work should first be
performed here, that I finally quitted Vienna with a promise to
return in a few months, in order to start the preliminary study
at once.

I felt no little embarrassment at the prospect of communicating
my change of plan to the Grand Duke, and therefore readily
yielded to the impulse of only visiting Karlsruhe after a long
detour. As my birthday fell just at the time of this return
journey, I resolved to celebrate it at Zurich. I reached
Winterthur, via Munich, without delay, and hoped to meet my
friend Sulzer there. Unfortunately he was away, and I only saw
his wife, who had a pathetic interest for me, and also their
little son, a lively and attractive boy. Sulzer himself, I
learned, was expected back the next day, the 22nd of the month,
and I accordingly spent most of the day in a small room at the
inn. I had brought Goethe's Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre with
me, and now for the first time was enraptured by fuller
comprehension of this wonderful production. The spirit of the
poet attracted me most profoundly to his work by the impression
left on my mind by his lively description of the breaking-up of
the players' company, in which the action almost becomes a
furious lyric. Next morning at early dawn I returned to Zurich.
The wonderfully clear air decided me to try the long and
circuitous path through the familiar haunts of the Sihlthal to
Wesendonck's estate. Here I arrived quite unannounced; and when I
inquired what the habits of the household were, I learned that
about this time Wesendonck usually came down to his dining-room
to breakfast alone. There I accordingly seated myself in a
corner, where I awaited the tall, good-tempered man, who, on
entering quietly for his morning coffee, broke out into joyous
astonishment on beholding me. The day passed most sociably;
Sulzer, Semper, Herwegh, and Gottfried Keller were all sent for,
and I thoroughly enjoyed the satisfaction of a well-contrived
surprise, under such strange circumstances, as my recent fate had
only just been forming the daily topic of animated discussion
among these friends.

The next day I hurried back to Karlsruhe, where my announcement
was received by the Grand Duke with kindly acquiescence. I could
truly state that my request for leave of absence for the singers
had been refused, and the projected performance in Karlsruhe
thereby rendered impossible. Without any grief, but, on the
contrary, with undisguised satisfaction, Eduard Devrient yielded
to this fresh turn of affairs, and prophesied a splendid future
for me in Vienna. Here Tausig overtook me, having already decided
in Vienna to pay a visit to Paris, where he wished to see Liszt;
and we accordingly continued our journey from Karlsruhe together
by way of Strasburg.

When I reached Paris, I found my household on the point of
breaking up. My only anxiety with regard to this was to procure
means for getting away from the city, and for the prompt
settlement of a future which seemed hopeless. Meanwhile Minna
found an opportunity for exhibiting her talents as a housewife.
Liszt had already fallen back into his old current of life, and
even his own daughter, Blandine, could only manage to get a word
with him in his carriage, as he drove from one visit to another.
Nevertheless, impelled by his goodness of heart, he found time
once to accept an invitation to 'beef-steaks' at my house. He
even managed to spare me a whole evening, for which he kindly
placed himself at my disposal for the settlement of my small
obligations. In the presence of a few friends, who had remained
true after the recent days of trouble, he played the piano to us
on this occasion, during which a curious coincidence occurred.
The day before poor Tausig had filled up a spare hour by playing
Liszt's 'Fantaisie' on the name of Bach, [Footnote: The notes B,
A, C, H, are equivalent to our English B flat, A, C, B.--Editor.]
and now when Liszt chanced to play us the same piece, he
literally collapsed with amazement before this wonderful prodigy
of a man.

Another day we met for lunch at Gounod's, when we had a very dull
time, which was only enlivened by poor Baudelaire, who indulged
in the most outrageous witticisms. This man, crible de dettes, as
he told me, and daily compelled to adopt the most extravagant
methods for a bare subsistence, had repeatedly approached me with
adventurous schemes for the exploitation of my notorious fiasco.
I could not on any account consent to adopt any of these, and was
glad to find this really capable man safe under the eagle-wing of
Liszt's 'ascendency.' Liszt took him everywhere where there was a
possibility of a fortune being found. Whether this helped him
into anything or not, I never knew. I only heard that he died a
short time afterwards, certainly not from an excess of good
fortune.

In addition to this festive morning, I met Liszt again at a
dinner at the Austrian embassy, on which occasion he once more
showed his kindly sympathy by playing several passages from my
Lohengrin on the piano to Princess Metternich. He was also
summoned to a dinner at the Tuileries, to which, however, it was
not thought necessary to invite me to accompany him. With regard
to this he related a conversation, which was very much to the
point, with the Emperor Napoleon about the episode of my
Tannhauser performances in Paris, the upshot of which appears to
have been that I was not in my right place at the Grand Opera
House. Whether Liszt ever discussed these matters with Lamartine
I do not know, I only heard that my old friend several times
addressed him, to try and arrange a meeting with him, for which I
was very anxious. Tausig, who at first had taken refuge chiefly
with me, fell back later into his natural dependence upon his
master, so that in the end he quite vanished from my sight, when
he went with Liszt to visit Mme. Street in Brussels.

I was now longing to leave Paris. I had fortunately managed to
get rid of my house in the Rue d'Aumale by sub-letting it, a
transaction in which I was helped by a present of a hundred
francs to the concierge, and was now merely waiting for news from
my protectors. As I did not wish to press them, my situation
became most painfully prolonged, though it was not altogether
devoid of pleasant but tantalising incidents. For instance, I had
won the special favour of Mlle. Eberty, Meyerbeer's elderly
niece. She had been an almost rabid partisan of my cause during
the painful episode of the Tannhauser performances, and now
seemed earnestly desirous of doing something to brighten my
cheerless situation. With this object she arranged a really
charming dinner in a first-class restaurant in the Bois de
Boulogne, to which we and Kietz, of whom we were not yet rid,
were invited, and which took place in lovely spring weather. The
Flaxland family also, with whom I had had some differences over
the publication of Tannhauser, now exerted themselves in every
possible way to show me kindness, but I could only wish that they
had had no reason for doing so.

It was now settled that we must at all costs leave Paris soon. It
was proposed that Minna should resume her treatment at the Soden
baths and also revisit her old friends in Dresden, while I was to
wait until it was time for me to return to Vienna for the
preliminary study of my Tristan. We decided to deposit all our
household belongings, well packed, with a forwarding-agent in
Paris. While thus occupied with thoughts of our painfully delayed
departure, we also discussed the difficulty of transporting our
little dog Fips by rail. One day, the 22nd of June, my wife
returned from a walk, bringing the animal back with her, in some
mysterious way dangerously ill. According to Minna's account, we
could only think that the dog had swallowed some virulent poison
spread in the street. His condition was pitiable. Though he
showed no marks of outward injury, yet his breathing was so
convulsive that we thought his lungs must be seriously damaged.
In his first frantic pangs he had bitten Minna violently in the
mouth, so that I had sent for a doctor immediately, who, however,
soon relieved our fears that she had been bitten by a mad dog.

But we could get no relief for the poor animal. He lay quietly
curled up, and his breathing grew steadily shorter and more
violent. Towards eleven o'clock at night he seemed to have fallen
asleep under Minna's bed, but when I drew him out he was dead.
The effect of this melancholy event upon Minna and myself was
never expressed in words. In our childless life together the
influence of domestic pets had been very important. The sudden
death of this lively and lovable animal acted as the final rift
in a union which had long become impossible. For the moment I had
no more urgent care than to rescue the body from the usual fate
of dead dogs in Paris, that of being flung out into the street
for the scavengers to carry off in the morning. My friend Sturmer
had a small garden behind his house in the Rue de la Tour des
Dames, where I wished to bury Fips the next day. But it cost me a
rare expenditure of persuasion to induce the absent owner's
housekeeper to give me permission to do so. At last, however,
with the help of the concierge of our house, I dug a small grave,
as deep as possible, among the bushes of the garden, for the
reception of our poor little pet. When the sad ceremony was
completed, I covered up the grave with the utmost care and tried
to make the spot as indistinguishable as possible, as I had a
suspicion that Herr Sturmer might object to harbouring the dog's
body, and have it removed, a misfortune which I strove to
prevent.

At last Count Hatzfeld announced in the kindliest possible manner
that some friends of my art, who wished to remain unknown,
sympathising with my unmerited condition, had united to offer me
the means of relieving my burdensome position. I considered it
fitting to express my thanks for this happy consummation only to
my patroness, Princess Metternich, and now set about making
arrangements for the final dissolution of my Paris establishment.
My first care, after concluding all these necessary labours, was
to see that Minna set out at once for Germany to begin her
treatment; while, as for myself, I had no better object there for
the present than to pay a visit to Liszt in Weimar, where in
August a German-music festival was to be celebrated with farewell
performances of Liszt's compositions. Moreover Flaxland, who had
now taken courage to issue my other operas in French, wished to
retain me in Paris until, in collaboration with Truinet, I had
completed the translation of the Fliegender Hollander. For this
work I needed several weeks, which it was impossible for me to
spend in our apartments, now entirely stripped of furniture.
Count Pourtales, hearing of this, invited me to take up my abode
for this period in the Prussian embassy, a remarkable and indeed
in its way unprecedented act of kindness which I accepted with a
gratitude full of foreboding. On the 12th of July I saw Minna off
to Soden, and the same day went to reside at the embassy, where
they assigned me a pleasant little room looking out upon the
garden, with a view of the Tuileries in the distance. In a pool
in the garden there were two black swans, to which, in a dreamy
sort of way, I felt strangely attracted. When young Hatzfeld
looked me up in my room, to make inquiries about my needs in the
name of my well-wishers, a strong emotion overwhelmed me for the
first time in many years, and I felt a profound sense of well-
being in the midst of a condition of complete impecuniosity and
detachment from everything usually considered as necessary for
permanent existence.

I asked permission to have my Erard brought to my room for the
period of my stay, as it had not been packed away with the rest
of my furniture, whereupon a handsome room was given up to me on
the first floor. Here I worked every morning at the translation
of my Fliegender Hollander, and also composed two musical album
pieces, one of which, intended for Princess Metternich, contained
a pretty theme which had long floated in my mind, and was
afterwards published, while a similar one, for Frau Pourtales,
got somehow mislaid.

My intercourse with the family of my friend and host had not only
a soothing influence upon my spirit, but also filled me with calm
content. We dined together daily, and the midday meal often
developed into the well-known 'diplomatic dinner.' I here made
acquaintance with the former Prussian minister, Bethmann-Hollweg,
the father of Countess Pourtales, with whom I discussed in detail
my ideas respecting the relations between art and the state. When
at last I had succeeded in making them clear to the minister, our
conversation closed with the fatal assertion that such an
understanding with the supreme head of the state would always
remain an impossibility, seeing that in his eyes art belonged
merely to the realm of amusement.

In addition to Count Hatzfeld, the two other attaches, Prince
Reuss and Count Donhoff, often shared these domestic gatherings.
The former seemed to be the politician of the company, and was
particularly commended to me on account of the great and able
efforts he had made on my behalf at the Imperial Court, while the
latter simply appealed to me by his looks and by his attractive
and open-hearted friendliness. Here, too, I was again frequently
brought into social contact with Prince and Princess Metternich,
but I could not help noticing that a certain embarrassment marked
our demeanour. Owing to her energetic complicity in the fate of
Tannhauser, Princess Pauline had not only been subjected to the
coarsest handling by the press, but had also suffered the most
ungallant and ill-natured treatment at the hands of so-called
higher society. Her husband seems to have borne all this very
well, though doubtless he experienced many a bitter moment. It
was difficult for me now to understand what compensation the
Princess could have found in a genuine sympathy for my art for
all she had been obliged to endure.

Thus I frequently spent the evenings in familiar intercourse with
my amiable hosts, and was even seduced into trying to instruct
them about Schopenhauer. On one occasion a larger evening
assembly led to almost intoxicating excitement. Selections from
several of my works were vivaciously played in a circle of
friends all very much prepossessed in my favour. Saint-Saens took
the piano, and I had the unusual experience of hearing the final
scene of Isolde rendered by the Neapolitan Princess Campo-Reale,
who, to that excellent musician's accompaniment, sang it with a
beautiful German accent and an astounding faithfulness of
intonation.

I thus passed three weeks in peace and quiet. Meanwhile, Count
Pourtales had procured me a superior Prussian ministerial
passport for my projected visit to Germany, his attempt to get me
a Saxon passport having failed, owing to the nervousness of Herr
von Seebach.

This time, before taking leave of Paris--for ever, as I supposed-
-I felt impelled to bid an intimate farewell to the few French
friends who had stood by me loyally in the difficulties I had
overcome. We met at a cafe in Rue Lafitte--Gasperini,
Champfleury, Truinet and I--and talked until late in the night.
When I was about to start on my homeward way to the Faubourg St.
Germain, Champfleury, who lived on the heights of Montmartre,
declared that he must take me home, because we did not know
whether we should ever see each other again. I enjoyed the
exquisite effect of the bright moonlight on the deserted Paris
streets; only the huge business firms, whose premises extend to
the uppermost floors, seemed to have turned night into day in a
picturesque fashion, particularly those houses which have been
pressed into the service of trade in the Rue Richelieu.
Champfleury smoked his short pipe and discussed with me the
prospects of French politics. His father was, he told me, an old
Bonapartist of the first water, but had been moved to exclaim, a
short time before, after reading the papers day after day,
'Pourtant, avant de mourir je voudrais voir autre chose.' We
parted very affectionately at the door of the embassy.

I took leave in equally friendly fashion of a young Parisian
friend, who has not yet been mentioned--Gustave Dore--who had
been sent to me by Ollivier at the very outset of my Paris
venture. He had proposed to make a fantastic drawing of me in the
act of conducting, without, it is true, ever realising his
intention. I do not know why, except, perhaps, that I did not
show any particular inclination for it. Dore remained loyal to
me, however, and was one of those who made a point of
demonstrating their friendship just now in their extreme
indignation at the outrage inflicted on me. This extraordinarily
prolific artist proposed to include the Nibelungen among his many
subjects for illustration, and I wished first to make him
acquainted with my interpretation of this cycle of legends. This
was undoubtedly difficult, but as he assured me he had a friend
well versed in the German language and German literature, I gave
myself the pleasure of presenting him with the recently published
pianoforte score of Rheingold, the text of which would give him
the clearest idea of the plan on which I had moulded the
material. I thus returned the compliment of his having sent me a
copy of his illustrations to Dante, which had just appeared.

Full of pleasant and agreeable impressions, which formed the only
actual gain of real worth that I reaped from my Paris enterprise,
I left the generous asylum offered by my Prussian friends the
first week in August to go, first, to Soden by way of Cologne.
Here I found Minna in the society of Mathilde Schiffner, who
seemed to have become indispensable to her as an easy victim for
her tyranny. I spent two extremely painful days there in trying
to make the poor woman understand that she was to establish
herself at Dresden (where I was not at present allowed to stay),
while I looked about me in Germany--in Vienna first--for a new
centre of operations. She glanced at her friend with peculiar
satisfaction on hearing my proposal and my promise to remember,
under any circumstances, to provide her with three thousand marks
a year. This bargain set the standard of my relation to her for
the rest of her life. She went with me as far as Frankfort, where
I parted from her to go, for the time being, to Weimar--the town
where Schopenhauer had died a short time before.



PART IV

1861-1864



AND so I again crossed Thuringia, passing the Wartburg which,
whether I visited it or merely saw it in the distance, seemed so
strangely bound up with my departures from Germany or my return
thither. I reached Weimar at two in the morning, and was
conducted later in the day to the rooms which Liszt had arranged
for my use at the Altenburg. They were, as he took good care to
inform me, Princess Marie's rooms. This time, however, there were
no women to entertain us. Princess Caroline was already in Rome,
and her daughter had married Prince Constantin Hohenlohe and gone
to Vienna. There was only Miss Anderson, Princess Marie's
governess, left to help Liszt entertain his guests. Indeed, I
found the Altenburg was about to be closed, and that Liszt's
youthful uncle Eduard had come from Vienna for this purpose, and
also to make an inventory of all its contents. But at the same
time there reigned an unusual stir of conviviality in connection
with the Society of Musical Artists, as Liszt was putting up a
considerable number of musicians himself, first and foremost
among his guests being Bulow and Cornelius. Every one, including
Liszt himself, was wearing a travelling cap, and this strange
choice of head-dress seemed to me typical of the lack of ceremony
attending this rural festival at Weimar. On the top floor of the
house Franz Brendel and his wife were installed with some
splendour, and a swarm of musicians soon filled the place, among
them my old acquaintance Drasecke and a certain young man called
Weisheimer, whom Liszt had once sent to see me at Zurich. Tausig
put in an appearance too, but excluded himself from most of our
free and easy gatherings to carry on a love-affair with a young
lady. Liszt gave me Emilie Genast as a companion on one or two
short excursions, an arrangement with which I found no fault, as
she was witty and very intelligent. I made the acquaintance of
Damrosch too, a violinist and a musician. It was a great pleasure
to see my old friend Alwine Frommann, who had come in spite of
her somewhat strained relations with Liszt; and when Blandine and
Ollivier arrived from Paris and became my neighbours on the
Altenburg, the days which were lively before to begin with, now
became boisterously merry. Bulow, who had been chosen to conduct
Liszt's Faust Symphony, seemed to me the wildest of all. His
activity was extraordinary. He had learned the entire score by
heart, and gave us an unusually precise, intelligent, and
spirited performance with an orchestra composed of anything but
the pick of German players. After this symphony the Prometheus
music had the greatest success, while I was particularly affected
by Emilie Genast's singing of a song-cycle, composed by Bulow,
called Die Entsagende. There was little else that was enjoyable
at the festival concert with the exception of a cantata, Das Grab
im Busento by Weisheimer, and a regular scandal arose in
connection with Drasecke's 'German March.' For some obscure
reason Liszt adopted a challenging and protecting attitude
towards this strange composition, written apparently in mockery
by a man of great talent in other directions. Liszt insisted on
Bulow's conducting the march, and ultimately Hans made a success
of it, even doing it by heart; but the whole thing ended in the
following incredible scene. The jubilant reception of Liszt's own
works had not once induced him to show himself to the audience,
but when Drasecke's march, which concluded the programme, was at
last rejected by the audience in an irresistible wave of ill-
humour, Liszt came into the stage-box and, stretching out his
hands, clapped vigorously and shouted 'Bravos.' A real battle set
in between Liszt, whose face was red with anger, and the
audience. Blandine, who was sitting next to me, was, like me,
beside herself at this outrageously provocative behaviour on the
part of her father, and it was a long time before we could
compose ourselves after the incident. There was little in the way
of explanation to be got out of Liszt. We only heard him refer a
few times, in terms of furious contempt, to the audience, 'for
whom the march was far and away too good.' I heard from another
quarter that this was a form of revenge on the regular Weimar
public, but it was a strange way of wreaking it, as they were not
represented on this occasion. Liszt thought it was a good
opportunity to avenge Cornelius, whose opera The Barber of Bagdad
had been hissed by the Weimar public when Liszt had conducted it
in person some time previously. Besides this, I could of course
see that Liszt had much to bear in other directions. He admitted
to me that he had been trying to induce the Grand Duke of Weimar
to show me some particular mark of distinction. He first wanted
him to invite me, with himself, to dine at court, but as the Duke
had qualms about entertaining a person who was still exiled from
the kingdom of Saxony as a political refugee, Liszt thought he
could at least get me the Order of the White Falcon. This too was
refused him, and as his exertions at court had been so fruitless,
he was bent on making the townsmen of the Residency do their part
in celebrating my presence. A torchlight procession was
accordingly arranged, but when I heard of it I took all possible
pains to thwart the plan--and succeeded. But I was not to get off
without any ovation at all. One afternoon Justizrath Gille of
Jena and six students grouped themselves under my window, and
sang a nice little choral society song, for which attention I
thanked them most warmly. A contrast to this was presented by the
great banquet attended by all the musical artists. I sat between
Blandine and Ollivier, and the feast developed into a really
hearty ovation for the composer of Tannhauser and Lohengrin, whom
they now 'welcomed back to Germany after he had won their love
and esteem during his banishment.' Liszt's speech was short but
vigorous, and I had to respond in greater detail to another
speaker. Very pleasant were the select gatherings which on
several occasions met round Liszt's own dinner-table, and I
thought of the absent hostess of Altenburg at one of them. Once
we had our meal in the garden, and I had the pleasure of seeing
my good friend Alwine Frommann there conversing intelligently
with Ollivier, as a reconciliation with Liszt had taken place.

The day for parting was drawing near for us all, after a week of
very varied and exciting experiences. A happy chance enabled me
to make the greater part of my prearranged journey to Vienna in
the company of Blandine and Ollivier, who had decided to visit
Cosima at Reichenhall, where she was staying for a 'cure.' As we
were all saying good-bye to Liszt on the railway platform, we
thought of Bulow, who had distinguished himself so remarkably in
the past few days. He had started a day in advance, and we
exhausted ourselves in singing his praises, though I added with
jesting familiarity, 'There was no necessity for him to marry
Cosima.' And Liszt added, bowing slightly, 'That was a luxury.'

We travellers--Blandine and I, that is--soon fell into a
frivolous mood which was much intensified by Ollivier's query,
repeated after each burst of laughter, 'Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?' He
had to submit good-humouredly to our continuous joking in German,
though we always responded in French to his frequent demands for
tonique or jambon cru, which seemed to form the staple of his
diet. It was long after midnight when we reached Nuremberg, where
we were obliged to halt for the night. We got ourselves conveyed
to an inn by dint of much effort, and were kept waiting there
some time before the door opened. A fat and elderly innkeeper
acceded to our entreaties to give us rooms, late as it was, but
to accomplish this he found it necessary--after much anxious
reflection--to leave us in the hall for a good long time while he
vanished down a back passage. There he stood outside a bedroom
door, and we heard him calling 'Margarethe' in bashful and
friendly tones. He repeated the name several times with the
information that visitors had arrived, and a woman answered him
with oaths. After much pressing entreaty on the innkeeper's part
Margarethe at last appeared, in neglige, and showed us, after
various mysterious confabulations with the host, the rooms
selected for us. The odd part of the incident was that the
immoderate laughter in which we all three indulged seemed to be
noticed neither by the innkeeper nor by his chambermaid. The next
day we went to see some of the sights of the town, last of all
the Germanisches Museum, which was in such a wretched condition
at that time as to earn the contempt of my French companion
particularly. The large collection of instruments of torture,
which included a box studded with nails, filled Blandine with
sympathetic horror.

We reached Munich that evening, and inspected it the next day
(after tonique and ham had again been obtained) with great
satisfaction, particularly on the part of Ollivier, who thought
that the 'antique' style in which King Ludwig I. had had the
museums built contrasted most favourably with the buildings with
which, much to his indignation, it had pleased Louis Napoleon to
fill Paris. I here ran across an old acquaintance, young
Hornstein, whom I introduced to my friends as 'the baron.' His
comical figure and clumsy behaviour gave them food for mirth,
which degenerated into a positive orgy of merriment when 'the
baron' thought it necessary, before we started on our night
journey to Reichenhall, to take us to a Bier-Brauerei some
distance away, so that we should see that
side of Munich life. It was pitch dark and there was no light
provided, except a stump of a candle to light 'the baron,' who
had to go down himself to fetch the beer from the cellar. The
beer certainly tasted particularly good, and Hornstein repeated
his descent into the cellar several times. When, being obliged to
hurry, we set off on our perilous journey across fields and
ditches to the station, we found that the unwonted refreshment
had somewhat dazed us. Blandine fell fast asleep as soon as she
got into the carriage, only waking at daybreak when we arrived at
Reichenhall. Here Cosima met us, and took us to the rooms that
had been prepared for us.

We were first of all rejoiced to find Cosima's state of health
much less alarming than we--I in particular--had known it to be
before. She had been ordered a sour-milk cure, and we went to
look on the next morning when she took her walk to the
institution. Cosima appeared to lay less stress on the actual
milk-drinking, however, than on the walks and the sojourn in the
splendid, bracing, mountain air. Ollivier and I were generally
excluded from the merriment which here too immediately set in, as
the two sisters, to secure more privacy for their talks--they
laughed so incessantly that they could be heard a long way off--
usually shut themselves away from us in their bedrooms, and
almost my only resource was to converse in French with my
political friend. I succeeded in gaining admission to the sisters
once or twice, to announce to them amongst other things my
intention of adopting them, as their father took no more notice
of them--a proposition received with more mirth than confidence.
I once deplored Cosima's wild ways to Blandine, who seemed unable
to understand me, until she had persuaded herself that I meant
timidite d'un sauvage by my expression. After a few days I had
really to think of continuing my journey, which had been so
pleasantly interrupted. I said good-bye in the hall, and caught a
glimpse of almost timid inquiry from Cosima.

I first drove down the valley to Salzburg in a one-horse
carriage. On the Austrian frontier I had an adventure with the
custom-house. Liszt had given me at Weimar a box of the most
costly cigars--a present to him from Baron Sina. As I knew from
my visit to Venice what incredible formalities make it
exceedingly difficult to introduce these articles into Austria, I
hit upon the plan of hiding the cigars singly among my dirty
linen and in the pockets of my clothes. The officer, who was an
old soldier, seemed to be prepared for precautionary measures of
this sort, and drew forth the corpora delicta skilfully from all
the folds of my little trunk. I tried to bribe him with a tip,
which he actually accepted, and I was all the more indignant
when, in spite of this, he denounced me to the authorities. I was
made to pay a heavy fine, but received permission to buy back the
cigars. This I furiously declined to do. With the receipt of the
fine I had paid, however, I was also given back the Prussian
thaler which the old soldier had quietly tucked away before, and
when I got into my carriage to continue the journey I saw the
same officer sitting placidly before his beer and bread and
cheese. He bowed very politely, and I offered to give him his
thaler back, but this time he refused it. I have often been angry
with myself since for not asking the man's name, as I clung to
the notion that he must be a particularly faithful servant, in
which capacity I should like to have engaged him myself later on.

I touched at Salzburg, arriving soaked through by floods of rain,
and spent the night there, and on the following day at last
reached my place of destination--Vienna. I proposed to accept the
hospitality of Kolatschek, with whom I had been friendly in
Switzerland. He had long since been granted an amnesty by
Austria, and had, on my last visit to Vienna, called on me and
offered me the use of his house, to avoid the unpleasantness of
an inn, in the event of my returning for a longer stay. For
reasons of economy alone--and these at the time were very urgent-
-I had willingly accepted this offer, and now drove direct with
my hand luggage to the house described. To my surprise I at once
discovered that I was in an exceedingly remote suburb,
practically cut off from Vienna itself. The house was quite
deserted, Kolatschek and his family having gone to a summer
resort at Hutteldorf. With some difficulty I unearthed an old
servant, who seemed to think she had been warned of my arrival by
her master. She showed me a small room in which I could sleep if
I liked, but was apparently unable to provide either linen or
service of any kind. Greatly discomfited by this disappointment,
I first drove back into town to wait for Kolatschek at a certain
cafe in Stephan's Platz, which, according to the servant, he was
likely to visit at a particular time. I had been sitting there a
good while, making repeated inquiries for the man I expected to
see, when suddenly I saw Standhartner come in. His extreme
surprise at finding me there was intensified, as he told me, by
the fact that he had never in his life entered this cafe. It had
been quite a special coincidence that had brought him there on
that day and at that time. On being made aware of my situation he
at once became furious at the idea of my living in the most
deserted part of Vienna when I had such pressing business in the
city, and promptly offered me his own house for temporary
quarters, as he and all his family would be away for six weeks. A
pretty niece, who, with her mother and sister, lived in the same
house, was to see to all my wants, including breakfast, etc., and
I should be able to make use of the whole place with the greatest
freedom. He took me triumphantly home with him at once to a
deserted dwelling, as the family had already gone to their summer
resort at Salzburg. I let Kolatschek know, had my luggage brought
in, and for a few days had the pleasure of Standhartner's society
and easy hospitality. I realised, however, from information given
me by my friend, that my path was beset with new difficulties.
The rehearsals for Tristan und Isolde, which had been planned in
the spring to take place about this time (I had arrived in Vienna
on 14th August), had been postponed indefinitely as Ander, the
tenor, had sent word that he had injured his voice. On hearing
this I at once concluded that my stay in Vienna would be useless;
but I knew that no one would be able to suggest any other place
where I could employ myself profitably.

My situation was, as I now saw plainly, quite hopeless, for every
one seemed to have deserted me. A few years back I might, in a
similar case, have flattered myself that Liszt would be pleased
to have me at Weimar during the period of waiting, but if I
returned to Germany just now I should only have to look on at the
dismantling of the house--to which I have already alluded. My
chief concern, then, was to find a friendly shelter somewhere. It
was with this sole end in view that I turned to the Grand Duke of
Baden, who had shortly before greeted me with such kindness and
sympathy. I wrote him a beseeching letter, urging him to consider
my necessitous condition. I pointed out that what I wanted, above
all, was an asylum, however modest, and implored him to provide
me with one in or near Karlsruhe, by securing me a pension of two
thousand four hundred marks. Judge of my surprise on receiving a
reply, not in the Grand Duke's own hand, but only signed by him,
to the effect that if my request were granted, it would probably
mean that I would interfere with the management of the theatre,
and, as a very natural result, discussions would ensue with the
director (my old friend E. Devrient, who was now doing
splendidly). As the Grand Duke would in any such case feel
obliged to act in the interests of justice, 'possibly to my
disadvantage,' as he put it, he must, after mature consideration,
regretfully decline to accede to my request.

Princess Meternich, who had suspected my embarrassment on that
score also when I left Paris, had given me a warm recommendation
to Count Nako and his family in Vienna, referring me with
particular emphasis to his wife. Now I had made the acquaintance
through Standhartner, during the short time before he left me, of
young Prince Rudolph Liechtenstein--known to his friends as Rudi.
His doctor, with whom he was very intimate, had spoken of him to
me in the most flattering way as being a passionate admirer of my
music. I often met him at meal times at the 'Erzherzog Karl,'
after Standhartner had joined his family, and we planned a visit
to Count Nako on his estate at Schwarzau, some distance away. The
journey was made in the most comfortable fashion, partly by rail,
in the company of the Prince's young wife. They introduced me to
the Nakos at Schwarzau. The Count proved to be a particularly
handsome man, while his wife was more of a cultured gipsy, whose
talent for painting was evidenced in striking fashion by the
gigantic copies of Van Dyck resplendent on the walls. It was more
painful to hear her amuse herself at the piano, where she gave
faithful renderings of gipsy music, which, she said, Liszt failed
to do. The music to Lohengrin seemed to have prepossessed them
all very much in my favour, and this appreciation was confirmed
by other magnates who were visiting there, among them being Count
Edmund Zichy, whom I had known in Venice. I was thus able to
observe the character of unconstrained Hungarian hospitality,
without being much edified by the subjects of conversation, and I
had soon, alas! to face the question as to what I was to get from
these people. I was given a decent room for the night, and on the
following day took an early opportunity of looking round the
beautifully kept precincts of the majestic castle, wondering in
which part of the building there might be found room for me in
case of a longer visit. But my remarks in praise of the size of
the building were met at breakfast with the assurance that it
really was hardly big enough for the family, as the young
Countess in particular lived in great style with her suite. It
was a cold morning in September, and we spent it out of doors. My
friend Rudi seemed to be out of humour. I felt cold, and very
soon took leave of the great man's board with the consciousness
of having rarely found myself in the company of such nice people
without discovering the smallest subject in common. This
consciousness grew into a positive feeling of disgust when I was
driving with several of the cavalieri to the station at Modling,
for I was reduced to absolute silence during the hour's drive, as
they had literally only the one topic of conversation, by that
time so terribly familiar to me!--namely horses.

I got out at Modling to call on Ander the tenor, having invited
myself for that day with the intention of going through Tristan.
It was still very early on a bright morning, and the day was
gradually growing warmer. I decided to take a walk in the lovely
Bruhl before looking up Ander. There I ordered a lunch in the
garden of the beautifully situated inn, and enjoyed an extremely
refreshing hour of complete solitude. The wild birds had already
ceased singing, but I shared my meal with an army of sparrows,
which assumed alarming proportions. As I fed them with bread-
crumbs, they finally became so tame that they settled in swarms
on the table in front of me to seize their booty. I was reminded
of the morning in the tavern with the landlord Homo in
Montmorency. Here again, after shedding many a tear, I laughed
aloud, and set off to Ander's summer residence. Unfortunately his
condition confirmed the statement that the injury to his voice
was not merely an excuse; but in any case I soon saw that this
helpless person could never under any circumstances be equal to
the task of playing Tristan, demi-god as he was, in Vienna. All
the same I did my best, as I was there, to show him the whole of
Tristan in my own interpretation of the part (which always
excited me very much), after which he declared that it might have
been written for him. I had arranged for Tausig and Cornelius,
whom I had again met in Vienna, to come out to Ander's house that
day, and I returned with them in the evening.

I spent a good deal of time with these two, who were sincerely
concerned about me and did their best to cheer me. Tausig, it is
true, was rather more reserved, as he had aspirations in high
quarters at that time. But he, too, accepted Frau Dustmann's
invitations to the three of us. She was then at Hietzing for the
summer, and there dinners were given more than once, and also a
few vocal rehearsals for Isolde, for which part her voice seemed
to possess some of the spiritual susceptibility required. There,
too, I read through the poem of Tristan again, still thinking the
prospect of its performance possible with the exercise of
patience and enthusiasm. For the present patience was the quality
most needed; certainly nothing was to be obtained by enthusiasm.
Ander's voice still failed him and did not improve, and no doctor
was prepared to fix a limit to his malady. I got through the time
as best I could, and hit upon the idea of translating back into
German the new scene to Tannhauser, written to a French text for
the performance in Paris. Cornelius had first to copy it from the
original score for me, as this was in a very defective condition.
I accepted his copy without inquiring further about the original
left in his hands, and we shall see the result of this later on.

A musician named Winterberger also joined our party. He was an
old acquaintance, and I found him in a position I much envied.
Countess Banfy, an old friend of Liszt's, had taken him into her
very pleasant house at Hietzing, and he was thus in excellent
quarters, living at ease, and with nothing to trouble about, as
the kind lady thought it her duty to keep this fellow--in other
respects so undeserving--supplied with everything. Through him I
again had news of Karl Ritter, and was told that he was now at
Naples, where he lived in the house of a piano-maker, whose
children he had to teach in return for board and lodging. It
seems that Winterberger, after running through everything, had on
the strength of some of Liszt's introductions started off to seek
his fortune in Hungary. But things did not fall out to his
satisfaction, and he was now enjoying compensation in the house
of the worthy Countess. I met an excellent harpist there--also
one of the family--Fraulein Mossner. By the Countess's orders she
was made to betake herself and her harp to the garden, where,
either at or with her harp, she had a most pert air and looked
quite delightful, so that I gained an impression which lingered
pleasantly in my mind. Unfortunately I became involved in a
quarrel with the young lady because I would not compose a solo
for her instrument. From the time when I definitely refused to
humour her ambitions she took no more notice of me.

The poet Hebbel must be mentioned among the special acquaintances
I made in Vienna during this difficult epoch. As it seemed not
unlikely that I should have to make Vienna the scene of my
labours for some time, I thought it desirable to become better
acquainted with the literary celebrities living there. I prepared
myself for meeting Hebbel by taking considerable trouble to read
his dramatic pieces beforehand, doing my best to think that they
were good and that a closer acquaintance with the author was
desirable. I was not to be deterred from my purpose by my
consciousness of the great weakness of his poems, although I
realised the unnaturalness of his conceptions and the invariably
affected and frequently vulgar form of expression. I only visited
him once, and did not have a particularly long talk with him even
then. I did not find any expression in the poet's personality of
the eccentric force which threatens to explode in the figures of
his dramas. When I heard, some years later, that Hebbel had died
of softening of the bones, I understood why he had affected me so
unpleasantly. He talked about the theatrical world in Vienna with
the air of an amateur who feels himself neglected but continues
to work in a businesslike fashion. I felt no particular desire to
repeat my visit, especially after his return call in my absence,
when he left a card announcing himself as 'Hebbel, chevalier de
plusieurs ordres!'

My old friend Heinrich Laube had now long been established as
director of the Royal and Imperial Court Theatre. He had felt it
his duty on my previous visit to Vienna to introduce me to the
literary celebrities, among whom, being of a practical turn, he
counted chiefly journalists and critics. He invited Dr. Hanslick
to a big dinner-party, thinking I should be particularly
interested in meeting him, and was surprised that I had not a
word to say to him. The conclusions Laube drew from this led him
to prophesy that I should find it hard to get on in Vienna if I
really hoped to make it the sphere of my artistic labours. On my
return this time he welcomed me simply as an old friend, and
begged me to dine with him as often as I cared to come. He was a
passionate sportsman, and was able to provide the luxury of fresh
game for his table. I did not avail myself very often of this
invitation, however, as the conversation, which was inspired
solely by the dull business routine of the stage, did not attract
me. After dinner a few actors and literary men would come in for
coffee and cigars, sitting at a large table where Laube's wife
generally held her court, while Laube himself enjoyed his rest
and his cigar in silence. Frau Laube had consented to become
Theatre Directrice solely to please her husband, and now thought
herself obliged to make long and careful speeches about things of
which she had no understanding whatever. The only pleasure I had
was in renewed glimpses of the good-nature which I had admired in
her of old; for instance, when none of the company dared to
oppose her, and I intervened with some frank criticism, she
usually accepted it with unreserved merriment. To her and her
husband I probably seemed a good-natured sort of fool and nothing
more, for my conversation was generally in a joking strain, as I
was utterly indifferent to their earnestness. In fact, when I
gave my concerts in Vienna later on, Frau Laube remarked with the
most friendly air of surprise that I was quite a good conductor,
contrary to what she had expected after reading some newspaper
report or other.

For one thing, Laube's practical knowledge was not without
importance, as he could tell me all about the character of the
chief inspectors of the Royal and Imperial Court Theatre. It now
transpired that the Imperial Councillor, von Raymond, was a most
important personage, and the aged Count Lanckoronski, the Lord
High Marshall, who in other respects was extremely tenacious of
his authority, could not trust himself to come to any decision in
matters of finance without consulting this exceedingly competent
man.

Raymond himself, whom I soon got to know and regard as a model of
ignorance, took fright and felt bound to withhold his consent to
my performance of Tristan, mainly on account of the Vienna
papers, which always ran me down and scoffed at my proposal.
Officially I was referred to the actual manager of the Opera,
Herr Salvi, who had formerly been the singing-master of a lady-
in-waiting to the Grand Duchess Sophia. He was an absolutely
incapable and ignorant man, who was obliged to pretend in front
of me that, according to the command of the supreme authorities,
nothing lay so near his heart as the furtherance of the
performance of Tristan. Accordingly he tried by perpetual
expressions of zeal and goodwill to conceal the increasing spirit
of doubt and hesitation with which even the staff was imbued.

I found out the state of affairs one day when a company of our
singers was invited with me to the country house of a certain
Herr Dumba, who was introduced to me as a most enthusiastic well-
wisher. Herr Ander had taken the score of Tristan with him, as if
to show that he could not part with it for a single day. Frau
Dustmann grew very angry about it, and accused Ander of trying to
impose upon me by playing the hypocrite; for he knew as well as
any one else that he would never sing that part, and that the
management was only awaiting a chance of preventing the
performance of Tristan in some way or other, and then laying the
blame on her shoulders. Salvi tried most zealously to interfere
in these extremely awkward revelations. He recommended me to
choose the tenor Walter, and as I objected on the ground of my
antipathy to the man, he next referred me to certain foreign
singers whom he was quite ready to approach.

As a matter of fact, we tried a few outside players of whom the
most promising was a certain Signor Morini, and I really felt so
depressed and so desirous of furthering my work at any price that
I attended a performance of Luzia by Donizetti with my friend
Cornelius to see if I could extract from him a favourable
judgment of the singer. Cornelius, who was apparently absorbed in
listening, whilst I attentively watched him, suddenly started up
in a passion and exclaimed, 'Horrible! horrible!' which made us
both laugh so heartily that we soon left the theatre in quite a
cheerful frame of mind.

At last I carried on my negotiations with the conductor Heinrich
Esser alone, as he was apparently the only honest man in the
management. Although he found Tristan very difficult, yet he
worked at it with great earnestness, and never really gave up the
hope of making a performance possible, if only I would accept
Walter as the tenor; but, in spite of my persistent refusal to
make use of such help, we always remained good friends. As he,
like myself, was a keen walker, we often explored the
neighbourhood of Vienna, and our conversations during these
expeditions were enthusiastic on my part and thoroughly honest
and serious on his.

Whilst these Tristan matters were running their weary course like
a chronic disease, whose outcome it is impossible to foresee,
Standhartner returned at the end of September with his family.
Consequently the next thing I had to do was to look out for a
residence, which I chose in the Hotel Kaiserin Elizabeth. Through
my cordial intercourse with the family of this friend I became
quite intimate not only with his wife, but also with her three
sons and a daughter by her first marriage, and a younger daughter
by the second marriage with Standhartner. On looking back upon my
former residence in my friend's house, I greatly missed the
presence and kindly care bestowed upon me by his niece Seraphine,
whom I have already mentioned, as well as her untiring
thoughtfulness and pleasant, amusing companionship. On account of
her natty figure and hair carefully curled a I'enfant, I had
given her the name of 'The Doll.' Now I had to look after myself
in the dull room of the hotel, and the expense of my living
increased considerably. I remember at that time that I had only
received twenty-five or thirty louis d'or for Tannhauser from
Brunswick. On the other hand, Minna sent me from Dresden a few
leaves of the silver-spangled wreath presented by some of her
friends as a souvenir of her silver wedding-day, which she had
celebrated on the 24th of November. I could hardly wonder that
there was no lack of bitter reproach on her part when sending me
this gift; however, I tried to inspire her with the hope of
having a golden wedding. For the present, seeing that I was
staying without any object in an expensive Viennese hotel, I did
my utmost to secure a chance of performing Tristan. First I
turned to Tichatschek in Dresden, but obtained no promise from
him. I then had recourse to Schnorr, with a similar result, and I
was at last obliged to acknowledge that my affairs were in a bad
way. Of this I made no secret in my occasional communications to
the Wesendoncks, who, apparently to cheer me up, invited me to
meet them in Venice, where they were just going for a pleasure
trip. Heaven knows what my intention was as I started off in a
casual sort of way by train, first to Trieste and then by steamer
(which did not agree with me at all) to Venice, where I again put
up in my little room at the Hotel Danieli.

My friends, whom I found in very flourishing circumstances,
seemed to be revelling in the pictures, and fully expected that a
participation in their enjoyment would drive away my 'blues.'
They seemed to have no desire to realise my position in Vienna.
Indeed, after the ill-success of my Paris under-taking, entered
upon with such glorious anticipations, I had learned to recognise
among most of my friends a tacitly submissive abandonment of all
hope for my future success.

Wesendonck, who always went about armed with huge field-glasses,
and was ever ready for sight-seeing, only once took me with him
to see the Academy of Arts, a building which on my former visit
to Venice I had only known from the outside. In spite of all my
indifference, I must confess that the 'Assumption of the Virgin'
by Titian exercised a most sublime influence over me, so that, as
soon as I realised its conception, my old powers revived within
me, as though by a sudden flash of inspiration.

I determined at once on the composition of the Meistersinger.

After a frugal dinner with my old acquaintances Tessarin and the
Wesendoncks, whom I invited to the Albergo San Alarco, and once
more exchanging friendly greetings with Luigia, my former
attendant at the Palazzo Giustiniani, to the astonishment of my
friends I suddenly left Venice. I had spent four dreary days
there, and now started by train on my dull journey to Vienna,
following the roundabout overland route. It was during this
journey that the music of the Meistersinger first dawned on my
mind, in which I still retained the libretto as I had originally
conceived it. With the utmost distinctness I at once composed the
principal part of the Overture in C major.

Under the influence of these last impressions I arrived in Vienna
in a very cheerful frame of mind. I at once announced my return
to Cornelius by sending him a small Venetian gondola, which I had
bought for him in Venice, and to which I added a canzona written
with nonsensical Italian words. The communication of my plan for
the immediate composition of the Meistersinger made him almost
frantic with delight, and until my departure from Vienna he
remained in a state of delirious excitement.

I urged my friend to procure me material for mastering the
subject of the Meistersinger. My first idea was to make a
thorough study of Grimm's controversy on the Song of the
Meistersinger; and the next question was how to get hold of old
Wagenseil's Nuremberg Chronicle. Cornelius accompanied me to the
Imperial Library, but in order to obtain a loan of this book,
which we were fortunate enough to find, my friend was obliged to
visit Baron Munch-Bellinghausen (Halm), a visit which he
described to me as very disagreeable. I remained at my hotel,
eagerly making extracts of portions of the Chronicle, which to
the astonishment of the ignorant I appropriated for my libretto.

But my most urgent task was to secure some means of livelihood
during the composition of my work. I applied first to the music
publisher Schott at Mayence, to whom I offered the Meistersinger
if he would make me the necessary advance. Being animated by the
desire to provide myself with money for as long a time as
possible, I offered him not only the literary rights, but also
the rights of performance for my work, for the sum of twenty
thousand francs. A telegram from Schott containing an absolute
refusal at once destroyed all hope. As I was now obliged to think
of other means, I decided to turn to Berlin. Bulow, who was
always kindly exerting himself on my behalf, had hinted at the
possibility of being able to raise a considerable sum of money
there by means of a concert, which I should conduct; and as I was
at the same time longing to find a home amongst friends, Berlin
seemed to beckon me as a last refuge. At noon, just before the
evening of my intended departure, a letter came from Schott,
following on his telegram of refusal, which certainly held out
some more consoling prospect. He offered to undertake the
publication of the pianoforte edition of the Walkure at once and
to advance me three thousand marks to be deducted from a future
account. The joy of Cornelius at what he called the salvation of
the Meistersinger knew no bounds. From Berlin Bulow, in great
indignation and evident low spirits, wrote to me of his dreadful
experiences in attempting to organise my concert. Herr von Hulsen
declared that he would not countenance my visit to Berlin, while
as to giving a concert at the great Kroll Restaurant, Bulow found
after much deliberation that it would be quite impracticable.

Whilst I was busily engaged on a detailed scenic sketch of the
Meistersinger, the arrival of Prince and Princess Metternich in
Vienna seemed to create a favourable diversion on my behalf.

The concern expressed by my Paris patrons about me and my
position was undoubtedly real; therefore, in order to show myself
gratefully disposed towards them, I induced the management of the
Opera to allow me to invite their splendid orchestra for a few
hours one morning to play some selections from Tristan in the
theatre by way of rehearsal. Both the orchestra and Frau Dustmann
were quite ready to grant my request in the most friendly manner,
and Princess Metternich, with some of her acquaintances, was
invited to this rehearsal. With the orchestra we played through
two of the principal selections, namely, the prelude to the first
act, and the beginning of the second act, as far as the middle,
while the singing part was sustained by Frau Dustmann, the whole
being so brilliantly executed that I felt fully justified in
believing I had created a most excellent impression. Herr Ander,
too, had appeared on the scene, but without knowing a single note
of the music or attempting to sing it. Both my princely friends,
as well as Fraulein Couqui, the premiere danseuse, who singularly
enough had attended the rehearsal on the sly, overwhelmed me with
enthusiastic marks of admiration. Hearing of my ardent desire for
retirement in order to go on with the composition of a new work,
the Metternichs one day suggested that they were in a position to
offer me just such a quiet retreat in Paris. The Prince, who had
now completely arranged his spacious embassy, could place at my
disposal a pleasant suite of rooms looking on to a quiet garden,
just like the one I had found in the Prussian embassy. My Erard
was still in Paris, and if I could arrange to go there at the end
of the year, I should find everything ready for me to begin my
work. With unconcealed joy I most gratefully accepted this kind
invitation, and my only care now was so to arrange my affairs
that I could take my departure from Vienna and effect my removal
to Paris in a proper manner. The arrangement that had been made
through Standhartner's mediation, that the management should pay
me a part of the stipulated fee for Tristan, would be a great
help in this. But as I was only to get one thousand marks, and
even this was to be subject to so many clauses and conditions as
to suggest a desire to renounce the whole transaction, I at once
rejected the offer. This fact, however, did not prevent the
press, which was always in touch with the theatrical management,
from publishing that I had accepted an indemnity for the non-
performance of Tristan. Fortunately I was able to protest against
this calumny by producing proof of what I had actually done in
the matter. Meanwhile, the negotiations with Schott dragged out
to some length, because I would not agree at present to his
suggestions about the Walkure. I adhered to my first offer of a
new opera, the Meistersinger, and at last received three thousand
marks as an instalment on this work. As soon as I had received
the cheque, I packed up my things, when a telegram from Princess
Metternich reached me, in which she begged of me to put off my
departure until the 1st of January. I decided not give up my
plan, being anxious to get away from Vienna, so I determined to
go straight to Mayence to pursue further negotiations with
Schott. My leavetaking at the station was made particularly gay
by Cornelius, who whispered to me with mysterious enthusiasm a
stanza of 'Sachs' which I had communicated to him. This was the
verse:

'Der Vogel der heut' sang, Dem war der Schnabel hold gewachsen;
Ward auch den Meistern dabei bang, Gar wohl gefiel er doch Hans
Sachsen.' [Footnote: 'The bird who sang this morn From Nature's
self had learned his singing; Masters that song may scorn, For
aye Hans Sachs will hear it singing.' (Translation of the
Meistersinger, by Frederick Jameson.)--Editor.]

In Mayence I got to know the Schott family, with whom I had only
had a casual acquaintance in Paris, more intimately. The young
musician Weisheimer, who was just then beginning his career as
musical director at the local theatre, was a daily visitor at
their house. At one of our dinners another young man, Stadl, a
lawyer, proposed a remarkable toast in my honour in a most
eloquent and astonishing speech. Notwithstanding all this I had
to recognise that in Franz Schott I was dealing with a very
singular man, and our negotiations proceeded with extraordinary
difficulty. I insisted emphatically on carrying out my first
proposal, namely, that he should provide me for two successive
years with funds necessary for the undisturbed execution of my
work. He excused his unwillingness to do this by pretending it
was painful to his feelings to drive a bargain with a man like
myself by purchasing my work for a certain sum of money,
including also the profits of my author's rights in the
theatrical performances; that, in a word, he was a music
publisher, and did not want to be anything else. I represented to
him that he need only advance me the necessary amount in proper
form, and that I would guarantee him the repayment of that
proportion of it which might be considered due payment for the
literary property, out of my future theatrical takings, which
would thus be his security.

After a long time he agreed to make advances on 'musical
compositions still to be delivered,' and to this suggestion I
gladly acceded, insisting, however, that I must be able to depend
on a total gradual payment of twenty thousand francs. As, after
settling my Vienna hotel bill, I was in immediate want of money,
Schott gave me a draft on Paris. From that city I now received a
letter from Princess Metternich, which mystified me, inasmuch as
it merely announced the sudden death of her mother, Countess
Sandor, and the consequent change in her family circumstances.
Once more I deliberated whether it would not be better, after
all, to take at random a modest lodging in or near Karlsruhe,
which in time might develop into a peaceful and permanent
dwelling. Owing to my difficulty in providing Minna's allowance,
which according to our agreement was three thousand marks a year,
it struck me as more reasonable and certainly more economical to
ask my wife to share my home. But a letter which just then
reached me from her, and the main contents of which were nothing
less than an attempt to incite me against my own friends, scared
me away from any thought of reunion with her, and determined me
to adhere to my Paris plans and keep as far away from her as
possible.

So towards the middle of December I started for Paris, where I
alighted at the dingy-looking Hotel Voltaire, situated on the
quay of the same name, and took a very modest room with a
pleasant outlook. Here I wished to remain unrecognised (preparing
myself meanwhile for my work) until I could present myself to
Princess Metternich at the beginning of the new year, according
to her wish. In order not to embarrass the Metternich's friends,
Pourtales and Hatzfeld, I pretended that I was not in Paris, and
looked up only those of my old acquaintances who did not know
these gentlemen, such as Truinet, Gasperini, Flaxland, and the
painter Czermak. I met Truinet and his father regularly at supper
time in the Taverne Anglaise, to which I used to make my way
unobserved through the streets at dusk. One day, on opening one
of the papers there I read the news of the death of Count
Pourtales. My grief was great, and I felt particularly sorry
that, out of my singular regard for the Metternichs, I had
neglected to visit this man who had been a real friend to me. I
at once called on Count Hatzfeld, who confirmed the sad news and
told me the circumstances of the sudden death, which was the
result of heart disease, the existence of which the doctor had
not discovered till the very last moment. At the same time I
learned the true significance of the events which had taken place
at the Hotel Metternich. The death of Countess Sandor, of which
Princess Pauline had informed me, had produced the following
developments: the Count, who was the famous Hungarian madman, had
up to that time, in the general interest of the family, been
strictly guarded by his wife as an invalid. At her death the
family lived in fear of the most terrible disturbances from her
husband, now no longer under control, and the Metternichs
therefore thought it necessary to take him at once to Paris, and
keep him there under proper supervision. For that purpose the
Princess found that the only suitable suite of apartments at her
command was the one previously offered to me. I at once saw it
was useless to think any more of taking up my residence at the
Austrian embassy, and I was left to reflect on the strange freak
of fortune that had again cast me adrift in this ill-omened
Paris.

At first the only course open to me was to stay in my inexpensive
lodging in the Hotel Voltaire until I had finished the libretto
of the Meistersinger, and meanwhile set to work to find the
refuge so earnestly sought for the completion of my new work. It
was not an easy matter; my name and person, which everybody
involuntarily regarded in the doubtful light of my Paris failure,
seemed surrounded by a cloud of mist, which made me
unrecognisable even to my old friends. The Olliviers also
appeared to receive me with an air of distrust; at any rate, they
thought it very strange to see me again so soon in Paris. I was
obliged to explain the extraordinary circumstances that had
brought me back, and told them that I did not contemplate a long
stay. Apart from this probably deceptive impression, I soon
noticed the great change that had taken place in the home life of
the family. The grandmother was laid up with a broken leg, which
at her age was incurable. Ollivier had taken her into his very
small flat for more efficient nursing and care, and we all met
for dinner at her bedside in the tiny room. Blandine had greatly
changed since the previous summer, and wore a sad and serious
expression, and I fancied that she was enceinte. Emile, although
dry and superficial, was the only one who gave me any sound
advice. When the fellow Lindau sent me a letter through his
lawyer demanding the compensation awarded him by the law for his
imaginary co-operation in the translation of Tannhauser, all that
Emile said on reading the letter was, 'Ne repondez pas,' and his
advice proved as useful as it was easy to follow, for I never
heard anything more of the matter. I sorrowfully made up my mind
not to trouble Ollivier any more, and it was with an
inexpressibly sad look that Blandine and I parted.

With Czermak, on the other hand, I entered into almost daily
intercourse. I used to join him and the Truinet family of an
evening at the Taverne Angiaise, or some other equally cheap
restaurants which we hunted out. Afterwards we generally went to
one of the smaller theatres, which, owing to pressure of work, I
had not troubled about on my former visits. The best of them all
was the Gymnase, where all the pieces were good and played by an
excellent company. Of these pieces a particularly tender and
touching one-act play called Je dine chez ma Mere remains in my
memory. In the Theatre du Palais Royal, where things were not now
so refined as formerly, and also in the Theatre Dejazet, I
recognised the prototypes of all the jokes with which, in spite
of poor elaboration and unsuitable localisation, the German
public is being entertained all the year round. Besides this I
occasionally dined with the Flaxland family, who still refused to
despair of my eventual success with the Parisians. For the
present my Paris publisher continued to issue the Fliegender
Hollander as well as Rienzi, for which he paid me tifleen hundred
francs as a small fee, which I had not bargained for on the first
edition.

The cause of the almost cheerful complacency with which I managed
to regard my adverse situation in Paris, and which enabled me
afterwards to look back on it as a pleasant memory, was that my
libretto of the Meistersinger daily increased its swelling volume
of rhyme. How could I help being filled with facetious thoughts,
when on raising my eyes from the paper, after meditating upon the
quaint verses and sayings of my Nuremberg Meistersinger, I gazed
from the third-floor window of my hotel on the tremendous crowds
passing along the quays and over the numerous bridges, and
enjoyed a prospect embracing the Tuileries, the Louvre, and even
the Hotel de Ville!

I had already got far on into the first act when the momentous
New Year's Day of 1862 arrived, and I paid my long-delayed visit
to Princess Metternich. I found her very naturally embarrassed,
but I quite cheerfully accepted her assurances of regret at being
obliged to withdraw her invitation owing to circumstances with
which I was already acquainted, and I did my utmost to reassure
her. I also begged Count Hatzfeld to inform me when Countess
Pourtales would feel equal to receiving me.

Thus through the whole month of January I continued working on
the Meistersinger libretto, and completed it in exactly thirty
days. The melody for the fragment of Sachs's poem on the
Reformation, with which I make my characters in the last act
greet their beloved master, occurred to me on the way to the
Taverne Anglaise, whilst strolling through the galleries of the
Palais Royal. There I found Truinet already waiting for me, and
asked him to give me a scrap of paper and a pencil to jot down my
melody, which I quietly hummed over to him at the time. I usually
accompanied him and his father along the boulevards to his flat
in the Faubourg St. Honore, and on that evening he could do
nothing but exclaim, 'Mais, quelle gaite d'esprit, cher maitre!'

The nearer my work approached its termination, the more earnestly
had I to think about a place of abode. I still imagined that
something similar to what I had lost by Liszt's abandonment of
the Altenburg was in store for me. I now remembered that in the
previous year I had received a most pressing invitation from Mme.
Street, to pay her and her father a long visit in Brussels; on
the strength of which I wrote to the lady and asked if she could
put me up for a time without any ceremony. She was en desolation
at being obliged to deny my wish. I next turned to Cosima, who
was in Berlin, with a similar request, at which she seemed to be
quite alarmed, but I quite understood the reason of this when, on
visiting Berlin later on, I saw the style of Bulow's quarters. It
struck me as very strange, on the other hand, that my brother-in-
law Avenarius, who, I heard, was very comfortably settled in
Berlin, begged me most earnestly to go to him, and judge for
myself whether I could not pay him a long visit. My sister
Cecilia, however, forbade me to take Minna there, although she
thought she could find her a lodging in the immediate
neighbourhood if she wanted to visit Berlin. Unfortunately for
herself, poor Minna could find nothing better to do than to write
me a furious letter about my sister's cruel behaviour to her, so
the possibility of a renewal of our old squabbles deterred me at
once from accepting my brother-in-law's proposal. At last I
bethought me of looking out for a quiet retreat in the
neighbourhood of Mayence, under the financial protection of
Schott. He had spoken to me about a pretty estate there belonging
to the young Baron von Hornstein. I thought I was conferring an
honour upon the latter when I wrote to him at Munich asking
permission to take up my abode for a time at his place in the
Rhine district, and was therefore greatly perplexed when I
received an answer expressing terror at my suggestion. I now
determined to go at once to Mayence, and ordered all our
furniture and household goods, which had been stored in Paris for
nearly a year, to be sent there. Before leaving Paris, after
coming to this decision, I had the consolation of receiving a
sublime exhortation to face everything with resignation. I had
previously informed Frau Wesendonck of my situation and the chief
source of my trouble, though of course only as one writes to a
sympathetic friend; she answered by sending me a small letter-
weight of cast-iron which she had bought for me in Venice. It
represented the lion of San Marco with his paw on the book, and
was intended to admonish me to imitate this lion in all things.
On the other hand, Countess Pourtales granted me the privilege of
another visit to her house. In spite of her mourning, this lady
did not wish to leave her sincere interest in me unexpressed on
account of her sad bereavement; and when I told her what I was
then doing, she asked to see my libretto. On my assuring her that
in her present frame of mind she could not enter into the lively
character of my Meistersinger, she kindly expressed a great wish
to hear me read it, and invited me to spend an evening with her.
She was the first person to whom I had the opportunity of reading
my now completed work, and it made such a lively impression upon
us both, that we were many times compelled to burst out into fits
of hearty laughter.

On the evening of my departure on the first of February, I
invited my friends Gasperini, Czermak, and the Truinets to a
farewell meal in my hotel. All were in capital spirits, and my
good-humour enhanced the general cheerfulness, although no one
quite understood what connection it could have with the subject
on which I had just completed a libretto, and from the
performance of which I anticipated so much.

In my anxiety to choose a suitable residence, which was now so
necessary to me, I directed my steps once more to Karlsruhe. I
was again received in the kindest manner by the Grand Duke and
Duchess, who inquired about my future plans. It turned out,
however, that the residence I so earnestly desired could not be
provided for me in Karlsruhe. I was much struck by the
sympathetic concern of the Grand Duke as to how I could meet the
cost of my arduous life, or even my travelling expenses. I
cheerfully endeavoured to set his mind at rest by telling him of
the contract I had made with Schott, who had bound himself to
provide me with the necessary funds in the form of advances on my
Meistersinger. This seemed to reassure him. Later on I heard from
Alwine Frommann that the Grand Duke had once said that I had been
somewhat cold towards him, considering that he had been kind
enough to place his purse at my disposal. But I was certainly not
conscious of his having done so. The only point raised in our
discussion had been whether I should go to Karlsruhe again to
rehearse one of my operas there, possibly Lohengrin, and conduct
it in person.

At any rate I started for Mayence, which I reached on the 4th
February, and found the whole place flooded. Owing to the early
breaking up of the ice, the Rhine had overflowed its banks to an
unusual extent, and I only reached Schott's house at some
considerable risk. Nevertheless, I had already arranged to read
the Meistersinger on the evening of the 5th of that month, and
had even made Cornelius promise to come from Vienna, and had sent
him a hundred francs from Paris for that purpose. I had not
received any answer from him, and as I now learned that the
floods had spread to all the river districts of Germany, and
impeded the railway traffic, I had already ceased to count upon
him. I waited until the last moment and--in fact, just as the
clock struck seven--Cornelius appeared. He had met with all sorts
of adventures, had even lost his overcoat on the way, and reached
his sister's house in a half-frozen condition only a few hours
before. The reading of my libretto put us all into excellent
humour, but I was very sorry I could not shake Cornelius's
determination to start on his return journey the next day. He
wished me to understand that his sole object in coming to Mayence
was for this one reading of the Meistersinger, and as a matter of
fact, in spite of floods and floating ice, he left for Vienna on
the following day.

As we had already arranged, I began in company with Schott to
search for a residence on the opposite bank of the Rhine. We had
had Biebrich in our mind's eye; but as nothing suitable seemed to
present itself there, we thought of Wiesbaden. At last I decided
to stay at the 'Europaischer Hof' at Biebrich, and continue my
search from there. As I had always been most particular to keep
aloof as far as possible from the noise of music, I decided to
rent a small but very suitable flat in a large summer residence
newly built by the architect Frickhofer, and situated close to
the Rhine. I was obliged to await the arrival of my furniture and
household effects from Paris before I could get it in order. At
last they came, and at endless trouble and expense were duly
unloaded at the Biebrich custom-house, where I took possession
only of those things which I required most.

I kept only what was absolutely necessary in Biebrich, intending
to send the greater part to my wife in Dresden. I had already
informed Minna of this, whereupon she immediately assumed that
with my clumsy unpacking I should lose half the things or ruin
them all. About a week after I had fairly settled down with my
newly arrived Erard grand, Minna suddenly appeared in Biebrich.
At first I felt nothing but sincere pleasure at her healthy
appearance and untiring energy in the practical management of
affairs, and even thought the best thing I could do was to let
her remain with me. Unfortunately my good resolutions did not
last long, as the old scenes were soon renewed. When we went to
the custom-house, intending to separate her things from mine, she
could not contain her anger that I had not waited for her arrival
before removing on my own account the articles I required for
myself. Nevertheless, she thought it only proper that I should be
provided with certain household effects, and gave me four sets of
knives, forks and spoons, a few cups and saucers, with plates to
match. She then superintended the packing of the remainder, which
was not inconsiderable, and, after arranging everything to her
satisfaction, took her departure to Dresden a week later.

She now flattered herself that her establishment there would be
sufficiently furnished to receive me, as she hoped, very shortly.
With this idea she had taken the necessary steps with regard to
the superior government officials, and these latter had been
successful in obtaining a declaration from the minister that I
might now send in a formal petition to the King to grant me an
amnesty, and that nothing would then stand in the way of my
return to Dresden.

I deliberated with considerable hesitation as to what I should do
in this matter. Minna's presence had greatly increased the mental
discord arising from my recent anxieties. Rough weather,
defective stoves, my badly managed household, and my unexpectedly
heavy expenses, particularly for Minna's establishment, all
combined to mar the pleasure I had taken in pursuing the work I
had started at the Hotel Voltaire. Presumably to distract my
thoughts, the Schott family invited me to witness a performance
of Rienzi at Darmstadt, with Niemann in the title-role. The ex-
minister, Herr von Dalwigk, fearing that a demonstration at the
theatre in my favour in the presence of the Grand Duke, might
wound the latter's susceptibilities, introduced himself to me at
the station and accompanied me to his own box, where he cleverly
thought he could play the part of presenting me to the public on
behalf of the Grand Duke. Thus everything went off pleasantly.
The performance itself, in which Niemann played one of his best
parts, interested me greatly; I also noticed that they cut out as
much of the opera as they could, presumably in deference to the
tastes of the Grand Duke, so as to extend the ballet as much as
possible by repeating the lighter parts of it.

From this excursion I had again to return home through the
floating ice on the Rhine. As I was still in very low spirits, I
tried to introduce a few comforts into my home, and for this
purpose engaged a maid-servant to prepare my breakfast; my other
meals I took at the 'Europaischer Hof.'

When I found, however, that I could not recover my working mood,
and feeling somewhat restless, I offered to redeem my promise and
pay another visit to the Grand Duke of Baden, suggesting that I
should give him a reading of the Meistersinger. The Grand Duke
replied by a very kind telegram signed by himself, in response to
which I went to Karlsruhe on the 7th March and read my manuscript
to him and his wife. A drawing-room had been specially selected
for this reading, in which hung a great historical picture by my
old friend Pecht, portraying Goethe as a young man reading the
first fragments of his Faust before the Grand Duke's ancestors.
My work received very kind attention, and at the conclusion of
the reading I was exceedingly pleased to hear the Grand Duchess
recommend me particularly to find a suitable musical setting for
the excellent part of Pogner, which was a friendly admission of
regret that a citizen should be more zealous in the interests of
art than many a prince. A performance of Lohengrin, under my
conductorship, was once more discussed, and I was advised to make
fresh terms with Eduard Devrient. Unfortunately the latter made a
terrible impression on me by his production of Tannhauser at the
theatre. I was obliged to witness this performance seated by his
side, and was astonished to realise that this 'Dramaturge,' whom
I had hitherto so highly recommended, had now sunk to the most
vulgar practices of the theatrical profession. To my amazement at
the monstrous mistakes made in the performance, he replied, with
great surprise and a certain haughty indignation, that he could
not understand why I made so much fuss about such trifles, as I
must know very well that in theatres it was impossible to do
otherwise. Nevertheless, a model performance of Lohengrin was
arranged for the following summer, with the co-operation of Herr
Schnorr and his wife.

A much pleasanter impression was made upon me by a play I saw at
the Frankfort theatre, where, in passing through that town, I saw
a pretty comedy, in which the delicate and tender acting of
Friederike Meyer, the sister of my Vienna singer, Mme. Dustmann,
impressed me more than any German acting had ever done. I now
began to calculate on the possibility of making suitable friends
in the neighbourhood of Biebrich, so as not to be entirely
dependent on the Schott family or on my hotel-keeper for society.
I had already looked up the Raff family in Wiesbaden, where Frau
Raff had an engagement at the court theatre. She was a sister of
Emilie Genast, with whom I had been on friendly terms during my
stay in Weimar. One excellent piece of information I heard about
her was that by extraordinary thrift and good management she had
succeeded in raising her husband's position of careless
wastefulness to a flourishing and prosperous one. Raff himself,
who by his own accounts of his dissipated life under Liszt's
patronage, had led me to regard him as an eccentric genius, at
once disabused me of this idea when, on a closer acquaintance, I
found him an uncommonly uninteresting and insipid man, full of
self-conceit, but without any power of taking a wide outlook on
the world.

Taking advantage of the prosperous condition to which he had
attained, thanks to his wife, he considered he was entitled to
patronise me by giving me some friendly advice in regard to my
position at the time. He thought it advisable to tell me that I
ought in my dramatic compositions to pay more attention to the
reality of things, and to illustrate his meaning he pointed to my
score of Tristan as an abortion of idealistic extravagances.

In the course of my rambles on foot to Wiesbaden I sometimes
liked to call on Raff's wife, a rather insignificant woman, but
Raff himself was a person to whom I soon became perfectly
indifferent. Still, when he came to know me a little better, he
lowered the tone of his sagelike maxims, and even appeared to be
rather afraid of my chaffing humour, against the shafts of which
he knew he was defenceless.

Wendelin Weisheimer, whom I had known slightly before, often
called on me in Biebrich. He was the son of a rich peasant of
Osthofen, and to the astonishment of his father refused to give
up the musical profession. He was particularly anxious to
introduce me to his parent, that I might influence the old man's
mind in favour of his son's choice of an artistic career. This
involved me in excursions into their district, and I had an
opportunity of witnessing young Weisheimer's talent as an
orchestral conductor at a performance of Offenbach's Orpheus in
the theatre at Mayence, where he had hitherto occupied a
subordinate position. I was horrified that my sympathy for this
young man should make me descend so low as to be present at such
an abomination, and for a long time I could not refrain from
letting Weisheimer see the annoyance I felt.

In my search for a more dignified entertainment I wrote to
Friedericke Meyer in Frankfort and asked her to let me know when
the performance of Calderon's comedy, Das offentliche Geheimniss,
would be repeated, as the last time I had seen an announcement of
it, I had been too late. She was much pleased at my sympathetic
inquiry, and informed me that the comedy was not likely to be
revived in the immediate future, but that there was a prospect of
Calderon's Don Gutierre being produced. I again paid a visit to
Frankfort to see this play, and made the personal acquaintance of
this interesting actress for the
first time. I had every reason to be highly satisfied with the
performance of Calderon's tragedy, although the talented actress
who played the leading part was thoroughly successful only in the
tenderer passages, her resources being insufficient to depict the
more passionate scenes. She told me she very often visited some
friends of hers in Mayence, and I followed up this communication
by expressing a wish that when doing so she would look me up at
Biebrich, to which she replied that I might hope on some future
occasion for the fulfilment of my wish.

A grand soiree given by the Schotts to their Mayence
acquaintances was the occasion of my making friends with Mathilde
Maier, whom Frau Schott, at least so she informed me, had
specially selected for her 'cleverness' to be my companion at the
supper table; her highly intelligent, sincere manner and her
peculiar Mayence dialect distinguished her favourably from the
rest of the company; nor was this distinction accompanied by
anything outre. I promised to visit her, and thus became
acquainted with an idyllic home such as I had never met before.
This Mathilde, who was the daughter of a lawyer who had died
leaving only a small fortune behind, lived with her mother, two
aunts and a sister in a neat little house, while her brother, who
was learning business in Paris, was a continual source of trouble
to her. Mathilde, with her practical common-sense, attended to
the affairs of the whole family, apparently to every one's
complete satisfaction. I was received among them with remarkable
warmth whenever, in the pursuit of my business, I chanced to come
to Mayence. This happened about once a week, and on each occasion
I was made to accept their hospitality. But as Mathilde had a
large circle of acquaintances, among others an old gentleman in
Mayence who had been Schopenhauer's only friend, I frequently met
her in other people's houses, as for instance at the Raffs in
Wiesbaden. From there she and her old friend Luise Wagner would
often accompany me on my way home, and I would sometimes go with
them further on the way to Mayence.

These meetings were full of agreeable impressions, to which
frequent walks in the beautiful park of Biebrich Castle
contributed. The fair season of the year was now approaching, and
I was once more seized with a desire for work. As from the
balcony of my flat, in a sunset of great splendour, I gazed upon
the magnificent spectacle of 'Golden' Mayence, with the majestic
Rhine pouring along its outskirts in a glory of light, the
prelude to my Meistersinger again suddenly made its presence
closely and distinctly felt in my soul. Once before had I seen it
rise before me out of a lake of sorrow, like some distant mirage.
I proceeded to write down the prelude exactly as it appears to-
day in the score, that is, containing the clear outlines of the
leading themes of the whole drama. I proceeded at once to
continue the composition, intending to allow the remaining scenes
to follow in due succession. As I was feeling in a good temper I
thought I would like to pay a visit to the Duke of Nassau. He was
my neighbour, and I had so often met him on my lonely walks in
the park, that I considered it polite to call on him.
Unfortunately there was not much to be got out of the interview
which took place. He was a very narrow-minded but amiable man,
who excused himself for continuing to smoke his cigar in my
presence because he could not get on without it, and he thereupon
proceeded to describe to me his preference for Italian opera,
which I was quite content he should retain. But I had an ulterior
motive in trying to prepossess him in my favour. At the back of
his park stood a tiny castle of ancient appearance on the borders
of a lake. It had grown into a sort of picturesque ruin, and at
the time served as a studio for a sculptor. I was filled with a
bold desire to acquire this small, half-tumbledown building for
the rest of my life; for I had already become a prey to alarming
anxiety as to whether I should be able to hold out in the
quarters I had so far tenanted, as the greater part of the
storey, on which I occupied only two small rooms, had been let to
a family for the approaching summer, and I heard that they would
enter into possession, armed with a piano. I was soon dissuaded,
however, from further attempts to induce the Duke of Nassau to
favour my views, for he told me that this little castle, on
account of its damp situation, would be thoroughly unhealthy.

Nevertheless, I did not allow myself to be deterred from setting
to work to find some lonely little house with a garden, for which
I still longed. In the excursions I repeatedly undertook for this
purpose I was frequently accompanied not only by Weisheimer but
also by Dr. Stadl, the young lawyer who at Schott's house had
proposed the charming toast which I have already mentioned. He
was an extraordinary man, and I could only explain his very
excitable nature by the fact that he was a passionate gambler at
the roulette tables in Wiesbaden. He it was who had introduced me
to another friend, a practised musician, Dr. Schuler from
Wiesbaden. With both these gentlemen I now weighed all the
possibilities of acquiring, or at least of discovering, my little
castle for the future. On one occasion we visited Bingen with
this object, and ascended the celebrated old tower there in which
the Emperor Henry IV. was imprisoned long ago. After going for
some distance up the rock on which the tower was built, we
reached a room on the fourth storey occupying the entire square
of the building, with a single projecting window looking out upon
the Rhine.

I recognised this room as the ideal of everything I had imagined
in the way of a residence for myself. I thought I could arrange
for the necessary smaller apartments in the flat by means of
curtains, and thus prepare for myself a splendid place of refuge
for ever. Stadl and Schuler thought it possible they might help
me in the fulfilment of my wishes, as they were both acquainted
with the proprietor of this ruin. Shortly afterwards, in fact,
they informed me that the owner had no objection to letting me
this large room at a low rent, but at the same time they pointed
out the utter impracticability of carrying out my plan; nobody,
they said, would be either able or willing to act as my servant
there, for, amongst other things, there was no well, and the only
water obtainable was from a cistern lying at a frightful depth
down in the keep, and even this was not good. Under such
circumstances it did not require more than one such obstacle to
deter me from the pursuit of such an extravagant scheme. I had a
similar experience with a property in Rheingau belonging to Count
Schonborn. My attention had been drawn to it, because it was
unoccupied by the proprietor. Here I certainly found a number of
empty rooms, out of which I should have been able to arrange
something suitable for my purpose. After obtaining further
details from the land agent, who wrote on my behalf to Count
Schonborn, I had to content myself with a refusal.

A strange incident that occurred about this time seriously
threatened to interrupt me to some extent in the work I had
begun. Friederike Meyer kept her promise and called on me one
afternoon on her return from her usual excursion to Mayence. She
was accompanied by a lady friend. Shortly after her arrival she
was suddenly overwhelmed with fear, and to the terror of all
present declared she was afraid she had caught scarlet fever. Her
condition soon became alarming, and she had to find accommodation
immediately in the 'Europaischer Hof' hotel and send for a
doctor. The certainty with which she had immediately recognised
the symptoms of a disease, which in most cases can only be caught
from children, could not fail to impress me strangely. But my
amazement was increased when on the following morning, at a very
early hour, Herr von Guaita, the manager of the Frankfort
theatre, who had heard of her illness, paid a visit to the
patient and expressed for her an anxiety, the intensity of which
it was impossible to ascribe entirely to his interest as a
theatrical manager. He took Friederike at once under his
protection, and treated her with the greatest care, thus
relieving me from the pangs of anxiety aroused by this strange
case. I spent some time with Herr von Guaita, talking with him
about the possibility of producing one of my operas in Frankfort.
On the second day I was present when the sick lady was conveyed
to the railway station by Guaita, who evinced towards her what
appeared to me the most tender paternal solicitude. Soon after
this, Herr Burde (the husband of Madame Ney, a famous singer),
who was at that time an actor at the Frankfort theatre, paid me a
call. This gentleman, with whom amongst other things I discussed
Friederike Meyer's talents, informed me that she was supposed to
be the mistress of Herr von Guaita, a man who was held in great
respect in the town on account of his noble rank, and that he had
presented her with a house in which she was now living. As Herr
von Guaita had not made an agreeable impression upon me, but on
the contrary had struck me as a strange creature, this news
filled me with a certain uneasiness. My other acquaintances who
lived near my place of refuge in Biebrich were kind and friendly
when, on the evening of my birthday on the 22nd of May, I
entertained this little company in my flat. Mathilde Maier with
her sister and her lady friend were very clever in utilising my
small stock of crockery, and in a certain sense she did the
honours as mistress of the house.

But my peace of mind was soon disturbed by an interchange of
letters with Minna, which grew more and more unsatisfactory. I
had settled her in Dresden, but wanted to spare her the
humiliation of a permanent separation from me. In pursuance of
this idea I had at last found myself compelled to adopt the plan
she had initiated, by communicating with the Saxon Minister of
Justice; and I finally petitioned for a complete amnesty from the
government, and received permission to settle in Dresden. Minna
now thought herself authorised to take a large flat, in which it
would be easy to arrange the furniture allotted to her, assuming
that after a little while I would share the abode with her, at
least periodically. I had to try to meet cheerfully her demands
for the wherewithal to carry out her wishes, and especially to
procure the two thousand seven hundred marks she required for the
purpose. The more calmly I acted in this matter, the more deeply
she seemed to be offended by the quiet frigidity of my letters.
Reproaches for supposed injuries in the past and recriminations
of every kind now poured in from her faster than ever. At last I
turned to my old friend Pusinelli. Out of affection for me he had
always been a loyal helper of my intractable spouse. Through his
mediation I now prescribed the strong medicine which my sister
Clara a short while ago had recommended as the best remedy for
the patient, and asked him to impress upon Minna the necessity
for a legal separation. It seemed to be no easy task for my poor
friend to carry out this proposal in earnest, but he had been
asked to do it, and obeyed. He informed me that she was very much
alarmed, but that she definitely refused to discuss an amicable
separation, and, as my sister had foreseen, Minna's conduct now
changed in a very striking manner; she ceased to annoy me and
seemed to realise her position and abide by it. To relieve her
heart trouble, Pusinelli had prescribed for her a cure at
Reichenhall. I obtained the money for this, and apparently she
spent the summer in tolerable spirits in the very place in which
a year ago I had met Cosima undergoing a cure.

Once more I turned to my work, to which I always had recourse as
the best means of raising my spirits so soon as interruptions
were removed. One night I was disturbed by a strange event. The
evening had been pleasant, and I had sketched out the pretty
theme for Pogner's Anrede, 'Das schone Fest Johannistag,' etc.,
when, while I was dozing off and still had this tune floating in
my mind, I was suddenly awakened to full consciousness by an
unrestrained outburst of a woman's laughter above my room. This
laughter, growing madder and madder, at last turned into a
horrible whimpering and frightful howling. I sprang out of bed in
a terrified condition, to discover that the sound proceeded from
my servant Lieschen, who had been attacked with hysterical
convulsions as she lay in bed in the room overhead. My host's
maid went to help her, and a doctor was summoned. While I was
horrified at the thought that the girl would soon die, I could
not help wondering at the curious tranquillity of the others who
were present. I was told that such fits were of common occurrence
in young girls, especially after dances. Without heeding this, I
was riveted to the spot for a long time by the spectacle, with
the horrible symptoms it presented. Several times I saw what
resembled a childish fit of merriment pass, like the ebb and flow
of the tide, through all the different stages, up to the most
impudent laughter, and then to what seemed like the screams of
the damned in torture. When the disturbance had somewhat
subsided, I went to bed again, and once more Pogner's
'Johannistag' rose to my memory, and gradually banished the
fearful impressions that I had undergone.

One day, when I was watching young Stadl at the gambling-table in
Wiesbaden, I thought he was rather like the poor servant-girl. I
had taken coffee with him and Weisheimer in the Kur garden, and
we had enjoyed one another's company, when Stadl disappeared for
a time. Weisheimer led me to the gambling-table to find him.
Seldom have I witnessed a more horrible change of expression than
that now stamped on the man who was a prey to the gambling mania.
As a demon had possessed poor Lieschen, so now a demon possessed
this man. As folk say, the devils 'pursued their evil lusts in
him.' No appeal, no humiliating admonitions could prevail upon
the man tortured by his losses in the game to summon up his moral
powers. As I remembered my own experiences of the gambling
passion, to which I had succumbed for a time when I was a youth,
I spoke to young Weisheimer on the subject, and offered to show
him how I was not afraid to make a stake on pure chance, but that
I had no belief in my luck. When a new round of roulette began, I
said to him in a voice of quiet certainty, 'Number 11 will win';
and it did. I added fuel to the fire of his astonishment at this
stroke of good luck by predicting Number 27 for the next round.
Certainly I remember being overcome by a spell as I spoke, and my
number was in fact again victorious. My young friend was now in a
state of such astonishment, that he vehemently urged me to stake
something on the numbers which I foretold. Again I cannot but
call to mind the curious, quiet feeling of being spellbound which
possessed me as I said, 'As soon as I introduce my own personal
interests into the game, my gift of prophecy will disappear at
once.' I then drew him away from the gambling-table, and we took
our way back to Biebrich in a fine sunset.


I now came into very painful relations with poor Friederike
Meyer. She wrote and told me of her recovery and requested me to
visit her, because she felt it her duty to apologise to me for
the trouble in which she had involved me. As the short drive to
Frankfort often helped to entertain me and distract my thoughts,
I gladly fulfilled her wishes, and found her in a state of
convalescence but still weak, and obviously preoccupied with the
effort to fortify my mind against all disagreeable surmises about
herself. She said that Herr von Guaita was like an anxious,
almost hypersensitive father to her. She told me that she was
very young when she left her family, and that with her sister
Luise in particular she had severed all connection. She had thus
come quite friendless to Frankfort, where the chance protection
of Herr von Guaita, a man of mature age, had been very welcome to
her. Unfortunately she had to suffer much that was painful under
this arrangement, for she was most bitterly persecuted, chiefly
on the score of her reputation, by her patron's family, who
feared he might want to marry her. As she told me this, I could
not refrain from drawing her attention to some of the
consequences of the antagonism I had noticed, and I went so far
as to speak of the house which people said had been given her as
a present. This seemed to produce an extraordinary effect upon
Friederike, who was still an invalid. She expressed the greatest
annoyance at these rumours, although, as she admitted, she had
long been obliged to suspect that slander of this kind would be
disseminated about her; more than once she had considered the
advisability of giving up the Frankfort stage, and now she was
more determined than ever to do so. I saw nothing in her
demeanour to shake my confidence in the truth of her story;
moreover, as Herr von Guaita became more and more unintelligible
to me both as a man and in the light of his incredible conduct on
the occasion of Friederike's illness, my attitude towards this
highly gifted girl was henceforth unconditionally on the side of
her interests, which were being prejudiced by an obvious
injustice. To facilitate her recovery I advised her, without
delay, to take a long holiday for a tour on the Rhine.

In accordance with the instructions conveyed to him by the Grand
Duke, Eduard Devrient now addressed me in reference to the
appointed performance of Lohengrin in Karlsruhe under my
superintendence. The angry and arrogant disgust expressed in his
letter at my desire to see that Lohengrin was produced without
'cuts,' served admirably to expose to me the profound antipathy
of this man whom I had once so blindly overestimated. He wrote
that one of the first things he had done was to have a copy of
the score made for the orchestra with the 'cuts' introduced by
Conductor Rietz for the Leipzig performance, and that it would
consequently be a tiresome business to put back all the passages
which I wished to have restored. He regarded my request in this
particular as merely malicious. I now remembered that the only
performance of Lohengrin, which had been taken off almost
immediately on account of its complete failure, was the one in
Leipzig produced by Conductor Rietz. Devrient, regarding Rietz as
Mendelssohn's successor and the most solid musician of 'modern
times,' had concluded that this mutilation of my work was a
suitable one for production in Karlsruhe. But I shuddered at the
misguided light in which I had so long persisted in regarding
this man. I informed him briefly of my indignation and of my
decision to have nothing to do with Lohengrin in Karlsruhe. I
also expressed my intention to make my excuses to the Grand Duke
at a suitable time. Soon after this I heard that Lohengrin was,
after all, to be produced in Karlsruhe in the usual way, and that
the newly wedded Schnorrs had been specially engaged for it. A
great longing at last filled me to make the acquaintance of
Schnorr and his achievements. Without announcing my intentions, I
travelled to Karlsruhe, obtained a ticket through Kaliwoda, and
heedless of all else went to the performance. In my published
Memoirs I have described more accurately the impressions I
received on this occasion, more particularly of Schnorr. I fell
in love with him at once, and after the performance I sent him a
message to come and see me in my room at the hotel and have a
little chat. I had heard so much of his delicate state of health
that I was genuinely delighted to see him enter the room with a
lively step and a look of joy in his eyes. Although it was late
at night, and he had undergone a considerable strain, he met my
anxiety to avoid all dissipation out of regard to his welfare, by
willingly accepting my offer to celebrate our new acquaintance
with a bottle of champagne. We spent the greater part of the
night in the best of spirits, and among our discussions those on
Devrient's character were especially instructive to me. I
undertook to stay another day, so as to avail myself of an
invitation to lunch with Schnorr and his wife. As by this lengthy
stay in Karlsruhe I knew my presence would become known to the
Grand Duke, I took advantage on the following day to inform him
of my arrival, and he made an appointment to meet me in the
afternoon. After talking at lunch to Frau Schnorr, in whom I had
recognised a great and well-developed theatrical talent, and
after making the most astonishing discoveries about Devrient's
behaviour in the Tristan affair, I had my interview at the ducal
palace. It was marked by uneasiness on both sides. I openly
stated my reasons for withdrawing my promise with regard to the
Lohengrin performance, and also my unalterable conviction that a
conspiracy to interfere with the production of Tristan originally
proposed had been the work of Devrient. As Devrient, by his
ingenious attitude, had led the Grand Duke to believe in his
profound and genuinely solicitous friendship for me, my
communications obviously pained the Grand Duke a great deal.
Still, he seemed eager to assume that the matter turned on
artistic differences of opinion between me and his theatrical
manager, and in bidding me good-bye he expressed the hope of
seeing these apparent misunderstandings give way to a
satisfactory explanation. I replied with indifference that I did
not think it likely I should ever come to an agreement with
Devrient. The Grand Duke now gave vent to genuine indignation; he
had not thought, he said, that I could so easily treat an old
friend with such ingratitude. To meet the keenness of this
reproach I could at first only tender my apologies for not having
expressed my decision with the emphasis he had a right to expect,
but as the Grand Duke had taken this matter so seriously and had
thereby seemed to justify me in expressing my real opinion of
this supposed friend with equal seriousness, I was bound, with
all the earnestness at my command, to assure him that I did not
wish to have anything more to do with Devrient. At this the Grand
Duke told me, with renewed gentleness, that he declined to regard
my assurance as irrevocable, for it lay in his power to
propitiate me by other means. I took my departure with an
expression of serious regret that I could not help regarding as
fruitless any effort made in the direction contemplated by my
patron. Later on I ascertained that Devrient, who, of course, was
informed by the Grand Duke of what had taken place, looked upon
my behaviour as an attempt on my part to ruin and supplant him.
The Grand Duke had not abandoned his desire to arrange for the
performance of a concert consisting of selections from my most
recent works. Devrient had afterwards to write to me again in his
official capacity on this subject. In his letter he took occasion
to make it clear that he regarded himself as victorious over the
intrigues I had practised against him, assuring me at the same
time that his distinguished patron nevertheless wished to carry
out the concert in question, as from his lofty point of view he
knew very well how to distinguish 'the art from the artist.' My
answer was a simple refusal.

I had many a conversation with the Schnorrs over the episode, and
I made an arrangement with them to visit me soon in Biebrich. I
returned there now, to be in time for Bulow's visit, of which I
had already been informed. He arrived at the beginning of July to
look for lodgings for himself and Cosima, who followed two days
later. We were immensely pleased to meet again, and utilised the
occasion to make excursions of all sorts for the benefit of our
health in the pleasant Rheingau country. We took our meals
together regularly in the public dining-room of the Europaischer
Hof (where the Schnorrs also came to stay), and we were generally
as merry as possible. In the evening we had music in my rooms.
Alwine Frommann, on her way through Biebrich, also came to the
reading of the Meistersinger. All present seemed to be struck
with surprise on hearing my latest libretto, and especially by
the vernacular gaiety of the style, of which until now I had not
availed myself. Frau Dustmann also, who had a special engagement
for a performance at Wiesbaden, paid me a visit. Unfortunately I
noticed in her a lively antipathy to her sister Friederike, a
fact which, among others, strengthened my conviction that it was
high time for Friederike to dissociate herself from all ties in
Frankfort. After I had been enabled, with Bulow's support, to
play my friends the completed parts of the composition of the
Meistersinger, I went through most of Tristan, and in this
process the Schnorrs had an opportunity of showing the extent to
which they had already made themselves acquainted with their
task. I found that both were a good deal lacking in clearness of
enunciation.

The summer now brought more visitors into our neighbourhood, and
amongst them several of my acquaintances. David, the Leipzig
concert director, called on me with his young pupil, August
Wilhelmj, the son of a Wiesbaden lawyer. We now had music in the
true sense of the word, and Conductor Alois Schmitt from Schwerin
contributed an odd share by performing what he called a worthless
old composition of his. One evening we had a crowded party, the
Schotts joining the rest of my friends, and both the Schnorrs
delighted us keenly with a performance of the so-called love-
scene in the third act of Lohengrin. We were all deeply moved by
the sudden apparition of Rockel in our common dining-room at the
hotel. He had been released from Waldheimer prison after thirteen
years. I was astounded to find absolutely no radical change in
the appearance of my old acquaintance, except for the faded
colour of his hair. He himself explained this to me by observing
that he had stepped out of something like a shell in which he had
been ensconced for his own preservation. As we were deliberating
about the field of activity on which he ought now to enter, I
advised him to seek some useful employment in the service of a
benevolent and liberal-minded man like the Grand Duke of Baden.
He did not think he would succeed in any ministerial capacity,
owing to his want of legal knowledge; on the other hand, he was
eminently qualified to undertake the supervision of a house of
correction, as he had obtained not only the most accurate
information on this subject, but at the same time had noted what
reforms were necessary. He went off to the German shooting
competition taking place at Frankfort. There, in recognition of
his martyrdom and his unwavering conduct, he was accorded a
flattering ovation, and he stayed in Frankfort and its
neighbourhood for some time.

Casar Willig, a painter who had received a commission from Otto
Wesendonck to paint my portrait at his expense, worried me and my
intimate friends at this time. Unfortunately the painter was
utterly unsuccessful in his attempt to make a good likeness of
me. Although Cosima was present at nearly all the sittings, and
tried her utmost to put the artist on the right track, the end of
it was that I had to sit for a sharp profile, to enable him to
produce anything that could be in the least recognisable as a
likeness. After he had performed this task to his satisfaction,
he painted another copy for me out of gratitude. I sent this at
once to Minna in Dresden, through whom it ultimately went to my
sister Louisa. It was a horrible picture, and I was confronted
with it once afterwards when it was exhibited by the artist in
Frankfort.

I made a pleasant excursion with the Bulows and the Schnorrs to
Bingen one evening, and availed myself of the opportunity to
cross over to Rudesheim to bring back Friederike Meyer, who had
been enjoying her holiday there. I introduced her to my friends,
and Cosima especially took a friendly interest in this uncommonly
gifted woman. Our gaiety as we sat over a glass of wine in the
open air was heightened by our being unexpectedly accosted by a
traveller who approached us respectfully from a distant table; he
held his glass filled, and at once greeted me politely and with
the utmost warmth. He was a native of Berlin and a great
enthusiast of my work. He spoke not only for himself, but also on
behalf of two of his friends, who joined us at our table; and our
good-humour led us ultimately to champagne. A splendid evening
with a wonderful moon-rise shed its influence over the gladness
of our spirits as we returned home late in the evening after this
delightful excursion. When we visited Schlangenbad (where Alwine
Frommann was staying) in equally high spirits, our reckless
humour beguiled us into making an even longer excursion to
Rolandseck. We made our first halt at Remagen, where we visited
the handsome church, in which a young monk was preaching to an
immense crowd, and we afterwards lunched in a garden on the bank
of the Rhine. We remained that night in Rolandseck, and next
morning we went up the Drachenfels. In connection with this
ascent, an adventure happened which had a merry sequel. On the
return journey, after getting out of the train at the railway
station and crossing the Rhine, I missed my letter-case
containing a note for two hundred marks; it had slipped out of my
overcoat pocket. Two gentlemen who had joined us on the way from
the Drachenfels immediately offered to retrace their steps, a
somewhat arduous undertaking, to hunt for the lost object. After
a few hours they returned, and handed me the letter-case with its
contents intact. Two stone-cutters at work on the summit of the
mountain had found it. They restored it at once, and the honest
fellows were presented with a handsome reward. The happy issue to
this adventure had, of course, to be celebrated by a good dinner
with the best wine. The story was not completed for me until a
long time afterwards. In 1873, on my entering a restaurant in
Cologne, the host introduced himself to me as the man who, eleven
years previously, had catered for us at the inn on the Rhine, and
had changed that very two-hundred-mark note for me. He then told
me what had happened to that note. An Englishman, to whom he had
related the adventure of the note on the same day, offered to buy
it from him for double its value. The host declined any such
transaction, but allowed the Englishman to have the note on the
promise of the latter to stand champagne to all those present at
the time. The promise was fulfilled to the letter.

An invitation to Osthofen from the Weisheimer family was the
origin of a less satisfactory excursion than the one described
above. We put up there for one night after being compelled on the
previous day to take part at all hours in the frolics of a
peasant wedding-feast which was simply interminable. Cosima was
the only one who managed to keep in a good temper throughout the
proceedings. I supported her to the best of my abilities. But
Bulow's depression, which had increased during the preceding
days, grew deeper and deeper, was aggravated by every possible
incident, until at last it developed into an outbreak of fury. We
tried to console ourselves with the reflection that a similar
infliction could never again fall to our lot. The following day,
while I was preparing for my departure, and brooding over other
sources of dissatisfaction at my position, Cosima induced Hans to
continue the journey as far as Worms in the hope of finding
something refreshing and cheering in a visit to the ancient
cathedral there, and from that place they followed me later to
Biebrich.

One little adventure we had at the gaming-table at Wiesbaden
still lingers in my memory. Within the last few days I had
received a royalty of twenty louis d'or from the theatre for an
opera. Not knowing what to do with so small a sum (as my
situation, on the whole, was growing worse and worse), I ventured
to ask Cosima to risk half the sum at roulette in our joint
interest. I observed with astonishment how, without even the
smallest knowledge of the game, she staked one gold piece after
another on the table, throwing it down so that it never
definitely covered any particular number or colour. In this way
it gradually disappeared behind the croupier's rake. I grew
alarmed, and hurriedly went to another table in the hope of
counteracting the effect of Cosima's unguided and misguided
efforts. In this very economical pursuit luck befriended me so
substantially, that I at once recovered the ten louis d'or which
my fair friend had lost at the other table. This soon put us into
a very merry mood. Less cheering than this adventure was our
visit to a performance of Lohengrin in Wiesbaden. After we had
been pretty well satisfied and put into a fairly good humour by
the first act, the representation turned, as it proceeded, into a
current of maddening misrepresentation such as I should never
have believed possible. In a fury I left the theatre before the
end, while Hans, urged by Cosima's reminder of the proprieties
(though they were both as much infuriated as I was), endured the
martyrdom of witnessing the performance to a close.

On another occasion I heard that the Metternichs had arrived at
their Castle Johannisberg. Still preoccupied with my main anxiety
to obtain a peaceful domicile in which to conclude the
Meistersinger, I kept an eye on this castle, which was generally
unoccupied, and announced my intention of calling on the Prince.
An invitation soon followed, and the Bulows accompanied me to the
railway station. I could not fail to be satisfied with the
friendly reception accorded to me by my patrons. They, too, had
been considering the question of finding a temporary resting-
place for me in the Johannisberg Castle, and found they could
give me a small flat in the house of the keeper of the castle for
my sole use, only they drew my attention to the difficulty of
obtaining my board. The Prince, however, had busied himself more
actively with another matter, that of creating a permanent
position for me in Vienna. He said that on his next stay in
Vienna he would have a discussion about my affairs with
Schmerling the minister, whom he thought it was most suitable to
consult on such a matter. He was a man who would understand me,
and perhaps be able to discover a proper position for me in the
higher sense of the word, and arouse the Emperor's interest in
me. If I went to Vienna again, I was simply to call on
Schmerling, and he would receive me as a matter of course on
account of the Prince's introduction. As the result of an
invitation to the ducal court, the Metternichs had repaired
without loss of time to Wiesbaden, to which city I accompanied
them, and again fell in with the Bulows.

Schnorr had left us after a fortnight's stay, and now the time
had also come for the Bulows to depart. I accompanied them as far
as Frankfort, where we spent two more days together to see a
performance of Goethe's Tasso. Liszt's symphonic poem Tasso was
to precede the play. It was with odd feelings that we witnessed
this performance. Friederike Meyer as the Princess and Herr
Schneider as Tasso appealed to us greatly, but Hans could not get
over the shameful execution of Liszt's work by the conductor,
Ignaz Lachner. Before going to the theatre Friedrike gave us a
luncheon at the restaurant in the Botanical Gardens. In the end
the mysterious Herr von Guaita also joined us there. We now
noticed with astonishment that all further conversation was
carried on between them as a duologue which was quite
unintelligible to us. All that we could make out was the furious
jealousy of Herr von Guaita and Friederike's witty, scornful
defence. But the excited man became more composed when he
suggested I should arrange for a performance of Lohengrin in
Frankfort under my own direction. I was favourably disposed to
the suggestion, as I saw in it an opportunity for another meeting
with the Bulows and the Schnorrs. The Bulows promised to come,
and I invited the Schnorrs to be in the cast. This time we could
take leave of one another cheerfully, although the increasing and
often excessive ill-humour of poor Hans had drawn many an
involuntary sigh from me. He seemed to be in perpetual torment.
On the other hand, Cosima appeared to have lost the shyness she
had evinced towards me when I visited Reichenhall in the previous
year, and a very friendly manner had taken its place. While I was
singing 'Wotan's Abschied' to my friends I noticed the same
expression on Cosima's face as I had seen on it, to my
astonishment, in Zurich on a similar occasion, only the ecstasy
of it was transfigured into something higher. Everything
connected with this was shrouded in silence and mystery, but the
belief that she belonged to me grew to such certainty in my mind,
that when I was under the influence of more than ordinary
excitement my conduct betrayed the most reckless gaiety. As I was
accompanying Cosima to the hotel across a public square, I
suddenly suggested she should sit in an empty wheelbarrow which
stood in the street, so that I might wheel her to the hotel. She
assented in an instant. My astonishment was so great that I felt
all my courage desert me, and was unable to carry out my mad
project.

On returning to Biebrich I was at once confronted with grave
difficulties, for Schott, after keeping me some time in suspense,
now definitely refused to pay me any further subsidies. The
advances I had already received from my publisher had, it is
true, until quite recently, served to defray all my expenses
since leaving Vienna, including my wife's removal to Dresden and
my own migration to Biebrich by way of Paris, where I had to
satisfy more than one lurking creditor. But in spite of these
initial difficulties, which, I suppose, took about half the money
I was to have for the Meistersinger by agreement, I had counted
upon finishing my work in peace with the remainder of the sum
stipulated. But since then Schott had put me off with vain
promises about a fixed date for balancing accounts with the
bookseller. I had already been put to great straits, and now
everything seemed to depend on my being able to hand over a
complete act of the Meistersinger to Schott quickly. I had got as
far as the scene where Pogner is about to introduce Walther von
Stolzing to the meistersingers, when--about the middle of August,
while Bulow was still there--an accident occurred which, though
slight in itself, made me incapable of writing for two whole
months.

My surly host kept a bulldog named Leo chained up, and neglected
him so cruelly that it excited my constant sympathy. I therefore
tried one day to have him freed from vermin, and held his head
myself, so that the servant who was doing it should not be
frightened. Although the dog had learned to trust me thoroughly,
he snapped at me once involuntarily and bit me--apparently very
slightly--in the upper joint of my right-hand thumb. There was no
wound visible, but it was soon evident that the periosteum had
become inflamed from the contusion. As the pain increased more
and more with the use of the thumb, I was ordered to do no
writing until my hand was quite healed. If my plight was not
quite so terrible as the newspapers--which announced that I had
been bitten by a mad dog--made out, it was still conducive to
serious reflection on human frailty. To complete my task,
therefore, I needed, not only a sound mind and good ideas,
irrespective of any required skill, but also a healthy thumb to
write with, as my work was not a libretto I could dictate, but
music which no one but myself could write down.

On the advice of Raff, who considered a volume of my songs to be
worth one thousand francs, I decided to offer my publisher, by
way of temporary compensation, five poems by my friend Frau
Wesendonck which I had set to music (consisting chiefly of
studies for Tristan with which I was occupied at the time), so
that he should at least have something on the market. The songs
were accepted and published, but they seemed to have produced no
softening effect on Schott's mood. I was obliged to conclude that
he was acting on some one else's instigation, and I betook myself
to Kissingen (where he was staying for his 'cure') in order to
get to the bottom of it and shape my next moves accordingly. An
interview with him was obstinately denied me, and Frau Schott,
who was posted outside his door in the role of guardian angel,
informed me that a bad liver attack prevented him from seeing me.
I now realised my position with regard to him. For the moment I
drew on young Weisheimer for some money, which he gave me most
willingly, supported as he was by a wealthy father, and then set
to work to consider what I could do next. I could no longer count
on Schott, and had in consequence lost all prospect of an
unopposed performance of the Meistersinger.

At this juncture I was much surprised to receive a renewed
official invitation to Vienna for the performance of Tristan at
the Opera, where I was informed all obstacles had been removed,
as Ander had completely recovered his voice. I was genuinely
astonished to hear this, and on further inquiry arrived at the
following elucidation of the transactions that had been taking
place on my behalf in Vienna during the interval. Before I left
there the last time Frau Luise Dustmann, who seemed to take a
real pleasure in the part of Isolde, had tried to clear away the
real impediment to my undertaking by persuading me to go to an
evening party, where she intended to introduce me again to Dr.
Hanslick. She knew that unless this gentleman could be brought
round to my side nothing could be accomplished in Vienna. As I
was in a good temper that evening I found it easy to treat
Hanslick as a superficial acquaintance, until he drew me aside
for an intimate talk, and with sobs and tears assured me he could
not bear to be misunderstood by me any longer. The blame for
anything that might have been extraordinary in his judgment of me
was to be laid, not on any malicious intention, but solely on the
narrow-mindedness of an individual who desired nothing more
ardently than to learn from me how to widen the boundaries of his
knowledge. All this was said in such a burst of emotion that I
could do nothing but soothe his grief and promise him my
unreserved sympathy with his work in future. Just before leaving
Vienna I actually heard that Hanslick had launched forth into
unmeasured praise of myself and my amiability. This change had so
affected both the singers at the Opera and also Councillor
Raymond (the Lord High Steward's adviser) that at last, working
from high circles downwards, it came to be regarded as a point of
honour with the Viennese to have Tristan performed in their city.
Hence my summons!

I heard at the same time from young Weisheimer, who had betaken
himself to Leipzig, that he was sure he could arrange a good
concert there if I could assist him by conducting my new prelude
to the Meistersinger as well as the Tannhauser Overture. He
believed it would make so great a sensation that the probable
sale of all the tickets would enable him to place a not
inconsiderable sum at my disposal after the bare expenses had
been deducted. In addition to this, I could hardly go back on my
promise to Herr von Guaita with respect to a performance of
Lohengrin at Frankfort, although the Schnorrs had been obliged to
decline to take part in it. After weighing all these offers I
decided to put the Meistersinger aside, and try to earn enough by
enterprises abroad to enable me in the following spring to take
up and finish my interrupted work on the spot, unaffected by
Schott's humours. I therefore decided at all costs to keep on the
house at Biebrich, which I really liked. Minna, on the other
hand, had been pressing me to send some of the furniture which I
had kept, to complete her own establishment at Dresden, namely,
my bed and a few other things to which I was accustomed, 'so that
when I went to see her,' she said, 'I should find everything in
proper order.' I did not want to act contrary to the established
fiction which was to make the parting from me easier for her; I
therefore sent her what she wanted, and bought new furniture for
my home on the Rhine with the assistance of a Wiesbaden
manufacturer, who allowed me fairly long credit.

At the end of September I went to Frankfort for a week to take
over the rehearsals of Lohengrin. Here again I went through the
same experience as I had so often done before. I no sooner came
into contact with the members of the opera company than I felt a
desire to throw up the undertaking on the spot; then the general
consternation and the entreaties that I would persevere caused a
reaction, under the influence of which I held out until I at last
became interested in certain things for their own sake, and quite
apart from any consideration of the wretched singers. The things
that pleased me were the effect of an uncurtailed performance,
and the employment of correct tempi and correct staging. Yet I
suppose Friederike Meyer was the only one who completely realised
these effects. The usual 'animation' of the audience was not
lacking, but I was told later on that the subsequent performances
fell off, so that the opera had to be curtailed in the old way to
keep it going. (They were conducted by Herr Ignaz Lachner of
Frankfort, a smart, sleek man, but a wretchedly bad, muddle-
headed conductor.)

I was the more prostrated by the effect of all this because even
the Bulows had failed to pay me their expected visit. Cosima, as
I was now informed, had passed me by in haste on her way to Paris
to offer her support for a short time to her grandmother, who was
suffering from a tedious illness, and had now received a most
painful blow by the news of the death of Blandine after her
confinement, which had taken place at St. Tropez.

I now shut myself up for some time in my house at Biebrich, the
weather having suddenly turned cold, and prevailed on my thumb to
prove itself capable of writing down the instrumentation of some
extracts for immediate concert purposes from the Meistersinger,
which was now complete. I sent the prelude to Weisheimer at once
to be copied at Leipzig, and also set the Versammlung dor
Meistersinger and Pogner's Anrede for orchestra.

By the end of October I was at last ready to start on my journey
to Leipzig, in the course of which I was induced in a strange way
to enter the Wartburg once more. I had alighted for a few minutes
at Eisenach, and the train had just begun to move as I was
hurriedly trying to catch it. I ran after the vanishing train
involuntarily with a sharp cry to the guard, but naturally
without being able to stop it. A considerable crowd, which had
gathered on the station to watch the departure of a prince,
thereupon broke into loud outbursts of laughter, and when I said
to them, 'I suppose you are glad that this happened to me?' they
replied, 'Yes, it was very funny.' On this incident I based my
axiom that you can please the German public by your misfortunes
if by nothing else. As there was no other train to Leipzig for
five hours I telegraphed to my brother-in-law, Hermann Brockhaus
(whom I had asked to put me up), telling him of my delay, and
allowed a man who introduced himself as a guide to persuade me to
visit the Wartburg. There I saw the partial restoration made by
the Grand Duke, and also the hall containing Schwind's pictures,
to all of which I was quite indifferent. I then turned into the
restaurant of this show-place of Eisenach, and found several
women there engaged in knitting stockings. The Grand Duke of
Weimar assured me some time afterwards that Tannhauser enjoyed
great popularity throughout the whole of Thuringia down to the
lowest peasant boy, but neither the host nor my guide seemed to
know anything about it. However, I signed the visitors' book with
my full name, and described in it the pleasant greeting I had
received at the station, though I have never heard that any one
noticed it.

Hermann Brockhaus, who had aged rather and grown stout, gave me a
most cheerful reception when I arrived, late at night, at
Leipzig. He took me to his house, where I found Ottilie and her
family, and was installed in comfort. We had much to talk about,
and my brother-in-law's remarkably good-natured way of entering
into our conversation often kept us up fascinated until all hours
of the morning. My connection with Weisheimer, a young and quite
unknown composer, aroused some misgivings. His concert programme
was in fact filled with a great number of his own compositions,
including a symphonic poem, just completed, entitled Der Ritter
Toggenburg. I should probably have raised a protest against
carrying out this programme in its entirety had I attended the
rehearsals in an undisturbed frame of mind, but it so happened
that the hours I spent in the concert-room proved to be among the
most intimate and pleasant recollections of my life, for there I
met the Bulows again. Hans seemed to have felt it his duty to
join me in celebrating Weisheimer's debut, his contribution being
a new pianoforte concerto by Liszt. To enter the old familiar
hall of the Gewandhaus at Leipzig was enough in itself to cause
me an uneasy feeling of depression, which was increased by my
reception by the members of the orchestra--of whose estrangement
I was keenly conscious--and to whom I had to introduce myself as
an entire stranger. But I felt myself suddenly transported when I
discovered Cosima sitting in a corner of the hall, in deep
mourning and very pale, but smiling cheerfully at me. She had
returned shortly before from Paris--where her grandmother now lay
hopelessly bedridden--filled with grief at the inexplicably
sudden death of her sister, and she now seemed, even to my eyes,
to be leaving another world to approach me. Our emotions were so
genuinely deep and sincere that only an unconditional surrender
to the enjoyment of meeting again could bridge the chasm. All the
incidents of the rehearsal affected us like a magic-lantern show
of peculiarly enlivening character, at which we looked on like
merry children. Hans, who was in an equally happy mood--for we
all seemed to each other to be embarked on some Quixotic
adventure--called my attention to Brendel, who was sitting not
far from us, and seemed to be expecting me to recognise him. I
found it entertaining to prolong this suspense thus occasioned,
by pretending not to know him, whereat, as it appears, the poor
man was much offended. Recalling my unjust behaviour on this
occasion, I therefore made a point of alluding specially to
Brendel's services when speaking in public some time afterwards
on Judaism in Music, by way of atonement, as it were, to this
man, who had died in the meantime. The arrival of Alexander
Ritter with my niece Franziska helped to enliven us. My niece,
indeed, found constant entertainment and excitement in the
enormity of Weisheimer's compositions, while Ritter, who was
acquainted with the text of my Meistersinger, described a highly
unintelligible melody given to the basses in Ritter Toggenburg as
'the lonely gormandiser mode.' [Footnote: Meistersinger (English
version), Act 1, scene ii.] Our good-humour might have failed us
in the end, however, had we not been refreshed and uplifted by
the happy effect which the prelude to the Meistersinger (which
had at last been successfully rehearsed) and Bulow's glorious
rendering of Liszt's new work produced. The actual concert itself
gave a final ghostly touch to an adventure to which we had looked
forward so contentedly till then. To Weisheimer's horror the
Leipzig public stayed away en masse, in response apparently to a
sign from the leaders of the regular subscription concerts. I
have never seen any place so empty on an occasion of this sort;
besides the members of my family--among whom my sister Ottilie
was conspicuous in a very eccentric cap--there was no one to be
seen but a few visitors, who had come into town for the occasion,
occupying one or two benches. I noticed in particular my Weimar
friends, Conductor Lassen, Councillor Franz Muller, the never-
failing Richard Pohl, and Justizrath Gille, who had all nobly put
in an appearance. I also recognised with a shock of surprise old
Councillor Kustner, the former manager of the Court Theatre in
Berlin, and I had to respond amiably to his greeting and his
astonishment at the incomprehensible emptiness of the hall. The
people of Leipzig were represented solely by special friends of
my family, who never went to a concert in the ordinary way, among
them being my devoted friend, Dr. Lothar Muller, the son of Dr.
Moritz Muller, an allopath whom I had known very well in my
earliest youth. In the middle of the hall there were only the
concert-giver's fiancee and her mother. At a little distance
away, and facing this lady, I took a seat next to Cosima while
the concert was in progress. My family, observing us from a
distance, were offended by the almost incessant laughter which
possessed us, as they themselves were in the depths of
depression.

As regards the prelude to the Meistersinger, its successful
performance affected the few friends who formed the audience so
favourably that we had to repeat it there and then--to the
satisfaction even of the orchestra. Indeed, their artificially
nurtured distrust of me, which had been like a coating of ice,
now seemed to have melted, for when I brought the concert to a
close with the Tannhauser Overture the orchestra celebrated my
recall with a tremendous flourish of instruments. This delighted
my sister Ottilie beyond measure, as she maintained that such an
honour had never been accorded before except to Jenny Lind. My
friend Weisheimer, who had really tired every one's patience in
the most inconsiderate way, afterwards developed a feeling of
dissatisfaction towards me which dated from this period. He felt
bound to confess to himself that he would have done much better
without my brilliant orchestral pieces, in which case he might
have offered the public a concert at a cheaper rate, consisting
exclusively of his own works. As it was, he had to bear the
costs--to his father's great disappointment--and also to overcome
the unnecessary humiliation of being unable to give me any
profits.

My brother-in-law was not to be deterred by these painful
impressions from carrying out the household festivities, which
had been arranged beforehand in celebration of my expected
triumphs. The Bulows were also invited to one of the banquets,
and there was an evening party at which I read the Meistersinger
to an imposing array of professors, and met with much
appreciation. I renewed my acquaintance with Professor Weiss,
too, who interested me very much, for I remembered him from my
young days as a friend of my uncle's. He expressed himself as
particularly surprised by my skill in reading aloud.

The Bulows had now unfortunately returned to Berlin. We had met
once more on a very cold day in the street (under unpleasant
conditions, for they were paying duty calls), but the general
depression which had settled on us seemed more noticeable, during
our short leave-taking, than the fleeting good-humour of the last
few days. My friends were well aware of the terrible and utterly
forlorn condition in which I found myself. I had been idiotic
enough to count on the proceeds from the Leipzig concert to
provide at least the needs of the moment, and I was, in the first
place, put into the awkward position of being unable to pay my
landlord punctually (the house rent at Biebrich being now due).
But I was ready to stake everything on keeping this asylum for
another year, and I had to deal with an obstinate, bad-tempered
creature whom I thought it necessary to pay in advance for the
sake of securing the place. As I had just then to supply Minna
with her quarterly allowance also, the money which Regierungsrath
Muller forwarded to me from the Grand Duke seemed, indeed, a
heaven-sent windfall. For after giving up Schott entirely I had,
in my distress, turned to this old acquaintance and begged him to
explain my situation to the Grand Duke and induce him to send me
some help--to be regarded possibly as payment in advance for my
new operas. In response to this I received the startling and
unexpected sum of fifteen hundred marks through Muller's
instrumentality. It was not until some time after that I
accounted for this generosity by the supposition that the Grand
Duke's amiable behaviour towards me had been a deliberate attempt
to make an impression upon his friend Liszt, whom he wished to
entice back to Weimar at all costs. He was certainly not mistaken
in counting on the excellent effect his binding generosity to me
would have on our common friend.

I was therefore in a position to go to Dresden for a few days at
once, to renew my provision for Minna, and at the same time to
honour her with one of the visits deemed necessary to support her
in her difficult situation. Minna conducted me from the station
to the flat which she had taken and furnished in
Walpurgisstrasse, a street which had not been built at the time I
left Dresden. She had as usual arranged her home very tastefully,
and with the aim evidently of making me comfortable. I was
greeted on the threshold by a little mat embroidered with the
word Salve, and I recognised our Paris drawing-room at once in
the red silk curtains and the furniture. I was to have a majestic
bedroom, an exceedingly comfortable study on the other side, as
well as the drawing-room at my entire disposal, while she
installed herself in one little room with recesses looking on to
the yard. The study was adorned by the magnificent mahogany
bureau which had originally been made for my house when I was
conductor at Dresden. It had been bought in by the Ritter family,
after my flight from that city, and presented to Kummer, the son-
in-law, from whom Minna had hired it temporarily, leaving me the
option of buying it back for one hundred and eighty marks. As I
showed no desire to do so her mood became gloomier. Oppressed by
the fearful embarrassment which she experienced on being alone
with me, she had invited my sister Clara to come on a visit from
Chemnitz, and was now sharing the small room at her disposal with
Her. Clara proved herself extraordinarily wise and sympathetic on
this as on former occasions. She pitied Minna of course, and was
anxious to help her at this difficult period, though always with
a view to strengthening her in the conviction that our parting
was unavoidable. An exact knowledge of my extremely awkward
position now seemed called for. My financial difficulties were so
crushing that the only excuse for telling Minna was to silence
her uneasy suspicions about me. I did, however, succeed in
avoiding all explanations with her--the more easily as my
meetings with Fritz Brockhaus and his family (including the
married daughter Clara Kessinger), the Pusinellis, old Heine, and
lastly the two Schnorrs, provided a pretext for our spending most
of the time in the society of others.

I filled the mornings by making calls, and it was when I set out
to pay my respects and thanks to Minister Bar for my amnesty that
I trod the familiar streets of Dresden again. My first impression
was one of extraordinary boredom and emptiness, for I had last
seen them filled with barricades, in which fantastic condition
they had looked so unusually interesting. I did not see a single
familiar face on the way. Even the glover, whom I had always
patronised and whose shop I now had occasion to revisit, did not
seem to know me, until an oldish man rushed across the street to
me and greeted me with great excitement and tears in his eyes. It
turned out to be Karl Kummer of the court orchestra (looking much
older), the most inspired oboist I ever met. I had taken him
almost tenderly to my heart on account of his playing, and we
embraced joyfully. I asked whether he still played his instrument
as beautifully as before, whereupon he assured me that since I
had left his oboe had failed to give real satisfaction, and it
was now a long time since he had had himself pensioned off. He
told me in response to my inquiries that all my old military
bandsmen--including Dietz, the tall double-bass player--were
either dead or pensioned off. Our manager Luttichau and Conductor
Reissiger were among those who had died, Lipinsky had returned to
Poland long before, Schubert, the leader, was unfit for work, and
everything seemed to me sad and strange. Minister Bar expressed
to me the grave qualms he still felt about the amnesty granted
me. True, he had ventured to sign it himself, but was still
troubled to think that my great popularity as a composer of opera
would make it easy for me to raise annoying demonstrations. I
comforted him at once by promising only to remain a few days and
to refrain from visiting the theatre, upon which he dismissed me
with a deep sigh and an exceedingly grave face.

Very different was my reception from Herr von Beust, who with
smiling elegance of manner implied by his conversation that I was
perhaps not so innocent after all as I now seemed to think
myself. He drew my attention to a letter of mine which had been
found in Rockel's pocket, at the time. This was new to me, and I
willingly gave him to understand that I felt myself bound to look
on the amnesty accorded me as a pardon for my incautious
behaviour in the past, and we parted with the liveliest
manifestations of friendship.

We invited some friends one evening in Minna's drawing-room,
where I read out the Meistersinger once more to the people who
did not know it. After Minna had been provided with enough money
to last some time, she accompanied me back to the station on the
fourth day; but she was filled with such fearful presentiments of
never seeing me again that her farewell was made in positive
anguish.

At Leipzig I put up at an inn for one day. There I met Alexander
Ritter, and we spent a pleasant evening together over our punch.
The reason that had induced me to make this short stay was the
assurance given me that if I gave a concert of my own it would
not be one of the regular series. I had weighed this information
with reference to the much-needed money it might bring in, but I
now realised that the undertaking rested on no security. I
returned in haste to Biebrich, where I had to get my household
affairs into order. To my great annoyance I found my landlord in
a more impossible temper than ever. He seemed unable to forget my
having blamed him for his treatment of the dog, and also of my
servant, whom I had been obliged to protect against him when she
had had a love-affair with a tailor. In spite of receiving
payment and promises he remained peevish, and insisted that he
would have to move into my part of the house on account of his
health in the coming spring. So while I forced him, by paying
advance, to leave my household goods untouched until Easter at
least, I went about trying to find a suitable house for the
following year, visiting various places in the Rheingau under the
guidance of Dr. Schuler and Mathilde Maier. I had no success,
however, the time being so short, but my friends promised to
search untiringly for what I wanted.

At Mayence I met Friederike Meyer again. Her situation in
Frankfort seemed to have grown more and more difficult. When she
heard that I had turned away Herr von Guaita's manager, who had
been sent to Biebrich with instructions to pay me fifteen louis
d'or for conducting Lohengrin, she upheld my action strongly. As
for herself, she had broken with that gentleman entirely,
insisting on being released from her contract, and was now about
to enter upon a special engagement at the Burgtheater. She won my
sympathy once more by her conduct and determination, which I had
to consider as a powerful refutation of the calumnies brought up
against her. As I too was in the act of starting for Vienna, she
was glad to be able to make part of the journey in my company.
She proposed to stop a day at Nuremberg, where I could pick her
up for the next stage of the journey. This we did and arrived in
Vienna together, where my friend went to Hotel Munsch, while I
chose the Kaiserin Elizabeth, where I now felt at home. This was
on the 15th of November. I went to see Conductor Esser at once,
and heard from him that Tristan was really being studied
vigorously. With Frau Dustmann, on the other hand, I became
immediately involved in very unpleasant disagreements through my
relation to her sister Friederike, which it was easy to
misunderstand. It was impossible to make her see how things
really stood. In her eyes her sister was involved in a liaison,
and had been cast off by her family, so that her arrival in
Vienna was compromising to them. In addition to this Friederike's
own condition soon caused me the greatest anxiety. She had made
an engagement to appear three times at the Burgtheater without
considering that just then she was not likely to make a good
appearance on the stage, particularly before the Viennese public.
Her serious illness, the recovery from which had been attended by
the most exciting circumstances, had disfigured her and made her
very thin. She had also gone almost entirely bald, but
nevertheless persisted in her great objection to wearing a wig.
Her sister's hostility had estranged her colleagues at the
theatre, and as a result of all this, and also on account of her
unfortunate choice of a role, her appearance was a failure. There
could be no question of her being taken on at that theatre.
Although her weakness increased, and she suffered from constant
insomnia, she still tried, in her magnanimity and her shame, to
hide from me the awkwardness of her situation. She went to a
cheaper inn, the 'Stadt Frankfurt,' where she intended to wait
and see the result of sparing her nerves as far as possible. She
seemed to be in no embarrassment as far as money was concerned,
but at my request consulted Standhartner, who did not seem to
know how to help her much. As open-air exercise had been strongly
recommended, and as the weather was at present bitterly cold
(from the end of November to the beginning of December), I hit on
the idea of advising her to go to Venice for a prolonged stay.
Once again there seemed no lack of means, and she followed my
advice. One icy morning I accompanied her to the station, and
there for the present I left her, as I hoped, to a kinder fate.
She had a faithful maid with her, and I soon had the satisfaction
of receiving reassuring accounts--of her health especially--from
Venice.

While my relations with her had brought me troublesome
complications, I still kept up my old Viennese acquaintances. A
curious incident occurred at the very beginning of my visit. I
had to read the Meistersinger aloud to the Standhartner family,
as I had done everywhere else. As Dr. Hanslick was now supposed
to be well disposed towards me, it was considered the right thing
to invite him too. We noticed that as the reading proceeded the
dangerous critic became more and more pale and depressed, and it
was remarked by everyone that it was impossible to persuade him
to stay on at the close, but that he took his leave there and
then in an unmistakably vexed manner. My friends all agreed in
thinking that Hanslick looked on the whole libretto as a lampoon
aimed at himself, and had felt an invitation to the reading to be
an insult. And undoubtedly the critic's attitude towards me
underwent a very remarkable change from that evening. He became
uncompromisingly hostile, with results that were obvious to us at
once.

Cornelius and Tausig had again been to see me, but I had to work
off my resentment against them both for the fit of real ill-
humour their behaviour had caused me in the previous summer. This
had happened when I expected the Bulows and the Schnorrs to stay
with me together at Biebrich, and my warm interest in these two
young friends, Cornelius and Tausig, led me to invite them too. I
received Cornelius's acceptance immediately, and was the more
surprised to get a letter from Geneva, whither Tausig (who
appeared to have funds at his disposal all of a sudden) had
carried him off on a summer excursion--no doubt of a more
important and pleasanter nature. Without the least mention of any
regret at not being able to meet me that summer, they simply
announced to me that 'a glorious cigar had just been smoked to my
health.' And now, when I met them again in Vienna, I found it
impossible to refrain from pointing out to them the insulting
nature of their behaviour; but they seemed unable to understand
how I could object to their preferring the beautiful tour into
French Switzerland to paying me a visit at Biebrich. I was
obviously a tyrant to them. Besides this, I thought Tausig's
curious conduct at my hotel suspicious. I was told that he took
his meals in the downstairs restaurant, after which he climbed up
past my floor to the fourth storey, to pay long visits to
Countess Krockow. When I asked him about it, and learned that the
lady in question was also a friend of Cosima's, I expressed my
surprise at his not introducing me. He continued to evade this
suggestion with singularly vague phrases, and when I ventured to
tease him by the supposition of a love-affair, he said there
could be no question of such a thing, as the lady was old. So I
let him alone, but the amazement which his peculiar behaviour
then caused me was intensified some years later when I at last
learned to know Countess Krockow very well, and was assured of
her deep interest in me. It seemed that she had desired nothing
more than to make my acquaintance also at that time, but that
Tausig had always refused to find an opportunity, and had made
the excuse that I did not care about women's society.

But we eventually resumed our lively and sociable habits when I
began seriously to carry out my project of giving concerts in
Vienna. Although the piano rehearsals for the principal solo
parts of Tristan had been put in hand diligently--I had left them
to Conductor Esser, who took them zealously in hand--my mistrust
as to the real success of these studies was unshaken, and the
point which I doubted most was not so much the capabilities of
the singers as their goodwill. Moreover, Frau Dustmann's absurd
behaviour disgusted me on my frequent attendance at the
rehearsals. On the other hand, I now set my hopes on making a
good impression, on the score of novelty alone, by performing
selections from my own works still unknown to the Viennese
public. In this way I could show my secret enemies that there
were other means open to me of bringing my more recent
compositions before the public than by the medium of the stage,
where they could so easily stop me. For all the practical details
of the performance Tausig now proved himself particularly useful.
We agreed to hire the Theatre on the Wien for three evenings, the
idea being to give one concert at the end of December and to
repeat the experiment twice after a week's interval. The first
thing was to copy out the orchestral parts from the sections
which I cut out from my scores for the concert. There were two
selections from Rheingold and two from the Walkure and the
Meistersinger, but I kept back the prelude to Tristan for the
present, so as not to clash with the performance of the whole
work at the Opera which was still being advertised. Cornelius and
Tausig, with some assistant copyists, now started on the work,
which could only be carried out by experienced score-readers if
it was to be done correctly. They were joined by Weisheimer, who
had arrived in Vienna, having in the end decided to come to the
concert. Tausig also mentioned Brahms to me, recommending him as
a 'very good fellow,' who, although he was so famous himself,
would willingly take over a part of their work, and a selection
from the Meistersinger was accordingly allotted to him. And,
indeed, Brahms's behaviour proved unassuming and good-natured,
but he showed little vivacity and was often hardly noticed at our
gatherings. I also came across Friedrich Uhl again, an old
acquaintance who was now editing a political paper called Der
Botschafter with Julius Frobel under Schmerling's auspices. He
placed his journal at my disposal, and made me give him the first
act of the libretto of Meistersinger for his feuilleton.
Whereupon my friends chose to think that Hanslick grew more and
more venomous.

While I and my companions were overwhelmed by the preparations
for the concert, there came in one day a certain Herr Moritz,
whom Bulow had introduced to me in Paris as a ridiculous person.
His clumsy and importunate behaviour and the idiotic messages--
evidently of his own invention--which he brought me from Bulow
drove me in the end to show him the door with great emphasis, for
I too was carried away by Tausig's lively annoyance at this very
officious intruder. He reported on this to Cosima in a manner so
insulting to Bulow that she in return found it necessary to
express to me in writing her intense indignation at my
inconsiderate behaviour towards my best friends. I was really so
surprised and dumbfounded by this strange and inexplicable event
that I handed Cosima's letter to Tausig without comment, merely
asking him. what could be done in the face of such nonsense. He
at once undertook to show Cosima the incident in a correct light
and clear up the misunderstanding, and I soon had the pleasure of
hearing that he had met with success.

We had now come to the point of rehearsing for the concert. The
Royal Opera had supplied me with the singers needed for the
selections from Rheingold, the Walkure, and Siegfried ('Schmiede-
Lieder'), and also for Pogner's Anrede from the Meistersinger. I
had only to fall back on amateurs for the three Rhine maidens.
The concert director Hellmesberger was a great help to me in this
matter as in every other way, and his fine playing and
enthusiastic demonstrations when leading the orchestra never
failed in any circumstances. After the deafening preliminary
rehearsals in a small music-room in the opera house, which had
perplexed Cornelius by the great noise they made, we arrived at
the stage itself. In addition to the expense of hiring the place,
I had to bear the cost of the requisite extension of the
orchestra. The room, which was lined all round with theatrical
scenery, was still extraordinarily unfavourable for sound. I
hardly felt like running the risk of providing an acoustic wall
and ceiling on my own account, however. Although the first
performance on 26th December drew a large audience, it brought me
in nothing but outrageously heavy expenses and great distress at
the dismal effect of the orchestra owing to the bad acoustics. In
spite of the dark outlook I decided to bear the cost of building
a sound-screen, in order to enhance the effect of the two
following concerts, when I flattered myself I might count on the
success of the efforts that were being made to arouse interest in
the highest circles.


My friend Prince Liechtenstein thought this was by no means
impossible, and believed he might manage to interest the Imperial
Court through Countess Zamoiska, one of the ladies-in-waiting,
and he one day accompanied me through the interminable corridors
of the Imperial Castle on a visit to this lady. I afterwards
learned that Mme. Kalergis had also been at work here on my
behalf, but she had apparently only succeeded in winning over the
young Empress, for she alone was present at the performance, and
without any retinue. But at the second concert I had to endure
all kinds of disillusionment. In spite of all warnings to the
contrary, I had fixed it for the New Year's Day of 1863. The hall
was exceedingly badly filled, and my sole satisfaction was to
know that by improving the acoustic properties of the place the
orchestra sounded extremely well. In consequence of this the
reception of the various pieces was so favourable that at the
third concert, on 8th January, I was able to perform before an
overflowing house, and thus obtained very gratifying testimony to
the fine musical taste of the Viennese public. The by no means
startling prelude to Pogner's Anrede from the Meistersinger was
enthusiastically encored, in spite of the fact that the singer
had already risen to his feet for the next part. At this moment I
chanced to see in one of the boxes a most comforting omen for my
present position; for I recognised Mme. Kalergis, who had just
arrived for a prolonged stay in Vienna, to which I fondly
imagined she was prompted by some idea of helping me here also.
As she too was on friendly terms with Standhartner, she at once
entered into consultation with him as to how I could be helped
out of the critical situation in which I was once more placed by
the expenses of my concerts. She confessed to our mutual friend
that she had no means at her disposal, and would only be able to
meet our extraordinary expenditure by contracting fresh debts. It
was therefore necessary to secure wealthier patrons, among whom
she mentioned Baroness von Stockhausen, the wife of the
Hanoverian ambassador. This lady, who was a great friend of
Standhartner's, was most kind to me, and won me the sympathy of
Lady Bloomfield and her husband, the English ambassador. A soiree
was given in the house of the latter, and at Frau von
Stockhausen's there were also several evening assemblies. One day
Standhartner brought me a thousand marks as an instalment towards
my expenses, saying that they came from an anonymous donor.
Meanwhile Mme. Kalergis had managed to procure two thousand
marks, which were also placed at my disposal, through
Standhartner, for further needs. But all her efforts to interest
the court on my behalf remained entirely fruitless, in spite of
her intimacy with Countess Zamoiska; for unfortunately a member
of that Konneritz family from Saxony, which was everywhere
turning up for my discomfiture, had now appeared as ambassador
here also. He succeeded in suppressing any inclination the all-
powerful Archduchess Sophie might have had towards me, by
pretending that during his time I had burnt down the King of
Saxony's castle.

But my patroness, undaunted still, endeavoured to helpme in every
conceivable way demanded by my necessities. In order to gratify
my most earnest longing for a peaceful home where I could stay
for a while, she managed to secure the house of the English
attache, a son of the famous Bulwer Lytton, who had been called
away, but was keeping up his establishment for some time longer.
Thus through her I was introduced to this exceedingly amiable
young man. I dined with him one evening, together with Cornelius
and Mme. Kalergis, and after dinner began to read them my
Gotterdammerung. I did not seem to have secured a very attentive
audience, however, and when I noticed this I stopped and withdrew
with Cornelius. We found it very cold as we went home, and
Bulwer's rooms seem also to have been insufficiently heated, so
that we took refuge in a restaurant to drink a glass of hot
punch. The incident has remained fixed in my memory because here
for the first time I saw Cornelius in an ungovernably eccentric
humour. While we thus took our pleasure, Mine. Kalergis used her
influence--so I was afterwards informed--as an exceedingly
powerful and irresistible female advocate to inspire Bulwer with
a definite interest in my fate. In this she so far succeeded,
that he unconditionally placed his house at my disposal for nine
mouths. On considering the matter more deeply, however, I did not
see what advantage this would be to me, seeing that I had no
further prospect of earning any income in Vienna for my
sustenance.

On the other hand, my plans were decided for me by an offer which
reached me from St. Petersburg to conduct two concerts there in
the month of March for the Philharmonic Society for a fee of two
thousand silver roubles. For this also I had to thank Mme.
Kalergis, who urgently counselled me to accept the invitation,
holding out at the same time a prospect of further increasing my
receipts by giving an additional concert on my own account, from
which very important material results might be expected. The only
thing which could have induced me to decline this invitation
would have been an assurance that my Tristan would be staged in
Vienna during the next few months; but a fresh indisposition on
the part of the tenor Ander had once more brought our
preparations to a standstill, and moreover I had completely lost
all faith in those promises which had lured me again to Vienna.
To this the effect of my visit to the minister Schmerling
immediately on my return to Vienna had certainly contributed.
This man had been much astonished at my referring to a
recommendation by Prince Metternich, for the latter, so the
minister declared, had never spoken a word to him about me.
Nevertheless, he very politely assured me that it needed no such
recommendation to interest him in a man of my merit. When,
therefore, I mentioned the idea suggested by Prince Metternich's
kindness that the Emperor might assign me some special position
in Vienna, he hastened at once to inform me that he was
completely powerless to influence any of the Emperor's decisions.
This admission on the part of Herr von Schmerling certainly
helped to explain Prince Metternich's behaviour, and I concluded
that the latter had preferred an attempt to win the Chief
Chamberlain for a serious revival of Tristan to a fruitless
effort with the minister.

As these prospects were therefore thrust into the uncertain
future, I now agreed to the St. Petersburg proposal, but first of
all sought about for means to provide the necessary funds. For
these I relied on a concert which Heinrich Porges had already
arranged for me in Prague. Consequently early in February I set
out for that city, and had every reason to be satisfied with my
reception there. Young Forges, an out-and-out partisan of Liszt
and myself, pleased me greatly, not only personally, but by his
obvious enthusiasm. The concert took place at the hall on the
Sophia Island, and was crowned with great success. Besides one of
Beethoven's symphonies, several selections from my newer works
were given, and when next day Porges paid me about two thousand
marks, with the reservation of a few smaller supplementary
payments, I laughingly assured him that this was the first money
I had ever earned by my own exertions. He also gave me some very
pleasant introductions to several exceedingly devoted and
intelligent young people, belonging both to the German and Czech
parties, and among them to a teacher of mathematics called
Lieblein, and an author whose name was Musiol. It was with a
certain pathetic interest that, after so many years, I here
discovered a friend of my earliest youth, named Marie Lowe, who
had given up singing and taken to the harp instead, and was now
engaged to play this instrument in the orchestra, in which
capacity she assisted at my concert. On the occasion of the first
performance of Tannhauser in Prague, she had sent me a most
enthusiastic report about it. Her admiration was now intensified,
and for many years afterwards she remained tenderly attached to
me. Well satisfied then, and filled with newly awakened hope. I
hurried back to Vienna again in order to put the arrangement for
Tristan on as firm a basis as possible. It was found feasible to
arrange another pianoforte rehearsal in my presence of the two
first acts, and I was astonished at the really passable
performance of the tenor, while from Frau Dustmann I could not
withhold my sincerest congratulations on her admirable execution
of her difficult part. It was therefore decided that my work
should be produced a little after Easter, which would fit in very
well with the expected date of my return from Russia.

The hope of being now able to count on earning a large income
decided me to revive my former idea of settling for good in the
peace and quiet of Biebrich. As there was still time before I had
to start for Russia, I returned to the Rhine to arrange matters
there as rapidly as possible. Once more I lodged in Frickhofer's
house, and in the company of Mathilde Maier and her friend Luise
Wagner once more hunted through the Rheingau in search of a
suitable house. Not finding what I wanted, I finally entered into
treaty with Frickhofer for the erection of a small cottage on a
plot of land I proposed to buy near his villa. Dr. Schuler, the
man who had been introduced to me by young Stadl, was to take the
matter in hand, as he had both legal and business experience.
Estimates were prepared, and it now depended entirely on the
amount of my Russian receipts as to whether the undertaking could
be begun in the following spring or not. As in any case I had to
give up my rooms in Frickhofer's house at Easter, I removed all
my furniture and sent it packed to the furniture-dealer in
Wiesbaden, to whom I was still indebted for the greater part of
it.

Thus in the best of spirits I went first to Berlin, where I
called at once on Bulow. Cosima, who was expecting an early
confinement, seemed delighted to see me again, and insisted on
accompanying me at once to the music-school, where we should find
Hans. I entered a long room, at one end of which Bulow was giving
a music-lesson. As I stood for some time in silence in the
doorway, he gave an exclamation of anger at being disturbed, only
to burst out into joyful laughter on recognising who it was. Our
midday meal together was lively, and in excellent humour I set
out with Cosima alone for a drive in a fine carriage (belonging
to the Hotel de Russie), whose grey satin lining and cushions
provided us with endless fun. Bulow seemed troubled that I should
see his wife in a condition of advanced pregnancy, as I had once
expressed my aversion from such a sight when speaking of another
woman of our acquaintance. It put us into a good-humour to be
able to set his mind at rest in this case, for nothing could
possibly put me out of sympathy with Cosima. So, sharing my hopes
and heartily rejoicing in the turn of my fortune, these two
friends accompanied me to the Konigsburg railway station and saw
me off on my long night journey.

In Konigsburg I had to wait half a day and a night. As I had no
desire to revisit my haunts in a place which had once been so
fatal to me, I spent the time quietly in the room of an hotel,
the position of which I did not even try to fix, and early in the
morning continued my journey towards the Russian frontier. With
certain uneasy memories of my former illegal passage of this
frontier, I carefully scanned the faces of my fellow-passengers
during the long hours of travel. Among these I was especially
struck by one, a Livland nobleman of German descent, who, in the
haughtiest German Tory tone, proclaimed his disgust at the Tsar's
emancipation of the serfs. He wished me clearly to understand
that any efforts on the part of the Russians to obtain their
freedom would receive but scant support from the German nobles
settled in their midst. But as we approached St. Petersburg I was
genuinely frightened to find our train suddenly stopped and
examined by the police. They were apparently searching for
various persons suspected of complicity in the latest Polish
insurrection, which had just broken out. Not far from the capital
itself the empty seats in our carriage were filled by several
people, whose high Russian fur caps aroused my suspicions, which
were not allayed by the attention which their wearers bestowed
upon me in particular. But suddenly the face of one of them
brightened up, and he impulsively turned towards me and saluted
me as the man whom he and several other musicians of the Imperial
orchestra had come out on purpose to meet. They were all Germans,
and on our arrival at the St. Petersburg railway station they
joyfully introduced me to a further large contingent from the
orchestra, headed by the committee of the Philharmonic Society. I
had been recommended to a German boarding-house on the Newsky
Prospect as a suitable residence. There I was very graciously and
flatteringly received by Frau Kunst, the wife of a German
merchant, in a drawing-room whose windows commanded a view of the
wide and busy street, and where I was very well served. I dined
in common with the other boarders and visitors, and often invited
Alexander Seroff, whom I had formerly known in Lucerne, to be my
guest at table. He had called on me immediately on my arrival,
and I learned that he held a very poor appointment as censor of
German newspapers. His person bore signs of much neglect and ill-
health, and proved that he had had a hard struggle for existence;
but he speedily won my respect by the great independence and
truthfulness of his opinions, whereby, combined with an excellent
understanding, I soon learned that he had won himself a
reputation as a most influential and much-dreaded critic. I
appreciated this better later on when advances were made to me
from high quarters to use my influence with Seroff to assuage the
bitterness of his persecution of Anton Rubinstein, who just at
that time was being somewhat offensively patronised. On my
mentioning the matter to him, he explained his reasons for
believing Rubinstein's influence in Russia to be pernicious,
whereupon I begged him, for my sake at least, to hold his hand a
little, as I did not wish, during my brief stay in St.
Petersburg, to pose as Rubinstein's rival. To this he replied
with all the violence of a sickly man, 'I hate him, and cannot
make any concessions.' With me, on the contrary, he entered into
the most intimate understanding, as he had so perfect an
appreciation of me and my art that our intercourse became almost
one of mere pleasantry, for on all serious points we were in
entire agreement. Nothing could equal the care with which he
sought to help me at every opportunity. He provided the necessary
translation into Russian, both of the songs contained in the
selections taken from my operas and of my explanatory programme
for the concerts. He also displayed the utmost judgment in
choosing the most suitable singers for me, and for this he
appeared to find abundant recompense in attending the rehearsals
and performances. His radiant face beamed everywhere upon me with
encouragement and fresh inspiration. I was eminently satisfied
with the orchestra which I managed to gather around me in the
large and handsome hall of the Society of Nobles. It contained
one hundred and twenty picked players from the Imperial
orchestras, who were for the most part excellent musicians,
usually employed in accompanying Italian opera and ballets. They
now seemed delighted to be allowed to breathe more freely in thus
occupying themselves with nobler music under a method of
conducting which I had made peculiarly my own.

After the great success of my first concert advances were made to
me from those circles to which, as I could very well understand,
I had been secretly but influentially recommended by Mme.
Kalergis. With great circumspection my unseen protectress had
prepared the way for my presentation to the Grand Duchess Helene.
I was instructed, in the first place, to make use of a
recommendation from Standhartner to Dr. Arneth, the Grand
Duchess's private physician, whom he had known in Vienna, in
order through him to be introduced to Fraulein von Rhaden, her
most confidential lady-in-waiting. I should have been well
content with the acquaintance of this lady alone, for in her I
learned to know a woman of wide culture, great intelligence, and
noble bearing, whose ever-growing interest in me I perceived to
be mingled with a certain timidity, apparently concerned chiefly
with the Grand Duchess. She gave me the impression that she felt
something more important ought to happen for me than, from the
spirit and character of her mistress, she could expect. I was,
however, not taken to pay my respects to the Grand Duchess at
once, but received first of all an invitation to an evening party
in the apartments of the lady-in-waiting, at which, among others,
the Grand Duchess herself was to be present. Here Anton
Rubinstein did the musical honours, and after the hostess had
introduced me to him, she ventured to present me to the Grand
Duchess herself. The ceremony went off fairly well, and, as a
result, I shortly afterwards received a direct invitation to a
friendly evening tea-party at the Grand Duchess's house. Here, in
addition to Fraulein von Rhaden, I met the lady next to her in
rank, Fraulein von Stahl, as well as a genial old gentleman, who
was introduced to me as General von Brebern, for many years one
of the Grand Duchess's closest friends. Fraulein von Rhaden
appeared to have made extraordinary efforts on my behalf, which
for the present resulted in the Grand Duchess expressing a wish
that I should make her better acquainted with the text of my
Nibelungen Ring. As I had no copy of the work with me, although
Weber of Leipzig ought by this time to have finished printing it,
they insisted that I should at once telegraph to him in Leipzig
to send the finished sheets with the utmost despatch to the Grand
Duchess's address. Meanwhile my patrons had to be content with
hearing me read the Meistersinger. To this reading the Grand
Duchess Marie was also induced to come--a very stately and still
beautiful daughter of the Tsar Nicholas, who was notorious for
the passion she had shown throughout her life. As to the
impression made upon this lady by my poem, Fraulein von Rhaden
only told me that she had been seriously alarmed lest Hans Sachs
might end by marrying Eva.

In the course of a few days the loose proof-sheets of my
Nibelungen work duly arrived, and the Grand Duchess's intimates
met at four tea-parties to hear me read it, and listened with
sympathetic attention. General von Brebern was present at them
all, but only, as Fraulein von Rhaden said, 'to blush like the
rose' in profoundest slumber, a habit which always afforded a
subject for merriment to Fraulein von Stahl, a very lively and
beautiful woman, when each night I accompanied the two court
ladies from the spacious salons along endless corridors and
staircases to their distant apartments.

The only other person in the great world whom I learned to know
here was Count Wilohorsky, who occupied a high position of trust
at the Imperial court, and was chiefly esteemed as a patron of
music, and considered himself a distinguished violoncello-player.
The old gentleman appeared well disposed towards me, and
altogether satisfied with my musical performances. Indeed, he
assured me that he had first learned to understand Beethoven's
Eighth Symphony (in F major) through my interpretation. He also
considered that he had fully grasped my overture to the
Meistersinger, and said the Grand Duchess Marie was affected
because she had found this piece incomprehensible, but had
expressed herself enraptured by the overture to Tristan, which he
himself only managed to understand by the exertion of all his
musical knowledge. When I told Seroff of this, he exclaimed
enthusiastically, 'Ah, that beast of a Count! That woman knows
what love is!'

The Count arranged a splendid dinner in my honour, at which both
Anton Rubinstein and Mme. Abaza were present. As I begged
Rubinstein to play something after dinner, Mme. Abaza insisted on
singing his Persian songs, which seemed greatly to annoy the
composer, as he knew very well that he had produced much finer
work. Nevertheless both the composition and its execution gave me
a very favourable opinion of the talents of both artists. Through
this singer, who had originally had a professional engagement in
the Grand Duchess's household, and was now married to a wealthy
and cultured Russian gentleman of rank, I obtained an entry into
the house of M. Abaza, who received me with great ceremony. About
the same time a certain Baron Vittinghof had also made himself
known to me as an enthusiastic lover of music, and honoured me
with an invitation to his house, where I met once more with
Ingeborg Stark, the beautiful Swedish pianist and composer of
sonatas, whom I had formerly known in Paris. She amazed me by the
impertinent outburst of laughter with which she accompanied the
performance of one of the Baron's compositions. On the other
hand, she assumed a more serious air when she informed me that
she was engaged to Hans von Bronsart.

Rubinstein, with whom I exchanged friendly visits, behaved very
creditably, although, as I had expected, he felt himself somewhat
injured by me. He told me that he was thinking of resigning his
position in St. Petersburg, as it had been made difficult by
Seroff's antagonism. It was also thought advisable to introduce
me to the commercial circles of St. Petersburg, with a view to my
coming benefit concert, and a visit was consequently arranged to
a concert in the hall of the Merchants' Guild. Here I was met on
the staircase by a drunken Russian, who announced himself as the
conductor. With a small selection of Imperial musicians and
others, he conducted the overtures of Rossini's Tell and Weber's
Oberon, in which the kettledrums were replaced by a small
military drum, which produced a wonderful effect, especially in
the lovely transfiguration part of the Oberon Overture.

Although I was admirably equipped for my own concerts as far as
the orchestra was concerned, yet I had much trouble in procuring
the requisite singers. The soprano was very passably represented
by Mlle. Bianchi; but for the tenor parts I had to make shift
with a M. Setoff, who, although possessing plenty of courage, had
very little voice. But he managed to help me through the
'Schmiede-Lieder' in Siegfried, for his presence at least gave an
appearance of song, while the orchestra alone undertookthe
effective reality. On the conclusion of my two concerts for the
Philharmonic Society, I set seriously to work on my own concert,
which was to be held in the Imperial Opera House, in the material
arrangements for which I was helped by a retired musician. This
man often spent hours with Seroff in my well-heated rooms without
laying aside his enormous fur coat, and as his incapacity gave us
a great deal of trouble, we agreed that he was like 'the sheep in
wolf's clothing.' The concert, however, succeeded beyond all my
expectations, and I do not think I was ever so enthusiastically
received by any audience as on this occasion. Indeed, their
greeting when I first appeared was so loudly prolonged that I
felt quite touched, a rare occurrence with me. To this wild
abandonment on the part of the audience the ardent devotion of my
orchestra naturally contributed, as my one hundred and twenty
musicians renewed the frantic acclamations again and again, a
procedure which appeared to be quite novel in St. Petersburg.
From some of them I heard such exclamations as, 'We must admit we
have never known what music is till now.'

Conductor Schuberth, who, with a certain amount of condescension,
had helped me with advice on business matters, now utilised this
favourable turn of affairs to ask for my co-operation at a
concert to be given shortly for his own benefit. Although I was
fully aware that by this means he reckoned on conjuring a
handsome profit out of my pocket into his own, yet on the advice
of my friends I thought it best to comply with his request,
albeit much against the grain. So a week later I repeated the
most  popular items of my programme before an equally numerous
audience and with the same success, but this time the handsome
receipts of three thousand roubles were destined for an invalid
man, who as a retribution for this encroachment on my rights was
suddenly summoned to another world in the same year.

To balance this, I now had a prospect of further artistic and
material successes from a contract concluded with General Lwoff,
the manager of the Moscow theatre. I was to give three concerts
in the Grand Theatre, of which I was to have half the receipts,
guaranteed in each case at a minimum of one thousand roubles. I
arrived there suffering from a cold, miserable and ill at ease,
in weather which was a mixture of frost and thaw, and put up at a
badly situated German boarding-house. My preliminary arrangements
were made with the manager, who, in spite of the orders hanging
from his neck, looked a very insignificant person, and the
difficult selection of the vocal items had to be arranged with a
Russian tenor and a superannuated Italian lady-singer. Having
settled these, I entered upon the task of orchestral rehearsals.
It was here that I first met the younger Rubinstein, Anton's
brother Nicholas, who, as director of the Russian Musical
Society, was the leading authority in his profession in Moscow;
his demeanour towards me was characterised throughout by modesty
and consideration. The orchestra consisted of the hundred
musicians who provided the Imperial household with Italian opera
and ballet. It was, on the whole, far inferior to that of St.
Petersburg, yet among them I found a small number of excellent
quartette players, all devotedly attached to me. Among these was
one of my old Riga acquaintances, the 'cellist von Lutzau, who in
those days had a great reputation as a wag. But I was
particularly pleased with a certain Herr Albrecht, a violinist, a
brother of the Albrecht who was one of the party whose Russian
fur caps had so scared me on my way to St. Petersburg. But even
these men could not dispel my feeling that in dealing with this
Moscow orchestra I had descended in the artistic scale. I gave
myself a great deal of trouble without deriving any compensating
satisfaction, and my bile was not a little stirred by the Russian
tenor, who came to rehearsal in a red shirt, to show his
patriotic aversion from my music, and sang the 'Schmiede-Lieder'
of Siegfried in the insipid style acquired from the Italians. On
the very morning of the first concert I was obliged, to cancel
it, and declare myself on the sick-list, with a bad, feverish
cold. In the slush and snow which inundated the streets of Moscow
it seems to have been impossible to announce this fact to the
public, and I heard that angry disturbances resulted when many
splendid equipages arrived on a fruitless errand and had to be
turned away. After three days' rest I insisted on giving the
three concerts I had contracted for within six days, an exertion
to which I was spurred by a desire to have done with an
undertaking I felt was not worthy of me. Although the Grand
Theatre was filled on each occasion with a brilliant audience
such as I had never before seen, yet, according to the
calculations of the Imperial manager, the receipts did not exceed
the amount of the guarantee. With this, however, I was content,
considering the magnificent reception accorded to my efforts, and
above all the fervid enthusiasm of the orchestra, which was
expressed here as it had been in St. Petersburg. A deputation of
members of the orchestra begged me to give a fourth concert, and
on my refusal, they tried to persuade me to remain for another
'rehearsal,' but this too I was compelled to decline with a
smile. However, the orchestra honoured me with a banquet, at
which, after N. Rubinstein had made a very enthusiastic and
appropriate speech, which was greeted with hearty and tumultuous
applause, one of the company hoisted me on to his shoulders and
carried me round the hall; whereupon there was a great outcry,
and every one wanted to render me the same kindly service. I was
presented on this occasion with a gold snuff-box from the members
of the orchestra, on which was engraved the words 'Doch Einer
kam,' from Siegmund's song in the Walkure. I returned the
compliment by presenting to the orchestra a large photograph of
myself, on which I wrote the words 'Keiner ging,' from the same
song.

In addition to these musical circles I also became acquainted
with Prince Odoiewsky, as the result of an introduction and
strong recommendation by Mme. Kalergis. She had told me that in
the Prince I should meet one of the noblest of men, who would
fully understand me. After a most arduous drive of many hours, I
reached his modest dwelling, and was received with patriarchal
simplicity at his family mid-day dinner, but I found it
exceedingly difficult to convey to him any particulars as to
myself and my plans. With regard to any impressions I might be
expected to gather respecting himself, he seemed to rely on the
effect produced by the contemplation of a large instrument
resembling an organ, which he had had designed and erected in one
of his principal rooms. Unluckily there was no one there who
could play it; but I could not help thinking it must have been
intended for some specially devised form of divine worship, which
he held there on Sundays for the benefit of his household,
relatives and acquaintances. Ever mindful of my kindly patroness,
I attempted to give the genial Prince some idea of my position
and my aspirations. With apparent emotion he exclaimed, 'J'ai ce
qu'il vous faut; parlez a Wolffsohn.' On further inquiry I
learned that the guardian spirit thus commended to me was not a
banker, but a Russian Jew who wrote romances.

All these events seemed to justify the conclusion that my
receipts, especially if I included what I might still derive from
St. Petersburg, would amply suffice to carry out my project of
building a house at Biebrich. I therefore sent a telegram about
it to my authorised agent in Wiesbaden from Moscow, and left
there after a stay of only ten days. I also forwarded one
thousand roubles to Minna, who was complaining that her expenses
for settling down in Dresden were very heavy.

But, unfortunately, on reaching St. Petersburg I met with serious
disappointments. Every one advised me to relinquish the idea of
giving my second concert on Easter Monday, the date I had fixed,
as it was the general custom in Russian society to reserve that
day for private gatherings. On the other hand, I could not well
refuse to give a concert, on the third day after the date
announced for my own, on behalf of those imprisoned for debt in
St. Petersburg, seeing that this was to be given at the urgent
request of the Grand Duchess Helene herself. In this latter
function all St. Petersburg was already interested for the sake
of their own credit, as it was under the most distinguished
patronage; so that, while every seat was sold in advance for this
function, I had to be content with a very empty house at the
Nobles' Casino, and with proceeds which luckily did at least
cover expenses. By way of contrast, the debtors' concert went off
with the greatest success, and General Suwarof, the governor of
the city, a strikingly handsome man, handed me a very beautifully
wrought silver drinking-horn as a thank-offering from the
imprisoned debtors.

I now set about paying my farewell calls, one of which was on
Fraulein von Rhaden, who distinguished herself by the warmth of
her sympathy and interest. By way of compensating me for the loss
of the receipts I had reckoned upon, the Grand Duchess sent me
through this lady the sum of one thousand roubles, coupled with a
promise that, until my circumstances improved, she would repeat
the gift annually. On discovering this friendly interest, I could
not help regretting that the connection thus formed was not
likely to have more stable and profitable results. I addressed a
petition through Fraulein von Rhaden to the Grand Duchess,
praying that she would permit me to come to St. Petersburg for a
few months every year, to place my talents at her disposal, both
for concerts and theatrical performances, in return for which she
would only have to pay me a suitable yearly salary. To this I
received an evasive reply. On the day before my departure I
informed my amiable guardian of my plan for settling at Biebrich,
and in doing so I made no secret of my fear that after spending
the money I had earned here in carrying out my building plan, my
condition might be very much the same as of yore, a fear which
made me wonder whether it would not be better to abandon it
altogether. Whereupon I received the spirited reply: 'Build and
hope!' At the last moment before starting I gratefully answered
her in the same manner, and said that I now knew what to do. Thus
at the end of April I departed, carrying with me the hearty good
wishes of Seroff and the enthusiastic members of the orchestra,
and steamed away across the Russian wilderness without calling at
Riga, where I had been invited to give a concert. The long and
weary road brought me at last to the frontier station of
Wirballen, where I received a telegram from Fraulein von Rhaden:
'Not too rash.' This was in reference to a few lines I had left
behind for her, and it conveyed quite enough to revive my doubts
as to the wisdom of carrying out my house-building plans.

I reached Berlin without further delay, and at once made for
Bulow's house. During the last few months I had heard no news of
Cosima's condition, and it was, therefore, with some trepidation
that I stood at the door, through which the maid did not seem
disposed to let me pass, saying that 'her mistress was not well.'
'Is she seriously ill?' I asked, and receiving a smilingly
evasive reply, at once realised to my joy the true situation, and
hastened in to greet Cosima. She had been some time delivered of
her daughter Blandine, and was now on the highroad to complete
recovery. It was only from casual callers that she remained
secluded. Everything seemed well, and Hans was quite gay, the
more so that he now thought me freed from all care for some time
to come, owing to the success of my Russian trip. But I could not
regard this assumption as justified, unless my wish to be invited
for some months every year to St. Petersburg for renewed activity
there met with a ready response. On this point I was enlightened
in a more detailed letter from Fraulein von Rhaden following the
above telegram, in which she told me on no account to rely upon
this invitation. This distinct statement compelled me to reckon
up the balance of my Russian receipts very seriously, and after
deducting hotel and travelling expenses, the money sent to Minna,
and certain payments to the furniture dealer at Wiesbaden, I
found I had very little more than twelve thousand marks left. So
the scheme of buying land and building a house had to be
relinquished. But Cosima's excellent health and high spirits
dispelled all anxious thought for the present. We drove out again
in a splendid carriage, and in the most extravagant of good
humours, through the avenues of the Tiergarten, dined to our
hearts' content at the Hotel de Russie, and made up our minds
that bad times had fled for ever.

For the immediate present my plans were directed towards Vienna.
I had recently heard that Tristan had once more been abandoned,
this time owing to the indisposition of Frau Dustmann. In order
to have this important matter more directly under my own
supervision, and also because I had formed no such intimate
artistic ties with any other German city as with Vienna, I clung
to this as the most suitable place in which to settle. Tausig,
whom I now met there in excellent health and spirits, entirely
confirmed me in this opinion, and still further strengthened it
by undertaking to find me precisely the pleasant and quiet
dwelling in the neighbourhood of Vienna that I had set my mind
upon, and through his own landlord he succeeded in getting
something exactly to my taste. In what had been the pleasant
abode of old Baron von Rackowitz at Penzing, I was offered the
most delightful accommodation for a yearly rent of two thousand
four hundred marks. I could have the entire upper part of the
house and the exclusive use of a shady and fairly large garden.
In the housekeeper, Franz Mrazek, I found a very obliging man,
whom I at once took into my service, together with his wife Anna,
an exceedingly gifted and obliging woman. For many years, amid
ever-changing fortunes, this couple remained faithful to me. I
now had to begin spending money in order to make my long-desired
asylum fit and cosy both for rest and work. The remnant of my
household belongings, including iny Erard grand, was sent on from
Biebrich, as well as the new furniture I had found it necessary
to buy. On the 12th of May, in lovely spring weather, I took
possession of my pleasant home, and for a while wasted much time
over the exciting cares connected with the fitting up of my
comfortable apartments. It was at this period that my connection
with Phillip Haas and Sons was first established, which was
destined with the lapse of time to give me some cause for
anxiety. For the moment every exertion expended on a domicile
associated with so many hopes only helped to put me into the best
of spirits. The grand-piano arrived in due course, and with the
addition of various engravings after Raphael, which had fallen to
my lot in the Biebrich division, my music-room was completely
furnished in readiness for the 22nd of May, when celebrated my
fiftieth birthday. In honour of the occasion the Merchants'
Choral Society gave me an evening serenade with Chinese-lantern
illuminations, in which a deputation of students also joined and
greeted me with an enthusiastic oration. I had laid in a supply
of wine, and everything passed off excellently. The Mrazeka
looked after my housekeeping fairly well, and thanks to the
culinary arts of Anna, I was able to invite Tausig and Cornelius
to dine with me pretty frequently.

But I was soon in great trouble again, on account of Minna, who
bitterly reproached me for everything I did. Having made up my
mind never to answer her again, I wrote this time to her daughter
Nathalie--who was still in ignorance of the relationship between
them--referring her to my decision of the previous year. On the
other hand, the fact that I sadly stood in need just now of some
womanly attentions and care in the management of the household
became abundantly clear to me when I expressed to Mathilde Maier
of Mayence the ingenuous wish that she would come and supply the
deficiency.

I had certainly thought that my good friend was sensible enough
to interpret my meaning correctly without feeling put to the
blush, and I was very likely right, but I had not made sufficient
allowance for her mother and her bourgeois surroundings
generally. She appears to have been thrown into the greatest
excitement by my proposal, while her friend Louise Wagner was in
the end so powerfully influenced that she frankly advised me,
with homely shrewdness and precision, to obtain a legal
separation from my wife first of all, after which everything else
would be easily arranged. Grievously shocked, I at once withdrew
my offer, as having been made without due deliberation, and
strove as far as possible to allay the excitement thus produced.
On the other hand, Friederike Meyer's inexplicable fate still
caused me much involuntary anxiety. After she had spent several
months of the previous winter in Venice, apparently to her
benefit, I had written to her from St. Petersburg suggesting that
she should meet me at the Bulows' in Berlin. I had taken into
mature consideration the kindly interest which Cosima had
conceived for her, with a view to discussing what steps we could
take to bring order into our friend's flagrantly disorganised
circumstances. She did not appear, however, but wrote instead to
inform me that she had taken up her abode with a lady friend at
Coburg, as her very delicate state of health seriously interfered
with her theatrical career, and was endeavouring to maintain
herself by occasional appearances at the small theatre there. It
was obvious that for many reasons I could not send her an
invitation such as that sent to Mathilde Maier, though she
expressed a violent desire to see me once more for a short time,
assuring me that afterwards she would for ever leave me in peace.
I could only regard it as purposeless and risky to accede to this
wish just then, though I kept the idea in reserve for the future.
During the course of the summer she repeated the same request
from several places, until, as I was engaged late in the autumn
for a concert at Karlsruhe, I at last appointed that time and
place for the desired meeting. From that time forth I never
received the slightest communication from this most singular and
attractive friend of mine, and as, moreover, I did not know where
she was, I looked upon our connection as severed. Not until many
years later was the secret of her position--certainly a very
difficult one--revealed to me, and from the facts then stated I
could only conclude that she shrank from telling me the truth
concerning her connection with Herr von Guaita. It appeared that
this man had much more serious claims upon her than I had
suspected, and she had apparently been compelled by the
necessities of her situation to accept his protection, as he was
the only friend left to her, while his devotion was undeniably
genuine. I heard that she was then living in complete retirement
both from the stage and from society on a tiny estate on the
Rhine with her two children, being, it was believed, secretly
married to Herr von Guaita.

But my careful and elaborate preparations for a quiet spell of
work had not yet been successful. A burglary in the house, which
robbed me of the golden snuff-box presented by the Moscow
musicians, renewed my old longing to have a dog. My kind old
landlord consequently handed over to me an old and somewhat
neglected hound named Pohl, one of the most affectionate and
excellent animals that ever attached itself to me. In his company
I daily undertook long excursions on foot, for which the very
pleasant neighbourhood afforded admirable opportunities.
Nevertheless I was still rather lonely, as Tausig was confined to
bed for a long time by severe illness, while Cornelius was
suffering from an injured foot, the result of a careless descent
from an omnibus when visiting Penzing. Meanwhile I was in
constant friendly intercourse with Standhartner and his family.
Fritz, the younger brother of Heinrich Porges, had also begun to
visit me. He was a doctor who had just set up practice, a really
nice fellow, whose acquaintance with me dated from the serenade
of the Merchants' Glee Club, of which he had been the originator.

I was now convinced that there was no longer any chance of having
Tristan produced at the Opera, as I had found out that Frau
Dustmann's indisposition was merely a feint, Herr Ander's
complete loss of voice having been the real cause of the last
interruption. Good old Conductor Esser tried hard to persuade me
to assign the part of Tristan to another tenor of the theatre
named Walter, but the very idea of him was so odious to me that I
could not even bring myself to hear him in Lohengrin. I therefore
let the matter sink into oblivion, and concentrated myself
exclusively on getting into touch with the Meistersinger again. I
first set to work on the instrumentation of the completed portion
of the first act, of which I had only arranged detached fragments
as yet. But as summer approached, the old anxiety as to my future
subsistence began to pervade all my thoughts and sensations in
the present. It was clear that, if I were to fulfil all my
responsibilities, particularly with regard to Minna, I should
soon have to think of undertaking some lucrative enterprise
again.

It was therefore most opportune when a quite unexpected
invitation from the management of the National Theatre in Buda-
Pesth reached me to give two concerts there, in compliance with
which I went at the end of July to the Hungarian capital, and was
received by the manager Radnodfay. There I met a really very
talented violinist named Remenyi, who at one time had been a
protege of Liszt, and showed boundless admiration for me, even
declaring that the invitation to me had been given entirely on
his initiative. Although there was no prospect of large earnings
here, as I had professed myself content to accept a thousand
marks for each of the two concerts, I had reason to be pleased
both with their success and with the great interest manifested by
the audience. In this city, where the Magyar opposition to
Austria was still at its strongest, I made the acquaintance of
some exceedingly gifted and distinguished-looking young men,
among them Herr Rosti, of whom I have a pleasant recollection.
They organised a truly idyllic festivity for me, in the form of a
feast, held by a few intimates on an island in the Danube, where
we gathered under an ancient oak tree, as though for a
patriarchal ceremony. A young lawyer, whose name I have
unfortunately forgotten, had undertaken to propose the toast of
the evening, and filled me with amazement and deep emotion, not
only by the fire of his delivery, but also by the truly noble
earnestness of his ideas, which he based upon a perfect knowledge
of all my works and undertakings. We returned home down the
Danube in the small boats of the Rowing Club, of which my hosts
were members, and on our way had to face a hurricane, which
lashed the mighty stream into the wildest tumult. There was only
one lady in our party, Countess Bethlen-Gabor, who was seated
with me in a narrow boat. Rosti and a friend of his who had the
oars were concerned solely with the fear that our boat would be
shivered against one of the timber-rafts, towards which the flood
was carrying us, and therefore exerted themselves to the utmost
to avoid them; whereas I could see no other way of escape,
especially for the lady sitting beside me, than by boarding one
of these very rafts. In order to effect this (against the wish of
our two oarsmen) I seized with one hand a projecting peg on a
raft we were passing and held our little vessel fast, and, while
the two rowers screamed that the Ellida would be lost, quickly
hoisted the lady out of the skiff on to the raft, across which we
walked to the shore, calmly leaving our friends to save the
Ellida as best they could. We two then continued our way along
the bank through a terrific storm of rain, but yet on safe and
sure ground, towards the city. My conduct in presence of this
danger did not fail to increase the respect in which my friends
held me, as was proved by a banquet given in a public garden at
which a great number of my admirers were present. Here they
treated me quite in Hungarian style. An enormous band of gipsy
musicians was drawn up, and greeted me with the Rakoczy March as
I approached, while the assembled guests joined in with impetuous
shouts of 'Eljen!' There were also fiery orations with
appreciative allusions to myself and my influence which extended
far and wide throughout Germany. The introductory parts of these
speeches were always in Hungarian, and were meant to excuse the
fact that the main oration would be delivered in German for the
sake of their guest. Here I noticed that they never spoke of me
as 'Richard Wagner,' but as 'Wagner Richard.'

Even the highest military officials were not behindhand in
offering me their homage, through the medium of Field-Marshal
Coronini. The Count invited me to a performance by the military
bands in the castle at Ofen, where I was graciously received by
him and his family, treated to ices, and then conducted to a
balcony whence I listened to a concert given by the massed bands.
The effect of all these demonstrations was exceedingly
refreshing, and I almost regretted having to leave the
rejuvenating atmosphere of Buda-Pesth, and return to my dull and
musty Viennese asylum.

On the homeward journey, in the beginning of August, I travelled
part of the way with Herr von Seebach, the amiable Saxon
Ambassador, whom I had known in Paris. He complained of the
enormous losses he had incurred through the difficulty of
administering the South Russian estates he had acquired by
marriage, and from which he was just returning. On the other
hand, I was able to reassure him as to my own position, which
seemed to give him genuine pleasure.

The small receipts from my Buda-Pesth concerts, of which,
moreover, I had only been able to carry away half, were not
calculated to afford me any effectual relief as to the future.
Having now staked my all on what I trusted might be a permanent
establishment, the first question was how best to secure a
salary, which should at least be certain though not necessarily
over-large. Meanwhile I did not consider myself bound to abandon
my St. Petersburg connection, nor the plans I had founded upon
it. Nor did I entirely disbelieve the assurances of Remenyi, who
boasted that he had great influence with the Magyar magnates, and
assured me it would be no great matter to obtain a pension in
Buda-Pesth, such as I had thought of securing in St. Petersburg
and involving similar obligations. He did, in fact, visit me soon
after my return to Penzing, accompanied by his adopted son, young
Plotenyi, whose extraordinary good looks and amiability made a
very favourable impression on me. As for the father himself,
although he won my warm approbation by his brilliant performance
of the Rakoczy March on the violin, yet I quickly perceived that
his glowing promises had been meant rather to create an immediate
impression on me than to ensure any permanent result. In
accordance with his own desire, I very soon afterwards lost sight
of him altogether.

While still obliged to busy myself with plans for concert tours,
I was able meantime to enjoy the pleasant shade of my garden
during the intense heat, and I used to go for long rambles every
evening with my faithful dog Pohl, the most refreshing of these
being by way of the dairy-farm at St. Veit, where delicious milk
was available. My small social circle was still restricted to
Cornelius and Tausig, who was at last restored to health,
although he disappeared from my sight for some time owing to his
intercourse with wealthy Austrian officers. But I was frequently
joined on my excursions by the younger Porges, and for a time by
the elder also. My niece Ottilie Brockhaus too, who was living
with the family of her mother's friend Heinrich Laube,
occasionally delighted me with a visit.

But whenever I settled down seriously to work, I was goaded
afresh by an uneasy apprehension as to the means of subsistence.
As another journey to Russia was out of the question until the
following Easter, only German towns could serve my purpose for
the present. From many quarters, as for instance from Darmstadt,
I received unfavourable replies; and from Karlsruhe, where I had
applied direct to the Grand Duke, the answer was indefinite. But
the severest blow to my confidence was a direct refusal which
came in response to the application I had at last made to St.
Petersburg, the acceptance of which would have ensured a regular
salary. This time the excuse made was that the Polish revolution
of that summer had paralysed the spirit of artistic enterprise.

Pleasanter news, however, came from Moscow, where they held out
prospects of some good concerts for the coming year. I next
bethought me of a very sound suggestion about Kieff made to me by
Setoff the singer, who thought there was a prospect of a highly
profitable engagement there. I entered into correspondence on the
matter, and was again put off until the following Easter, when
all the smaller Russian nobility congregated at Kieff. These were
all plans for the future which, if I then had considered them in
detail at that time, would have been enough to rob me of all
peace of mind for my work. In any case there was a long interval
during which I must provide, not only for myself, but also for
Minna. Any prospect of a position in Vienna had to be handled
most warily, so that, with the approach of autumn, there was
nothing left me but to raise money on loan, a business in which
Tausig was able to help me, as he possessed extraordinary
experience in such matters.

I could not help wondering whether I should have to give up my
Penzing establishment, but, on the other hand, what alternative
was open to me? Every time I was seized with the desire to
compose, these cares obtruded themselves on my mind, until,
seeing that it was only a question of putting things off from day
to day, I was driven to take up the study of Dunker's Geschichte
des Alterthums. In the end my correspondence about concerts
swallowed up the whole of my time. I first asked Heinrich Porges
to see what he could arrange in Prague. He also held out a
reasonable prospect of a concert at Lowenberg, relying upon the
favourable disposition of the Prince of Hohenzollern, who lived
there. I was also advised to apply to Hans von Bronsart, who at
this time was conductor to a private orchestral society in
Dresden. He responded loyally to my proposition, and between us
we settled the date and programme of a concert to be conducted by
me in Dresden. As the Grand Duke of Baden had also placed his
theatre at Karlsruhe at my disposal for a concert to be given in
November, I thought I had now done enough in this direction to be
entitled to take up something different. I therefore wrote a
fairly long article for Uhl-Frobel's paper Der Botschafter on the
Imperial Grand Opera House in Vienna, in which I made suggestions
for a thorough reform of this very badly managed institution. The
excellence of this article was at once acknowledged on all sides,
even by the press; and I appear to have made some impression in
the highest administrative circles, for I shortly afterwards
heard from my friend Rudolf Liechtenstein, that tentative
advances had been made to him with a view to his accepting the
position of manager, associated with which there was certainly an
idea of asking me to become conductor of the Grand Opera. Among
the reasons which caused this proposal to fall through was the
fear, Liechtenstein informed me, that under his direction people
would hear nothing but 'Wagner operas.'

In the end it was a relief to escape from the anxieties of my
position by starting on my concert tour. First I went to Prague,
in the beginning of November, to try my luck again in the matter
of big receipts. Unfortunately Heinrich Porges had not been able
to take the arrangements in hand this time, and his deputies, who
were very busy schoolmasters, were not at all his equals for the
task. Expenses were increased, while receipts diminished, for
they had not ventured to ask such high prices as before. I wished
to repair this deficiency by a second concert a few days later,
and insisted on the point, although my friends urgently dissuaded
me, and, as the event proved, they were quite right. This time
the receipts hardly covered the costs, and as I had been obliged
to send away the proceeds of the first concert to redeem an old
bill in Vienna, I had no other means of paying my hotel expenses
and my fare home than by accepting the offer of a banker, who
posed as a patron, to help me out of my embarrassment.

In the chastened mood induced by these occurrences I pursued my
journey to Karlsruhe, via Nuremberg and Stuttgart, under wretched
conditions of severe cold and constant delays. At Karlsruhe I was
at once surrounded by various friends, who had come there on
hearing of my project. Richard Pohl from Baden, who never failed
me, Mathilde Maier, Frau Betty Schott, the wife of my publisher;
even Raff from Wiesbaden and Emilie Genast were there, as well as
Karl Eckert, who had recently been appointed conductor at
Stuttgart. Trouble began at once with the vocalists for my first
concert, fixed for 14th November, as the baritone, Hauser, who
was to sing 'Wotan's Farewell' and Hans Sachs's 'Cobbler Song,'
was ill and had to be replaced by a voiceless though well-drilled
vaudeville singer. In Eduard Devrient's opinion this made no
difference. My relations with him were strictly official, but he
certainly carried out my instructions for the arrangement of the
orchestra very correctly. From an orchestral point of view the
concert went off so well that the Grand Duke, who received me
very graciously in his box, desired a repetition in a week's
time. To this proposal I raised serious objections, having
learned by experience that the large attendances at such
concerts, particularly at special prices, were mainly accounted
for by the curiosity of the hearers, who often came from long
distances; whereas the number of genuine students of art, whose
interest was chiefly in the music, was but small. But the Grand
Duke insisted, as he wished to give his mother-in-law, Queen
Augusta, whose arrival was expected within a few days, the
pleasure of hearing my production. I should have found it
dreadfully wearisome to have to spend the intervening time in the
solitude of my Karlsruhe hotel, but I received a kind invitation
to Baden-Baden from Mme. Kalergis, who had just become Mme.
Moukhanoff, and had gone to live there. She had, to my delight,
been one of. those who came over for the concert, and was now on
the station to meet me when I arrived. I felt I ought to decline
her proffered escort into the town, not considering myself
sufficiently smart in my 'brigand-hat,' but with the assurance,
'We all wear these brigand-hats here,' she took my arm, and thus
we reached Pauline Viardot's villa, where we were to dine, as my
friend's own house was not yet quite ready. Seated by my old
acquaintance, I was now introduced to the Russian poet
Turgenieff. Mme. Moukhanoff presented me to her husband with some
hesitation, wondering what I should think of her marriage.
Supported by her companions, who were all society people, she
exerted herself to maintain a fairly lively conversation during
the time we were together. Well satisfied by the admirable
intention of my friend and benefactress, I again left Baden to
fill up my time by a little trip to Zurich, where I again tried
to get a few days' rest in the house of the Wesendonck family.
The idea of assisting me did not seem even to dawn on these
friends of mine, although I frankly informed them of my position.
I therefore returned to Karlsruhe, where, on the 22nd of
November, as I had foreseen, I gave my second concert to a poorly
filled house. But, in the opinion of the Grand Duke and his wife,
Queen Augusta's appreciation should have dispelled any unpleasant
impressions I might have received. I was again summoned to the
royal box, where I found all the court gathered round the Queen,
who wore a blue rose on her forehead as an ornament. The few
complimentary observations she had to offer were listened to by
the members of the court with breathless attention; but when the
royal lady had made a few general remarks, and was about to enter
into details, she left all further demonstration to her daughter,
who, as she said, knew more about it. The next day I received my
share of the takings, half the net profits, which amounted to two
hundred marks, and with this I at once bought myself a fur coat.
The sum asked for it was two hundred and twenty marks, but when I
explained that my receipts had only been two hundred marks, I
managed to get the extra twenty knocked off the price. There was
still the Grand Duke's private gift, consisting of a gold snuff-
box with fifteen louis d'or, for which I, of course, returned my
thanks in writing. I next had to face the question whether, after
the toilsome fatigue of the past weeks, I would add to my
disappointments by attempting to give the proposed concert in
Dresden. Many considerations, practically everything indeed that
I had to weigh in connection with a visit to Dresden, moved me to
have the courage to write and tell Hans von Bronsart at the last
moment to cancel all arrangements and not expect me there, a
decision which, although it must have caused him much
inconvenience after all the preparations he had kindly made, he
accepted with a very good grace.

I still wanted to see what I could do with the firm of Schott,
and travelled by night to Mayence, where Mathilde Maier's family
insisted on my spending the day at their little house, where I
was entertained in a simple and friendly fashion. During the day
and night I spent here in the narrow Karthausergasse, I was
waited upon with the greatest care, and from this outpost I
assaulted the publishing house of Schott, though without securing
much booty. This was because I refused my consent to a separate
issue of the various selections from my new works which had been
picked out and prepared for concert use.

As my only remaining source of profit now seemed to be the
concert at Lowenberg, I turned my face thither; but, in order to
avoid passing Dresden, I made a short detour by way of Berlin,
where, after travelling all night, I arrived, very tired, early
on the 28th of November. In compliance with my request the Bulows
took me in, and at once began urging me to break my intended
journey to Silesia by giving them a day in Berlin. Hans was
particularly anxious for me to be present at a concert to be
given that evening under his direction, a factwhich finally
decided me to remain. In defiance of the cold, raw and gloomy
weather, we discussed as cheerfully as we could my unfortunate
position. By way of increasing my capital, it was resolved to
hand over the Grand Duke of Baden's gold snuff-box to our good
old friend Weitzmann for sale. The sum of two hundred and seventy
marks realised by this was brought to me at the Hotel
Brandenburg, where I was dining with the Bulows, and was an
addition to my reserves that furnished us with many a jest. As
Bulow had to complete the preparations for his concert, I drove
out alone with Cosima on the promenade, as before, in a fine
carriage. This time all our jocularity died away into silence. We
gazed speechless into each other's eyes; an intense longing for
an avowal of the truth mastered us and led to a confession--which
needed no words--of the boundless unhappiness which oppressed us.
The experience brought relief to us both, and the profound
tranquillity which ensued enabled us to attend the concert in a
cheerful, unembarrassed mood. I was actually able to fix my
attention clearly on an exquisitely refined and elevated
performance of Beethoven's smaller Concert Overture (in C major),
and likewise on Hans's very clever arrangement of Gluck's
overture to Paris and Helen. We noticed Alwine Frommann in the
audience, and during the interval met her on the grand staircase
of the concert-hall. After the second part had begun and the
stairs were empty, we sat for some time on one of the steps
chatting gaily with our old friend. After the concert we were due
at my friend Weitzmann's for supper, the length and abundance of
which reduced us, whose hearts yearned for profound peace, to
almost frantic despair. But the day came to an end at last, and
after a night spent under Bulow's roof, I continued my journey.
Our farewell reminded me so vividly of that first exquisitely
pathetic parting from Cosima at Zurich, that all the intervening
years vanished like a dream of desolation separating two days of
lifelong moment and decision. If on the first occasion our
presentiment of something mysterious and inexplicable had
compelled silence, it was now no less impossible to give words to
that which we silently acknowledged.

I was met at one of the stations in Silesia by Conductor Seifriz,
who accompanied me in one of the Prince's carriages to Lowenberg.
The old Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen was already very well
disposed towards me on account of his great friendship for Liszt,
and had, moreover, been fully informed of my position by Heinrich
Porges, who had been engaged by him for a short time. He had
invited me to give a concert in his small castle to an audience
composed exclusively of invited guests. I was very comfortably
accommodated in apartments on the ground floor of his house,
whither he frequently came on his wheeled chair from his own
rooms directly opposite. Here I could not only feel at ease, but
be to some extent hopeful. I at once began rehearsing the pieces
I had chosen from my operas with the Prince's by no means ill-
equipped private orchestra, during which my host was invariably
present and seemed well satisfied. Meals were all taken very
sociably in common; but on the day of the concert there was a
kind of gala-dinner, at which I was astonished to meet Henriette
von Bissing, the sister of Mme. Wille of Marienbad, with whom I
had been intimate at Zurich. As she had an estate near Lowenberg,
she had also been invited by the Prince, and now gave me proof of
her faithful and enthusiastic devotion. Being both intelligent
and witty, she at once became my favourite companion. After the
concert had passed off with reasonable success, I had to fulfil
another wish of the Prince's next day, by privately playing to
him Beethoven's Symphony in C minor, when Frau von Bissing was
also present. She had now been for some time a widow. She
promised to come to Breslau, when I gave my concert there. Before
my departure Conductor Seifriz brought me a fee of four thousand
two hundred marks from the Prince, with an expression of regret
that for the present it was impossible for him to be more
liberal. After all my previous experiences I was truly astonished
and contented, and it was with pleasure I returned the gallant
Prince my heartfelt thanks with all the eloquence at my command.

Thence I travelled to Breslau, where the concert director,
Damrosch, had arranged a concert for me. I had made his
acquaintance on my last visit to Weimar, and had also heard of
him through Liszt. Unfortunately the conditions here struck me as
extraordinarily dismal and desperate. The whole affair had been
planned on the meanest scale, as indeed I might have expected. A
perfectly horrible concert-room, which usually served as a beer-
restaurant, had been engaged. At the rear of this, and separated
from it by a dreadfully vulgar curtain, was a small 'Tivoli'
theatre, for which I was obliged to procure an elevated plank-
floor for the orchestra, and the whole concern so disgusted me
that my first impulse was to dismiss the seedy-looking musicians
on the spot. My friend Damrosch, who was very much upset, had to
promise me that at least he would have the horrible reek of
tobacco in the place neutralised. As he could offer no guarantee
as to the amount of the receipts, I was only induced in the end
to go on with the enterprise by my desire not to compromise him
too severely. To my amazement I found almost the entire room, at
all events the front seats, filled with Jews, and in fact I owed
such success as I obtained to the interest excited in this
section of the population, as I learned the next day, when I
attended a mid-day dinner arranged in my honour by Damrosch, at
which again only Jews were present.

It was like a ray of light from a better world when, on leaving
the concert-hall, I perceived Fraulein Marie von Buch, who had
hurried hither with her grandmother from the Hatzfeld estate to
be present at my concert, and was waiting in a boarded
compartment dignified by the name of box, for me to come out
after the audience had left; the young lady came up to me once
more in travelling costume after Damrosch's dinner and attempted
by kindly and sympathetic assurances somewhat to assuage my
evident anxiety respecting the future. I thanked her once more by
letter for her sympathy after my return to Vienna, to which she
replied by a request for a contribution to her album. In memory
of the emotions which had convulsed me on leaving Berlin, and
also as an indication of my mental mood to one worthy of the
confidence, I added Calderon's words, 'Things impossible to
conceal, yet impossible of utterance.' By this I felt I had
conveyed to a kindly disposed person, though with a happy
vagueness, some idea of the secret knowledge which was my sole
inspiration.

But the results of my meeting with Henriette von Bissing in
Breslau were very different. She had followed me thither, and put
up at the same hotel. Influenced, no doubt, by my sickly
appearance, she seemed to give her sympathy for myself and my
situation full play. I placed the latter before her without
reserve, telling her how, ever since the upset following on my
departure from Zurich in 1858, I had been unable to secure the
regular income necessary for the steady pursuit of my calling;
and also of my invariably vain attempts to bring my affairs into
any settled and definite order. My friend did not shrink from
attributing some blame to the relationship between Frau
Wesendonck and my wife, and declared that she felt it her mission
to conciliate them. She approved my settling down at Penzing, and
only hoped that I might not spoil its beneficial effect upon me
by distant enterprises. She would not listen to my plan of
touring in Russia, in the coming winter, in order to earn money
for my absolute necessities, and herself undertook to provide
from her own very considerable fortune the not unimportant sum
requisite to maintain me in independence for some time to come.
But she explained to me that for a short while longer I was to
try and get along through thick and thin, as she would have some
difficulty--possibly a good deal--in placing the promised money
at my disposal.

Greatly cheered by the impressions of this meeting I returned to
Vienna on the 9th December. At Lowenberg I had been obliged to
remit to Vienna the greater portion of the Prince's gift, part of
it for Minna, and part for the payment of debts. Though I had but
little cash I felt thoroughly sanguine; I could now greet my few
friends with tolerable good-humour, and among them Peter
Cornelius, who looked in on me every evening. As Heinrich Porges
and Gustav Schonaich sometimes joined us, we founded an intimate
little circle and met regularly. On Christmas Eve I invited them
all to my house, where I had the Christmas tree lighted up, and
gave each one an appropriate trifle. Some work also came my way
again, for Tausig asked me to help him with a concert which he
was to give in the great Redouten-Saal. In addition to a few
selections from my new operas, I also conducted the Freischutz
Overture, for my own particular satisfaction and entirely
according to my own interpretation. Its effect, even upon the
orchestra, was truly startling.

But there did not seem the slightest prospect of any official
recognition of my abilities; I was, and continued to be, ignored
by the great. Frau von Biasing's communications revealed by
degrees the difficulties which she had encountered in the
fulfilment of her promise; but as they were still hopeful in
tone, I was able to spend New Year's Eve at the Standhartner's in
good spirits, and to enjoy a poem specially written by Cornelius
for the occasion, which was as humorous as it was solemnly
appropriate.

The new year 1864 assumed for me an aspect of gravity which soon
became intensified. I fell ill with a painful and increasing
malady due to a chill, which often made demands on Standhartner's
care. But I was yet more seriously threatened by the turn of Frau
von Bissing's communications. It seemed she could only raise the
promised money with the help of her family, the Slomans, who were
shipowners in Hamburg, and from them she was meeting with violent
opposition, mingled, as it seemed, with slanderous charges
against me. These circumstances upset me so much that I wished I
could renounce all help from this friend, and I began once more
to turn my serious attention to Russia. Fraulein von Rhaden, to
whom I again applied, felt she must vigorously dissuade me from
any attempt to visit St. Petersburg, in the first place because,
owing to the military disturbances in the Polish provinces, I
should find the route blocked, and secondly because, roughly
speaking, I should attract no notice in the Russian capital. On
the other hand, a visit to Kieff, with a chance of five thousand
roubles profit, was represented as undoubtedly feasible. Keeping
my thoughts fixed on this, I arranged with Cornelius, who was to
accompany me, a plan for crossing the Black Sea to Odessa, and
going from there to Kieff, with a view to which we both resolved
to procure the indispensable fur coats at once. Meanwhile, the
only course open to me was to see about raising money by fresh
bills at short dates, wherewith to pay all my other bills, which
were also short-dated. Thus I became launched upon a business
system which, leading, as it did, to obvious and inevitable ruin,
could only be finally resolved by the acceptance of prompt and
effectual help. In these straits I was at last compelled to
request a clear declaration from my friend, not as to whether she
COULD help me at once, but whether she really WISHED to help me
at all, as I could no longer stave off ruin. She must have been
in the highest degree wounded by some notion or other, of which I
was ignorant, before bringing herself to reply in the following
tone: 'You wish to know finally whether I WILL or not? Well,
then, in God's name, NO!' Not long after this I received from her
sister, Mme. Wille, a very surprising explanation of her conduct,
which seemed at the time perfectly inexplicable, and only to be
accounted for by the weakness of her not very reliable character.

Amid all these vacillations the month of February had run to an
end, and while Cornelius and I were busy on our Russian plans, I
received news from Kieff and Odessa that it would be unwise to
attempt any artistic enterprises there during the present year.
By this time it had become clear that, under the conditions thus
developed, I could no longer reckon on maintaining my position in
Vienna, or my establishment at Penzing. Not only did there seem
no prospect of even a temporary nature of earning money, but my
debts had mounted up, in the usual style of such usury, to so
great a sum, and assumed so threatening an aspect, that, failing
some extraordinary relief, my very person was in danger. In this
perplexity I addressed myself with perfect frankness--at first
only for advice--to the judge of the Imperial Provincial Court,
Eduard Liszt, the youthful uncle of my old friend Franz. During
my first stay in Vienna this man had shown himself a warmly
devoted friend, always ready to help me. For the discharge of my
bill-debts he could naturally suggest no other method than the
intervention of some wealthy patron, who should settle with my
creditors. For some time he believed that a certain Mme.
Scholler, the wife of a rich merchant and one of my admirers, not
only possessed the means, but was willing to use them on my
behalf. Standhartner also, with whom I made no pretence of
secrecy, thought he could do something for me in this way. Thus
my position was for some weeks again most uncertain, until at
last it became clear that all my friends could procure me was the
means for flight to Switzerland--which was now deemed absolutely
necessary--where, having saved my skin so far, I should have to
raise money for my bills. To the lawyer, Eduard Liszt, this way
of escape seemed specially desirable, because he would then be in
a position to punish the outrageous usury practised against me.

During the anxious time of the last few months, through which,
nevertheless, there had run an undercurrent of indefinite hope, I
had kept up a lively intercourse with my few friends. Cornelius
turned up regularly every evening, and was joined by O. Bach,
little Count Laurencin, and, on one occasion, by Rudolph
Liechtenstein. With Cornelius alone I began reading the Iliad.
When we reached the catalogue of ships I wished to skip it; but
Peter protested, and offered to read it out himself; but whether
we ever came to the end of it I forget. My reading by myself
consisted of Chateaubriand's La Vie de Rance, which Tausig had
brought me. Meanwhile, he himself vanished without leaving any
trace, until after some time he reappeared engaged to a Hungarian
pianist. During the whole of this time I was very ill and
suffered exceedingly from a violent catarrh. The thought of death
took such hold on me that I at last lost all desire to shake it
off, and even set about bequeathing my books and manuscripts, of
which a portion fell to the lot of Cornelius.

I had taken the precaution some time before of commending into
Standhartner's keeping my remaining--and now, alas! exceedingly
doubtful--assets which were in the house at Penzing. As my
friends were most positive in recommending preparation for
immediate flight, I had written to Otto Wesendonck requesting to
be taken into his house, as Switzerland was to be my destination.
He refused point-blank, and I could not resist sending him a
reply to prove the injustice of this. The next thing was to make
my absence from home a short one and to count upon a speedy
return. Standhartner made me go and dine at his house in his
great anxiety to cover up my departure, and my servant Franz
Mrazek brought my trunk there too. My farewell to Standhartner,
his wife Anna, and the good dog Pohl was very depressing.
Standhartner's stepson Karl Schonaich and Cornelius accompanied
me to the station, the one in grief and tears, the other
inclining to a frivolous mood. It was on the afternoon of 23rd
March that I left for Munich, my first stopping-place, where I
hoped to rest for two days after the terrible disturbances I had
gone through, without attracting any notice. I stayed at the
'Bayerischer Hof' and took a few walks through the city at my
leisure. It was Good Friday and the weather was bitterly cold.
The mood proper to the day seemed to possess the whole
population, whom I saw going from one church to another dressed
in deepest mourning. King Maximilian II.--of whom the Bavarians
had become so fond--had died a few days before, leaving as heir
to the throne a son aged eighteen and a half, whose extreme youth
was no bar to his accession. I saw a portrait of the young king,
Ludwig II. in a shop window, and experienced the peculiar emotion
which is aroused by the sight of youth and beauty placed in a
position presumed to be unusually trying. After writing a
humorous epitaph for myself, I crossed Lake Constance unmolested
and reached Zurich--once more a refugee in need of an asylum--
where I at once betook myself to Dr. Wille's estate at Mariafeld.

I had already written to my friend's wife to ask her to put me up
for a few days, which she very kindly agreed to do. I had got to
know her very well during my last stay at Zurich, while my
friendship with him had somewhat cooled. I wanted to have time to
find what seemed suitable quarters in one of the places bordering
on Lake Zurich. Dr. Wille himself was not there, as he had gone
to Constantinople on a pleasure trip. I had no difficulty in
making my friend understand my situation, which I found her most
willing to relieve. First of all she cleared one or two living
rooms in Frau von Bissing's old house next door, from which,
however, the fairly comfortable furniture had been removed. I
wanted to cater for myself, but had to yield to her request to
take over that responsibility. Only furniture was lacking, and
for this she ventured to apply to Frau Wesendonck, who
immediately sent all she could spare of her household goods, as
well as a cottage piano. The good woman was also anxious that I
should visit my old friends at Zurich to avoid any appearance of
unpleasantness, but I was prevented from doing so by serious
indisposition, which was increased by the badly heated rooms, and
finally Otto and Mathilde Wesendonck came over to us at
Mariafeld. The very uncertain and strained attitude apparent in
these two was not entirely incomprehensible to me, but I behaved
as if I did not notice it. My cold, which rendered me incapable
of looking about for a house in the neighbouring districts, was
continually aggravated by the bad weather and my own deep
depression. I spent these dreadful days sitting huddled in my
Karlsruhe fur coat from morning till night, and addled my brain
with reading one after another of the volumes which Mme. Wille
sent me in my seclusion. I read Jean Paul's Siebenkas, Frederick
the Great's Tagebuch, Tauser, George Sand's novels and Walter
Scott's, and finally Felicitas, a work from my sympathetic
hostess's own pen. Nothing reached me from the outside world
except a passionate lament from Mathilde Maier, and a most
pleasant surprise in the shape of royalties (seventy-five
francs), which Truinet sent from Paris. This led to a
conversation with Mme. Wille, half in anger and half with
condemned-cell cynicism, as to what I could do to obtain complete
release from my wretched situation. Among other things we touched
upon the necessity of obtaining a divorce from my wife in order
to contract a rich marriage. As everything seemed right and
nothing inexpedient in my eyes, I actually wrote and asked my
sister Luise Brockhaus whether she could not, by talking sensibly
to Minna, persuade her to depend on her settled yearly allowance
without making any claims on my person in future. In reply I
received a deeply pathetic letter advising me first to think of
establishing my reputation and to create for myself an
unassailable position by some new work. In this way I might very
probably reap some benefit without taking any foolish step; and
in any case I should do well to apply for the post of conductor
which was now vacant in Darmstadt.

I had very bad news from Vienna. Standhartncr, to make sure of
the furniture I had left in the house, sold it to a Viennese
agent, with the option of re-purchase. I wrote back in great
indignation, particularly as I realised the prejudicial effect of
this on my landlord, to whom I had to pay rent within the next
few days. Through Mme. Wille I succeeded in getting placed at my
disposal the money required for the rent, which I forwarded at
once to Baron Raokowitz. Unfortunately, however, I found that
Standhartner had already cleared up everything with Eduard Liszt,
paying the rent with the proceeds from the furniture, and thereby
cutting off my return to Vienna, which they both considered would
be positive ruin to me. But when I heard at the same time from
Cornelius that Tausig, who was then in Hungary and who had added
his signature to one of the bills of exchange, felt himself
prevented by me from returning to Vienna as he desired, I was so
sensibly wounded that I decided to go back on the spot, however
great the danger might be. I announced my intention to my friends
there immediately, but decided first to try and provide myself
with enough money to be in a position to suggest a composition
with my creditors. To this end I had written most urgently to
Schott at Mayence, and did not refrain from reproaching him
bitterly for his behaviour to me. I now decided to leave
Mariafeld for Stuttgart to await the result of these efforts, and
to prosecute them from a nearer vantage-ground. But I was also,
as will be seen, moved to carry out this change by other motives.

Dr. Wille had returned, and I could see at once that my stay at
Mariafeld alarmed him. He probably feared I might rely on his
help also. In some confusion, occasioned by the attitude I had
adopted in consequence, he made this confession to me in a moment
of agitation. He was, he said, overpowered by a sentiment with
regard to me which amounted to this--that a man wanted, after
all, to be something more than a cipher in his own house, where,
if anywhere, it is not pleasant to serve as a mere foil to some
one else. This sentiment was merely excusable, he thought, in a
man who, though he might reasonably suppose himself of some
account among his fellows, had been brought into close contact
with another to whom he felt himself in the strangest manner
subordinate. Mme. Wille, foreseeing her husband's frame of mind,
had come to an agreement, with the Wesendonck family by which
they were to provide me with one hundred francs a month during my
stay at Mariafeld. When this came to my knowledge, I could do
nothing but announce to Frau Wesendonck my immediate departure
from Switzerland, and request her in the kindest possible way to
consider herself relieved of all anxiety about me, as I had
arranged my affairs quite in accordance with my wishes. I heard
later that she had returned this letter--which, possibly, she
considered compromising--to Mme. Wille unopened.

My next move was to go to Stuttgart on 30th April. I knew that
Karl Eckert had been settled there some time as conductor at the
Royal Court Theatre, and I had reason to believe the good-natured
fellow to be unprejudiced and well disposed towards me, judging
by his admirable behaviour when he had been director of the opera
in Vienna, and also by the enthusiasm he exhibited in coming to
my concert at Karlsruhe the year before. I expected nothing
further of him than a little assistance in looking for a quiet
lodging for the coming summer at Cannstadt or some such place
near Stuttgart. I wanted, above all, to finish the first act of
the Meistersinger with all possible despatch, so as to send
Schott part of the manuscript at last. I had told him that I was
going to send it to him almost immediately when I attacked him
about the advances which had so long been withheld from me. I
then intended to collect the means wherewith to meet my
obligations in Vienna, while living in complete retirement and,
as I hoped, in concealment. Eckert welcomed me most kindly. His
wife--one of the greatest beauties in Vienna--had, in her
fantastic desire to marry an artist, given up a very profitable
post, but was still rich enough for the conductor to live
comfortably and show hospitality, and the impression I now
received was very pleasant. Eckert felt himself absolutely bound
to take me to see Baron von Gall, the manager of the court
theatre, who alluded sensibly and kindly to my difficult position
in Germany, where everything was likely to remain closed to me as
long as the Saxon ambassadors and agents--who were scattered
everywhere--were allowed to attempt to injure me by all kinds of
suspicions. After getting to know me better, he considered
himself authorised to act on my behalf through the medium of the
court of Wurtemberg. As I was talking over these matters rather
late on the evening of 3rd May at the Eckerts', a gentleman's
card with the inscription 'Secretary to the King of Bavaria' was
handed to me. I was disagreeably surprised that my presence in
Stuttgart should be known to passing travellers, and sent word
that I was not there, after which I retired to my hotel, only to
be again informed by the landlord that a gentleman from Munich
desired to see me on urgent business. I made an appointment for
the morning at ten o'clock, and passed a disturbed night in my
constant anticipation of misfortune. I received Herr
Pfistermeister, the private secretary of H.M. the King of
Bavaria, in my room. He first expressed great pleasure at having
found me at last, thanks to receiving some happy directions,
after vainly seeking me in Vienna and even at Mariafeld on Lake
Zurich. He was charged with a note for me from the young King of
Bavaria, together with a portrait and a ring as a present. In
words which, though few, penetrated to the very core of my being,
the youthful monarch confessed his great partiality for my work,
and announced his firm resolve to keep me near him as his friend,
so that I might escape any malignant stroke of fate. Herr
Pfistermeister informed me at the same time that he was
instructed to conduct me to Munich at once to see the King, and
begged my permission to inform his master by telegram that I
would come on the following day. I was invited to dine with the
Eckerts, but Herr Pfistermeister was obliged to decline to
accompany me. My friends, who had been joined by young Weisheimer
from Osthofen, were very naturally amazed and delighted at the
news I brought them. While we were at table Eckert was informed
by telegram of Meyerbeer's death in Paris, and Weisheimer burst
out in boorish laughter to think that the master of opera, who
had done me so much harm, had by a strange coincidence not lived
to see this day. Herr von Gall also made his appearance, and had
to admit in friendly surprise that I certainly did not need his
good services any more. He had already given the order for
Lohengrin, and now paid me the stipulated sum on the spot. At
five o'clock that afternoon I met Herr Pfistermeister at the
station to travel with him to Munich, where my visit to the King
was announced for the following morning.

On the same day I had received the most urgent warnings against
returning to Vienna. But my life was to have no more of these
alarms; the dangerous road along which fate beckoned me to such
great ends was not destined to be clear of troubles and anxieties
of a kind unknown to me heretofore, but I was never again to feel
the weight of the everyday hardships of existence under the
protection of my exalted friend.







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