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CORNELL 
 UNIVERSITY 
 LIBRARY . 
 
 THIS BOOK IS ONE OF A 
 COLLECTION MADE BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 1854-1919 
 
 AND BEQUEATHED TO 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
 JQML 
 
THE AMATEUR SERIES. 
 
 RECENT MUSIC AND MUSICIANS: 
 
 As described in the Diaries and Correspondence of Ignaz 
 Moscheles. Selected by his wife, and adapted from the 
 original German by A. D. Coleridge. $2.00. 
 
 RECENT ART AND SOCIETY: 
 
 As described in the Autobiography and Memoirs of Henry 
 Fothergill Chorley. Compiled from the Edition of Henry 
 G. Hewlett. By C. H. Jones. $2.00. 
 
 ART LIFE AND THEORIES OF RICH- 
 ARD ■WAGNER : 
 
 Selected from his writings, and translated by Edward L. 
 Burlingame. With a Preface, a Catalogue of Wagner's 
 published works, and drawings of the Bayreuth Opera 
 House. $2.00. 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND MUSICAL GRO- 
 TESQUES. By H. Berlioz. Translated by W. F. 
 Aptborp. (In press.) 
 
 HENRY HOLT &- CO., 
 
 25 Bond Street, New York. 
 
AMATEUR SERIES. 
 
 ART LIFE AND THEORIES 
 
 RICHARD WAGNER 
 
 Selected from his Writings and Translated 
 
 EDWARD L. BURLINGAME 
 
 WITH A PREFACE, A CATALOGUE OF WAGN'EK S 
 
 PL-DLTSIIED WORk-S AND DKAWINGS OF 
 
 THE BAVKEUTH OPERA HOUSE. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 187s 
 
Eutered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by 
 
 HENRY HOLT, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 
 
 I.A-vr:E, LlTTLB & Co., 
 
 PKINTErjI, ELKCTICOTtVKKH AM> STERBOTYPKBii, 
 
 lOS T8 ll-I WOORTER StREF.T, X. Y, 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Pagb 
 
 Introduction v 
 
 Autobiography i 
 
 The Love-Veto, the Story of the First Perform- 
 ance OF AN Opera 27 
 
 A Pilgrimage to Beethoven 41 
 
 An End in Paris 67 
 
 Der Freischutz in Paris : 
 
 I. Der Freischutz, an. Address to the Parisian 
 
 Public 92 
 
 II. " Le Freischutz ; " a Report to Germany. . . . 108 
 
 J. HE Music of the Future 132 
 
 An Account of the Production of Tannhauser in 
 
 Paris 190 
 
 The Purpose of the Opera 203 
 
 Musical Criticism : Extracts from a Letter on 
 that Subject to the Editor of the " Neue 
 
 Zeitschrift fur Musik " 233 
 
 The Legend of the Nibelungen 242 
 
 The Opera-House at Bayreuth : 
 
 1 256 
 
 II 268 
 
 Catalogue of Wagner's published Works 291 
 
 Index of Names, Places and Important Works 
 mentioned in this Volume 303 
 
DRAWINGS OF THE 
 BAYREUTH OPERA HOUSE. 
 
 Front Elevation Frontispiece. 
 
 Interior, to face page 256 
 
 Ground Plan, to face page 282 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 /'"OUTSIDE of Germany, only the most devoted 
 ^-^ students of Wagner's theories have any true 
 knowledge of him as a writer — or at all events, as a 
 writer of anything beyond the texts of his operas. 
 And even among those most interested, either as up- 
 holders or opponents of his beliefs, such knowledge 
 has been confined to readers who have a much better 
 understanding of German than is sufficient to follow 
 the general course of an ordinary treatise. Thus, al- 
 though many have an excellent acquaintance with his 
 ideas as interpreted by others, very few know them as 
 interpreted by himself ; and it is safe to say that only 
 a small minority of those who take a keen interest in 
 the new school, know of even the existence of the 
 nine stout octavo volumes of " collected works," which 
 entitle Wagner to the name of its first literary and 
 philosophical expositor, as he is otherwise entitled to 
 that of its first composer. 
 
 Only a few of his pamphlets, essays, and letters, 
 have been translated into English. The essay on 
 Beethoven (not included in this volume) has been 
 
vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 translated in America, and I believe in England also ; 
 but it does not form a very appropriate or, indeed, a 
 very inviting, introduction to Wagner's works. The 
 letter on "The Music of the Future " was translated in 
 England by Mr. Dannreuther, but the version is prac- 
 tically unknown to American readers, and attracted 
 little attention at a time when Wagner had fewer Eng- 
 lish-speaking followers than now. The nine volumes 
 present a great but rather formidable field of choice ; 
 the difficulty in selecting frc<n them matter that will 
 form a just exposition of the composer's theories, 
 without alarming the reader by essays of unfit length 
 and technicality, is very great ; and these facts are 
 perhaps the reasons why the present is, so far as I 
 know, the first venture made in this direction ; — they 
 are certainly the reasons why my volume claims no 
 higher title than that of " Miscellanies," and does not 
 pretend to include more than enough to furnish a syn- 
 opsis of Wagner's creed. 
 
 Without asking any undue indulgence for the trans- 
 lations here given, justice to Herr Wagner himself 
 makes it necessary to say something of the very unus- 
 ual difficulties in the way of rendering his style satis- 
 factorily into English — or, into satisfactory English — 
 the reader may interpret the phrase in whichever way 
 he will. No explanation of these difficulties will be 
 needed by anyone who has ever read any of the or- 
 iginal German ; but to anyone who has not, I can per- 
 
INTRODUCTION. yii 
 
 haps best explain the hardness of the labor, by asking 
 him to imagine such an undertaking as the endeavor 
 to render Carlyle's English into French ; — a task which 
 does not seem to me, as I look back over my work, to 
 present a greatly exaggerated comparison. Indeed, 
 as far as the mere use of language is concerned, Wag- 
 ner's style has not a few characteristics of Carlyle's. 
 The absolute independence with which he coins words 
 is one of these ; and he indulges to the full in that in- 
 exhaustible resource of the German metaphysician, — 
 that immense length of sentence which does not hinder 
 the intelligibility of his own language, but works much 
 ruin if we endeavor to transfer it into our own. The 
 very nature of his subject compels the coining of words 
 and even phrases ; the purely metaphysical charac- 
 ter of much of it often renders almost necessary the 
 length and intricacy of his clauses ; but behind this, 
 the chief difficulty in rendering his writings is a certain 
 diffuseness of style, the result of his being essentially 
 a poet and an artist, rather than one accustomed to 
 express himself in exact and careful prose. He con- 
 stantly acknowledges this in his essays, expressing his 
 dislike for critical and speculative writing ; but his 
 translator is forced to refer to it also ; and while I 
 have no wish to escape from any judgment of my work, 
 I feel justified in believing that some passages which 
 may appear too diffuse and vague are only unchanged 
 representatives of similar parts in the original, — pas- 
 
viii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sages where Wagner forgets the expositor, in a mo- 
 ment's dreaming over ideals that need no explanation 
 for himself. 
 
 The short, dry, and somewhat stiff sentences in the 
 little autobiographical sketch preceding the Miscellan- 
 ies, presented difficulties of another kind. They were 
 so much of the nature of disconnected notes, that it 
 was hard to give them enough of the character of a 
 continuous record. 
 
 I have not tried to translate any one of Wagner's 
 poems — even of those shorter ones in his collected 
 works which it might have been possible to include in 
 such a volume as this. Apart from my belief in the 
 German proverb which declares that it needs a poet to 
 translate a poet, I had not leisure to make even the 
 audacious attempt. But I earnestly hope we may 
 some time have an EngUsh version of the best of those 
 noble dramatic works, which sufficiently prove to every 
 reader of German that we should have known Wagner 
 as a true poet, if we had not first seen his rare genius 
 in another aspect. The great drama of the Nibel- 
 ungen would be a worthy study for any translator 
 ambitious enough and confident enough to begin the 
 labor ; and English readers would gain from a really 
 noble rendering of it, a new idea of the capacity and 
 power of the man whom they now know only from a 
 single side. 
 
 I have spoken of the difficulty of selecting from the 
 
INTRODUCTION. jx 
 
 voluminous collected works, " matter that will form a 
 just exposition of the composer's theories without 
 alarming the reader by essays of great length and 
 technicality ; " a brief explanation of the reasons for 
 the choice I have made for this volume will show that 
 at least an earnest effort has been made to solve the 
 problem. 
 
 The account of the production of the " Liebesver- 
 bot " (the title of which is a piece of word-coinage that 
 compelled me to the imitative " Love-Veto ") was se- 
 lected because it is the only thing besides the Auto- 
 biography which gives us a glimpse of Wagner's ear- 
 lier youth, and shows him in a stage altogether prior 
 to the development of his later views. The " Pilgrim- 
 age to Beethoven," the " End in Paris" {^Ein Ende in 
 Paris), and the two papers on the Parisian perform- 
 ance of " Der Freischiitz," are what seemed to me 
 to be the best of a series of sketches written in Paris 
 itself, during the period of great want and distress re- 
 ferred to in the Autobiography ; and in their original 
 arrangement, as well as in the collected works, they 
 were presented in the character of papers found in the 
 portfolios of the author's fictitious friend " N.," whose 
 death is. described in "An End in Paris," and who 
 might have been drawn from Wagner himself at this 
 time of his greatest misery. They present Wagner in 
 a different light from that given by any others of his 
 writings ; the " Pilgrimage " and the " End in Paris " 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 are, I think, the only bits of prose fiction we have 
 from him. 
 
 The choice of the essay on "The Music of the Fu- 
 ture" needs, of course, no explanation. With the ex- 
 ception of the extended treatise on "The Opera and 
 the Drama" (Oper und Drama), by itself occupying an 
 entire volume, and therefore inadmissible here, it is 
 the most complete general explanation of his most im- 
 portant art-theory that Wagner has written. It must 
 be said here, that in the original edition of the Col- 
 lected Works, the title of the essay {Zukunftsmusik) 
 was placed between ironical quotation marks, — the 
 writer's method of showing that he had himself 
 adopted a phrase at first applied derisively by his 
 enemies. I did not repeat the inverted commas in 
 my translation, partly because I was in doubt whether 
 their meaning would be appreciated there, and partly 
 because I feared they would be generally taken for 
 additions of my own, made on the supposition that 
 the term was only half-seriously used by us. In spite 
 of its origin as a mere chaffing phrase, it has really 
 become the only designation under which all the theo- 
 ries of Wagner's school are at once understood. 
 
 • The account of the production of Tannhauser in 
 Paris seemed to me one of the most important of 
 those letters in which we get a little autobiography, 
 and to be valuable for other reasons also, as the au- 
 thor's own version of a well-remembered musical 
 
INTRODUCTION. xi 
 
 event, and as containing some candid confessions 
 about the Parisians, which partly offset the bitterness 
 of the paper ironically entitled " Le Freischiitz." 
 
 The " Purpose of the Opera" (I think this the only 
 translation of the title that makes it cover the whole 
 ground in English) needs as little explanation as 
 " The Music of the Future," though as an essay it is 
 much less clear and satisfactory. The extracts from 
 the letter on " Musical Criticism" are valuable as sug- 
 gestions; and the " Legend of the Nibelungen" is the 
 original scheme made out by Wagner to indicate the 
 arrangement he intended to give to the myth in his 
 great trilogy. It is inserted chiefly on this account ; 
 for the extreme conciseness which has been given to it 
 here, takes away all its beauty as a version of the Ni- 
 belungen story. 
 
 Finally, the account of the inception and progress 
 of the Bayreuth Opera-house undertaking, seemed so 
 timely as to come within the limits of the collection, 
 although it is wanting in the clearness and definiteness 
 needed for a good description, and is largely occupied 
 with an explanation of the theories governing the con- 
 struction of the building, rather than with such an ac- 
 count of the result as would at this time gratify many 
 readers. The two plates which have been selected 
 from a considerable number affixed to the German 
 edition of the two papers, will, however, aid in giving 
 a clear idea of the interior arrangements of the build- 
 
xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ing, and the way in which Wagner's desires have been 
 carried out in them. 
 
 I have avoided including in this collection any of 
 those polemic writings to which Wagner has frequently 
 been aroused by the intense hostility formerly dis- 
 played against him. Strong and biting as they are, 
 and well as they show still another side of his power 
 and intense individuality, I regard them as of too tem- 
 porary and merely national interest to find place 
 among these selections. The insertion of any one of 
 them, it is true, might give English and American 
 readers a clearer understanding of the intensity of the 
 musical war that raged in Germany during the growth 
 of Wagner's theories ; but even the briefest of his de- 
 fensive essays would occupy space more useful for 
 other matters. 
 
 I desire to express my hearty thanks to my friend, 
 Mr. William F. Apthorp, of Boston, for the great ser- 
 vice he has done the readers of these translations, by 
 preparing the list of Wagner's published works which 
 closes the volume. It is of the greatest value in fol- 
 lowing the growth of the composer's theories and pro- 
 duction — what may be called his art-biography ; and 
 I do not know of so complete a catalogue elsewhere, 
 though scattered materials for an even fuller one no 
 doubt exist in Germany, in a style inaccessible to the 
 ordinary reader. I have also to thank Mr. Apthorp 
 for frequent aid and suggestions, of a kind which his 
 
INTRODUCTION. xiii 
 
 thorough musical knowledge and experience as a 
 critic made particularly serviceable. Had I been able 
 to avail myself of his criticism in any other way than 
 by occasional correspondence, I might have avoided 
 any errors in the use of technical terms — errors into 
 which I may have had the misfortune to fall, but which 
 I have earnestly endeavored to avoid, in spite of the 
 many cases where an English equivalent is difficult to 
 find. In many such cases I profited by the kind aid 
 of a very thorough musical student among my friends 
 here. 
 
 I also wish to express my thanks to Mr. Fitzgerald, 
 of the Popular Science Monthly, the able translator of 
 Strauss' " Preface," etc., for taking part, when I was 
 somewhat hurried, in the translation of the Bayreuth 
 article, and in that of the extracts on " Musical Criti- 
 cism." 
 
 E. L. B. 
 
 New York, March, 187s. 
 
A UTOBIO GRAPH Y. 
 
 MY name is WiLHELM Richard Wagner, and 
 I was born in Leipzig on the twenty-second 
 day of May, 1813. My father, who was a poHce actu- 
 ary, died six months after my birth. 
 
 My step-father, Ludwig Geyer, was an actor and a 
 painter, and had written several comedies, — one of 
 which, " The Slaughter of the Innocents," had con- 
 siderable success. The family went to live with him 
 in Dresden. He wished to make a painter of me, 
 but I had decidedly no talent for drawing. 
 
 My step-father, too, died early — when I was only 
 seven years old. A little while before his death I had 
 learned to play on the piano " Ueb' immer Treu und 
 Redliclikeit " and the " Jungfernkranz," then quite a 
 novelty ; and on the day before he died he had me 
 play them both over to him in an adjoining room. I 
 heard him say in a faint voice to my mother, ' ' What 
 if he should have a talent for music ? " 
 
 Early the next day, after he was dead, our mother 
 came into the nursery, and said something to each of 
 us children; to me she said, "He hoped that some- 
 thing worth having might be made of you." 
 
 And I remember that I long imagined something 
 would be made of me. 
 
2 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 With my ninth year I entered the Dresden Kreuz- 
 schule. I wanted to study ; I had no thought of 
 music. Two of my sisters were learning to play the 
 piano ; but I listened to them without taking lessons 
 myself. 
 
 Nothing pleased me so much as " Der Freischiitz." 
 I often saw Weber pass our house when he came out 
 of the rehearsals. I always looked upon him with 
 religious awe. 
 
 At last my private tutor, who taught me to construe 
 Cornelius Nepos, had to give me piano lessons as well. 
 I had hardly finished the first exercises in fingering 
 when I began secretly to study the overture to the 
 " Freischiitz," at first without notes. My teacher once 
 overheard me doing this, and pronounced that I 
 would come to nothing. He was right ; I have never 
 in my life learned to play the piano. Still, I played 
 then for myself alone, — nothing but overtures, and 
 these with the most terrible fingering. It was impos- 
 sible for me to play a passage clearly, and in this 
 way I came to have a great horror of all " runs." 
 
 In Mozart's music I only liked the overture to the 
 "Magic Flute;" "Don Juan" I disliked because it 
 had the Italian text under it ; this seemed to me su- 
 premely ridiculous. 
 
 This whole connection with music, however, was 
 entirely a thing of secondary importance. Greek, 
 Latin, Mythology, and Ancient History made up my 
 chief einployment. I made verses, too. On one oc- 
 casion a school-fellow of ours had died, and the teach- 
 ers set us the task of writing a poem on his death. 
 The best poem was to be printed. Mine was printed. 
 
A UTOBIO GRAPH Y. 3 
 
 but only after I had cut out of it a good deal of bom- 
 bast. I was then eleven years old. 
 
 I now longed to be a poet. I projected tragedies 
 after the Greek model, incited thereto by reading 
 Apel's tragedies, " Polyidos," "The .iEtolians," and 
 the rest. I was thought at school to be apt at literary 
 studies ; even while I was in the third form I had 
 translated the first twelve books of the Odyssey. At 
 one time I began to learn English solely that I might 
 know Shakespeare thoroughly. I even made a metri- 
 cal translation of Romeo's monologue. 
 
 My English, however, I soon dropped; b.ut Shake- 
 speare remained my model. I projected a great trag- 
 edy, more or less a compound of Hamlet and Lear. 
 The plan was on the most stupendous scale. Forty- 
 two persons perished in the course of the piece ; and 
 in order to perform it I found myself compelled to re- 
 introduce the majority of them as ghosts ; for other- 
 wise I should have exhausted ray personnel. 
 
 This piece occupied my attention for two years, 
 during which time I left Dresden and the Kreuzschule 
 and went to Leipzig. There, at the Nicholas seminary, 
 I was put into the third form, after I had been in the 
 second at the Dresden school ; and this circumstance 
 so embittered me that from this time I let all my 
 philological studies go by the board. I was idle and 
 disorderly ; and only my great tragedy kept its place 
 in my heart. 
 
 While I was finishing it, I made, at the Leipzig 
 Gewandhaus concerts, my first acquaintance with 
 Beethoven's music. The impression it made upon me 
 was powerful to the last degree. I made friends with 
 
4 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Mozart, too, especially through his Requiem. Beet- 
 hoven's music in Egmont so excited me, that I deter- 
 mined that my now completed tragedy should not 
 proceed a step farther without being provided with 
 just such accompaniment. 
 
 Without hesitation I put full confidence in my own 
 ability to write this necessary music myself; at the 
 same time I thought it best to get a few of the chief 
 rules of thorough-bass clearly in my mind. In order 
 to do this rapidly I borrowed Logier's " Thorough- 
 bass Method " for a week, and studied it zealously ; 
 but the study did not bear such quick fruit as I had 
 imagined. The difficulties delighted and fascinated 
 me. I decided to be a musician. 
 
 Meanwhile, however, my great tragedy had been 
 discovered by the family. They were extremely an- 
 noyed at it ; for it was now revealed that I had utterly 
 neglected my school studies for it ; and I was thence- 
 forth kept rigidly to their diligent continuance. 
 Under these circumstances I kept my secret profession 
 of music to myself; but I nevertheless composed, in 
 the greatest secrecy, a sonata, a quartette, and an 
 aria. 
 
 When I felt my musical studies sufficiently advanced, 
 I at last came out with the disclosure. Naturally, I 
 had to meet with much opposition ; for my relatives 
 looked upon my inclination for music as also nothing 
 but a passing fancy, since it was not justified by any 
 preparatory studies, or especially by skill in any in- 
 strument. 
 
 I was then in my sixteenth year, and infected with 
 the wildest mysticism by reading Hoffman ; during 
 
AUTOS rOGRAPIIY. 5 
 
 the day, while half dozing, I had visions in which 
 fundamentals, thirds, and fifths appeared to me incar- 
 nate, and revealed to me their wonderful meaning ; 
 what I wrote of them was the purest nonsense. At 
 last I was put under the teaching of a capable rriusic- 
 master. The poor man had sad trouble with me ; 
 he had to explain to me that what I looked upon as 
 marvellous figures and powers were really intervals 
 and chords. What could be more disappointing for 
 my family than to find that I proved myself careless 
 and unsystematic in this study also ? 
 
 My teacher shook his head ; and it certainly looked 
 as though in this, too, I should come to nothing sen- 
 sible. My zeal. for study gradually died away, and I 
 preferred to write overtures for a full orchestra, one of 
 which was once produced in the Leipzig theatre. 
 
 These overtures formed the culminating-point of my 
 absurdities. I chose, to aid the clearer comprehen- 
 sion of any one who should study the parts, to write 
 them in three different inks, — the stringed instruments 
 red, the reed instruments green, and the brass instru- 
 ments black. Beethoven's ninth symphony was to be 
 a mere Pleyel's sonata beside this wonderfully com- 
 posed overture. 
 
 Wlien it came to be performed I was especially in- 
 jured by the regular repetition, every four bars 
 throughout the piece, of a recurring fortissimo pound 
 upon the drum : the audience soon passed from their 
 original wonder at the obstinacy of the drummer, into 
 unconcealed disgust ; and thence into a levity that 
 wounded me deeply. This first performance of a piece 
 of my composition left a deep impression upon me. 
 
6 ^ UrOBIO GHAPHY. 
 
 Now came the revolution of July (1830). With 
 one bound I became a revolutionist, and adopted the 
 opinion that every man with any aspiration should de- 
 vote himself exclusively to politics. I enjoyed noth- 
 ing but association with political literati ; I even be- 
 gan an overture dealing with a political theme. 
 
 Thus I left school and entered the university ; not, 
 indeed, to pursue any one of the studies of the facul- 
 ties, for I had really determined upon musical study ; 
 but to hear lectures on philosophy and aesthetics. 
 
 From this opportunity to educate myself, I derived 
 practically no profit ; I rather gave myself up to every 
 kind of student's excesses, and with such recklessness 
 and ardor that they soon disgusted me. At this 
 period I gave my people great trouble, and my music 
 was almost utterly neglected. 
 
 I soon came to my senses, however ; I felt the ne- 
 cessity of beginning anew, and strictly disciphning my- 
 self in my musical studies ; and Providence led me 
 to the right man to inspire me with new love for the 
 pursuit, and to rectify it by the most thorough teach- 
 ing. This man was Theodor Weinlig, cantor at the 
 St. Thomas seminary in Leipzig. Though I had al- 
 ready made some attempts at the study of fugue, I 
 began with him for the first time the really thorough 
 study of counterpoint, which he had the happy faculty 
 of making the pupil learn as he played. 
 
 At this period I first learned to really know and 
 love Mozart. I composed a sonata, in which I freed 
 myself from all bombast, and committed myself to a 
 natural and unforced style. This very simple and 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 7 
 
 modest work appeared in print, published by Breit- 
 kopf and Hilrtel. 
 
 My studies with Weinlig were over in less than half 
 a year ; he himself let me leave his teaching after he 
 had carried me so far that I was able to solve easily 
 the most difficult problems of counterpoint. 
 
 " What you have gained through this dry study," 
 he said to me, " is self-reliance." 
 
 During these same six months I also wrote an over- 
 ture after the model of Beethoven, whom I now un- 
 derstood somewhat better ; and it was played amid 
 encouraging applause at one of the Gewandhaus 
 concerts. After several other works, I also set to 
 work at a symphony ; and to my chief model, Beet- 
 hoven, I joined Mozart, especially his great symphony 
 in C major. Clearness and strength were what I 
 strove for in this, though amid many singular errors. 
 
 On the completion of the symphony, I made, in the 
 summer of 1832, a journey to Vienna, with the sole 
 object of making a hurried acquaintance with the 
 much-praised musical city. What I heard and saw 
 there improved me little ; wherever I went I heard 
 " Zampa," and pot-pourris of Zampa by Strauss. 
 Both — especially at that time — were horrors for me. 
 On my return I stayed awhile in Prague, where I 
 made the acquaintance of Dionysius Weber, and 
 Tomaschek ; the former had several of my composi- 
 tions, among them my symphony, played in the Con- 
 servatory. There, too, I composed the text for a 
 tragic opera — "The Nuptials" {Die Hochseit). I no 
 longer remember where I got the mediaeval material 
 for it ; — a mad lover climbs to the chamber-window of 
 
8 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 his friend's bride, where she awaits her bridegroom. 
 The bride struggles with the madman, and hurls him 
 down into the court, where he, crushed by the fall, 
 expires. At his burial, the bride, with a shriek, sinks 
 dead beside the corpse. When I returned to Leipzig, 
 I at once composed the first number of this opera, 
 which contained a grand sextette which pleased Wein- 
 lig greatly ; but my sister disliked the libretto, and I 
 destroyed it all. 
 
 In January, 1833, my symphony was performed in 
 a Gewandhaus concert, and received much encourag- 
 ing applause. About this time I became acquainted 
 with Laube. 
 
 I made a journey to Wurzburg to visit my brother, 
 and remained there during the whole year 1833 ; my 
 brother was very useful to me, for he was an experi- 
 enced singer. During the year, I wrote a romantic 
 opera in three acts, — "The Fairies" (^Die Fceii), — 
 for which I had composed the libretto after Gozzi's 
 " Serpent Woman." Beethoven and Weber were my 
 models. Many of the general effects were good ; the 
 finale of the second act especially gave promise of 
 considerable effect. Whatever I had played in con- 
 certs at Wurzburg was also successful ; and I went 
 back to Leipzig with high hopes for the work I had 
 finished, and offered it to the director of the theatre 
 there for public production. 
 
 In spite of the willingness he expressed at first to 
 carry out my wishes, I soon learned what every Ger- 
 man composer has to learn in these days,* — that we 
 
 * Itinust be remembered that this was written ill 1840. — Translator. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. g 
 
 have been crowded from our own stage by the success 
 of Frenchmen and Italians, and that the production 
 of our operas is a favor that we must beg for. My 
 " Fairies" was delayed indefinitely. 
 
 In the meantime I heard Devrient sing in Bellini's 
 " Romeo and Juliet." I was amazed to hear such a 
 remarkable performance of such utterly insignificant 
 music. I was driven to despair at the means that 
 could lead to so great a success. I was far from at- 
 tributing any great merit to Bellini ; yet the material 
 of which his music was made seemed to me neverthe- 
 less better calculated to diffuse life' and warmth than 
 the careful and anxious conscientiousness with which 
 we Germans generally brought about only a tortured 
 semblance of reality. The feeble tameness of the mod- 
 ern Italians, and the trifling frivolities of the French, 
 seemed to challenge the earnest, conscientious Ger- 
 mans to make themselves masters of the better chosen 
 and elaborated material of their rivals in order to vastly 
 improve upon them by using it for real works of art. 
 
 I was one-and-twenty then, full of the enjoyment 
 of life, and of a sanguine fashion of looking at the 
 world ; " Ardinghello " * and " Young Europe " tin- 
 gled through all my veins ; Germany seemed but a 
 very small portion of the earth. I had emerged from 
 my abstract mysticism, and was learning to love the 
 material. Beauty of matter, wit, esprit, seemed to 
 me excellent things ; and as far as music was con- 
 cerned, I found them all among the Italians and 
 French. I abandoned my model, Beethoven. His 
 last symphony seemed to me like the limit of a great 
 
 * "Ardinghello" — a romance by Heiiise, defending the revival of the sensuous ele- 
 ment in literature : published about 1785. — Tka.nslator. 
 ]* 
 
lO AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 epoch in art, beyond which no one could pass, but 
 within which no one could attain independence. 
 Mendelssohn seemed to me to have felt this, when he 
 came forward with his lesser orchestral compositions, 
 leaving untouched the great exclusive form of the 
 Beethoven symphony ; it seemed to me as though, 
 beginning with a minor but thoroughly independent 
 form, he meant to create a greater one for himself. 
 
 Everything about me appeared to be in a state of 
 fermentation — a "working"; to abandon myself to 
 this seemed the most natural thing to do. 
 
 On a charming summer tour to the watering-places 
 in Bohemia, I projected the scheme of a new opera. 
 Das Licbesverbot (The Love-veto), for the libretto of 
 which I made use of the material of Shakespeare's 
 " Measure for Measure," with this difference — that I 
 laid aside the serious element there prevailing, and 
 modelled it entirely in the spirit of " Young Europe " ; 
 free and unconcealed sensuousness won the victory- 
 over puritanical hypocrisy. 
 
 In the summer of the same year, 1834, I accepted 
 the position of musical director at the Magdeburg 
 theatre. I very soon succeeded in the practical appli- 
 cation of my musical knowledge to the duties of a 
 leader, and the novel association with the singers and 
 songstresses behind the scenes precisely suited my 
 fancy for varying amusement. 
 
 I brought out the overture to my " Fairies" at a 
 concert, and I had excellent success ; but in spite of 
 it I lost my liking for this opera, and ab I could no 
 longer personally attend to my affairs in Leipzig, I 
 soon after decided not to trouble myself any further 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. n 
 
 about it — which decision was practically the same as 
 giving it up altogether. 
 
 For a New Year festival in 1835 I contributed some 
 hastily composed music which met with general 
 praise. Such easily won successes strongly confirmed 
 me in the theory that to gain applause one must not 
 be at all scrupulous in his choice of means ; and I 
 went on according to this idea in the composition of 
 my Liebesverbot , giving myself no trouble whatever 
 to avoid echoes of the French and Italian schools. 
 After a trifling interruption I took up the work again 
 in the winter of i83S-'36, and had it finished just be- 
 fore the breaking up of the opera troupe at the Mag- 
 deburg theatre. I had twelve days before the de- 
 parture of the leading singers ; and my opera must 
 be studied in this interval if I wished to have it 
 brought out by them. 
 
 With more recklessness than thought I let my 
 opera, which included some decidedly difficult parts, 
 go on the stage after only ten days' study — trusting to 
 the prompter and my leader's baton. But in spite of 
 these I could not banish the fact that the singers only 
 half knew their roles. The performance was like a 
 dream to everybody ; no one could get a reasonable 
 conception of the thing, yet whatever went off" even 
 decently was fairly applauded. For a variety of 
 reasons no second performance took place. 
 
 But in the meanwhile the serious side of life had 
 made itself known tome. The outward independence 
 I had been so quick to seize had led me into every 
 kind of absurdity — pecuniary necessities and debts 
 tortured me on every side. It was time for me to 
 
12 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 make some extraordinary venture, that I might not act- 
 ually fall into the common ruts of want. With no pros- 
 pects whatever of success, I went to Berlin, and offered 
 my " Liebesverbot " to the director of the royal 
 theatre for production. Received at first with the 
 brightest promises, I was forced after long delay to 
 learn that no one of them was honestly meant. 
 
 I left Berlin in the most wretched state, to apply for 
 the situation of musical director at the theatre at 
 Konigsberg in Prussia — a position that I afterward re- 
 ceived. In that town I was married in the fall of 
 1836, while I was in the most wretched outward cir- 
 cumstances. The year that I spent in Konigsberg 
 passed among the pettiest cares — utterly a loss for my 
 art. I wrote nothing but one overture — " Rule Brit- 
 annia." 
 
 In the summer of 1837 I made a short visit to 
 Dresden, and there the reading of Bulwer's novel of 
 " Rienzi " brought me back to a favorite idfea upon 
 which I had already dwelt — that of making the last of 
 the Roman tribunes the hero of a great tragic opera. 
 But kept from the execution of the plan by adverse 
 outward circumstances, I did not employ myself any 
 further with projects for it. In the fall of the year I 
 went to Riga, to assume the position of first musical 
 director at the new theatre just opened there under Hol- 
 tei. There I found excellent material collected for my 
 opera, and I set to work thoroughly con amore to make 
 use of it. Several passages in my works were com- 
 posed at that time for individual singers. I also wrote 
 the libretto for a two-act comic opera, "Die gliick- 
 liche Barenfamilie," taking the material for it from a 
 
A UTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 13 
 
 story in the Arabian Nights. I had composed two 
 numbers of it, when I found to my annoyance that I 
 was again fairly on the way to the composition of 
 music a la Adam, and my spirits, my deeper feehngs, 
 were inconsolably hurt by the discovery. I put aside 
 the work in disgust. The daily practice and conduct- 
 ing of Auber's, Adam's, and Bellini's music did their 
 part to thoroughly do away with the thoughtless pleas- 
 ure I had taken in them. 
 
 The utter childishness of the theatrical public of our 
 provincial towns in the matter of what might by 
 chance be a first judgment of any new work of art 
 presented to them — since they are only accustomed 
 to seeing the performance of works that have already 
 been judged and accredited elsewhere — brought me to 
 the decision on no account to let an important work 
 have its first performance . at the smaller theatres. 
 When I felt anew the earnest desire to undertake 
 some great work, I gave up all idea of a speedy per- 
 formance of it to be brought about somewhere near 
 at hand. I thought of some leading theatre that 
 should sometime produce it, and troubled myself very 
 little about where and when such a theatre might be 
 found. 
 
 So, then, I projected the scheme of a great tragic 
 opera in five acts ; — " Rienzi, the Last of the Trib- 
 unes" ; and I laid out the whole from the beginning on 
 so great a scale that it would have been impossible to 
 produce the piece — for the first time, at least — at any 
 minor theatre. Indeed, the grandeur of the subject 
 permitted no other course, and I was governed in my 
 action less by choice than by necessity. In the sum- 
 
14 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 mer of 1838 I worked at the subject-matter. At this 
 period I was teaching our opera troupe, with real 
 gratification ancf spirit, Mehiil's " Jacob and his 
 Sons." 
 
 When, in the fall, I began my " Rienzi," I bound 
 myself to nothing but the single object of giving my 
 subject fitting expression ; I set up no model for my- 
 self, but abandoned myself entirely to the feeling that 
 preyed upon me — the feeling that I had now reached 
 a point where I could demand of my artistic powers 
 something really of importance, and expect from them 
 something significant. The thought of being con- 
 sciously shallow or trivial even in a single measure, 
 was terrible to me. I continued the composition 
 through the winter with full enthusiasm, so that in the 
 spring of 1839 I had the first two acts completed. 
 At the same time my contract with the director of the 
 theatre came to an end, and various circumstances 
 made it disagreeable for me to remain longer in Riga. 
 
 I had for two years cherished the plan of going to 
 Paris ; even in Konigsberg I had sent the scheme of a 
 libretto to Scribe, with the proposition that if it 
 pleased him he should work it out for his own benefit, 
 and should in return get for me the engagement to 
 compose this opera for Paris. Of course Scribe let 
 this proposal pass almost unnoticed. Nevertheless I 
 did not give up my plans, but took them up again in 
 the summer of 1839 with new earnestness, and 
 promptly persuaded my wife to set out with me in a 
 sailing vessel which was to carry us to London. 
 
 I shall never forget this voyage ; it lasted three 
 weeks and a half, and abounded in mishaps. We 
 
A UTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 IS 
 
 were three times caught in violent storms, and once 
 the captain was compelled to put into a Norwegian 
 port. The passage through the Norwegian groups 
 made a singular impression on my fancy ; the legend 
 of the Flying Dutchman, as I heard it confirmed by 
 the lips of the sailors, took on for me a definite, pecu- 
 liar coloring, such as only the adventures I had passed 
 through at sea could have given it. 
 
 We passed a week in London, resting from the ter- 
 ribly fatiguing voyage. Nothing interested me so 
 much as the city itself and the houses of Parliament. 
 I went to none of the theatres. I stayed a month at 
 BouIogne-sur-Mer. There I first made Meyerbeer's 
 acquaintance. I submitted the two completed acts of 
 my " Rienzi " to him, and he most kindly promised 
 me his assistance in Paris. 
 
 I entered Paris at last, with little money, but the 
 highest hopes. Entirely without introduction as I 
 was, I found myself altogether dependent upon Mey- 
 erbeer. He seemed to prepare for me with the most 
 thorough care everything that could further my wishes 
 in any way ; and it would certainly have seemed to 
 me that I was well on the way to the desired goal, if 
 it had not happened, unfortunately for me, that 
 during the whole time of my stay in Paris Meyerbeer 
 was for the most part — indeed, almost always — absent 
 from the city. Even at a distance he wished to be of 
 use to me ; but, as he warned me beforehand, any 
 pains taken by letter could be of no use where only 
 the most persistent personal effort could gain success. 
 
 At first I entered into relations with the Theatre de 
 la Renaissance, which at that time produced both 
 
1 6 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 dramas and operas. The arrangement of my " Lie- 
 besverbot " seemed to me best fitted for this theatre ; 
 and the somewhat trivial subject would have been 
 good matter to work over for the French stage. I 
 was so urgently recommended to the director of the 
 theatre by Meyerbeer, that he could not but make me 
 the best of promises. Shortly after, one of the most 
 prolific of the Parisian dramatic poets, Dumersan, 
 offered his services to me to undertake the re-arrange- 
 ment of the subject. He translated with the greatest 
 success three pieces which were selected for a trial 
 hearing, so that my music fitted the new French te.xt 
 even better than the original German ; it was just 
 such music as.the French most easily understand, and 
 everything promised me the best results, when all at 
 once the Theatre de la Renaissance went into bank- 
 ruptcy. All the trouble and hope had been in vain. 
 
 In the same winter, i839-'40, I composed, besides 
 an overture to the first part of Goethe's " Faust," 
 several French songs ; among others, a translation, 
 made for me, of Heinrich Heine's "Two Grenadiers." 
 I never thought of a possible production of my 
 " Rienzi " in Paris, for I foresaw with certainty that I 
 should have to wait at least five or six years before 
 such a plan would be practicable, even under the 
 most favorable circumstances ; besides which, the 
 translation of the libretto of the already half-finished 
 opera would have put insurmountable obstacles in the 
 w;iy. 
 
 Thus I entered upon the summer of 1840 entirely 
 without any prospects for the immediate future. My 
 acquaintance with Habeneck, Halevy, ' Berlioz, and 
 
A UTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 17 
 
 Others, certainly led to no particular approach to any ; 
 no artist has leisure in Paris to make friends with 
 another ; each is in a rush and hurry on his own 
 account. Halevy, like all Parisian composers nowa- 
 days, was only burning with enthusiasm for his art as 
 long as it was necessary to win a great success ; as 
 soon as this was attained, and he had entered the list 
 of privileged lions among composers, he thought of 
 nothing further but to make operas and get money for 
 them. Celebrity is everything in Paris ; at once the 
 good fortune and the ruin of the artist. 
 
 Berlioz, in spite of his repellent nature, attracted me 
 far more ; he is separated by the whole breadth of 
 the heavens from his Parisian colleagues, for he does 
 not make his music for money. But he cannot write 
 for pure art, either ; the whole sense of beauty escapes 
 him. He stands, in his peculiar line, in an entirely 
 isolated position ; on his side he has only a troop of 
 idolators, who, themselves mediocre and without the 
 slightest judgment, welcome in him the creator of a 
 brand-new musical system, and entirely turn his head ; 
 -^and all others avoid him as a madman. 
 
 The Italians gave the last blow to my earlier trivial 
 views regarding the material for music. These most- 
 lauded heroes of song, Rubini at their head, thor- 
 oughly disgusted me with their performance. The 
 public before which they sang did its part in produc- 
 ing this effect upon me. The Grand Opera of Paris 
 left me utterly unsatisfied, by the want of all genius in 
 what it accomplished. I found it all only ordinary 
 and mediocre. The inise en scene and the decorations 
 are, to speak frankly, what pleases me most in the 
 
1 8 AUTOBTOGRAPHY. 
 
 whole Academic Royale de Musiqne. The Op^ra 
 Comiqnc might have come much nearer to satisfying 
 me ; it has the best talent, and its performances have 
 a completeness, a character of their own, that we do 
 not know in Germany. What is written for this the- 
 atre, however, belongs to the worst matter ever pro- 
 duced in a time of the decadence of art ; whither has 
 the grace of Mehiil, Isouard, and the younger Auber, 
 fled before the unworthy quadrille-rhythms that alone 
 nowadays clatter through the theatre ? 
 
 The only things that Paris contains that are worth 
 the consideration of a musician, are the orchestral 
 concerts in the salon of the conservatoire. The per- 
 formance of German instrumental compositions at 
 these concerts made a deep impression on me, and 
 initiated me anew into the wondrous secrets of true 
 art. Whoever desires to know the ninth symphony 
 of Beethoven in its perfection, must hear it performed. 
 by the orchestra of the conservatoire in Paris. These 
 concerts, however, stand absolutely alone ; nothing 
 else is to be joined with them. 
 
 I hardly associated at all with musicians ; savants, 
 painters, etc., made up my circle. I had many 
 pleasant experiences of friendship in Paris. 
 
 As I was so utterly without prospects for the imme- 
 diate future at Paris, I again took up the composition 
 of my " Rienzi." I designed it now for Dresden, 
 first, because I knew that there was the best material 
 at that theatre — Devricnt, Tichatschek, and others ; 
 secondly, because I could hope, at my first intro- 
 duction there, to depend upon the acquaintances of 
 my early days. I now almost entirely gave up my 
 
A UTOBIO GRAPHY. 
 
 19 
 
 " Liebesverbot." I felt that as a composer I could 
 no longer feel proud of it. I followed all the more in- 
 dependently my true artistic faith in continuing the 
 composition of my "Rienzi." 
 
 Manifold difficulties and very bitter want encom- 
 passed my life at this period. Meyerbeer came sud- 
 denly to Paris for a short time ; he inquired with the 
 most friendly sympathy about the position of my 
 affairs, and wished to help me. He also put me into 
 communication with Leon Fillet, the director of the 
 grand opera. There was some idea of a two or three 
 act opera, the composition of which should be en- 
 trusted to me for this theatre. I had already provided 
 myself for the occasion with the scheme for a libretto. 
 "The Flying Dutchman," whose intimate acquaint- 
 ance I had made at sea, continually enchained my 
 fancy. I had become acquainted, too, with Heinrich 
 Heine's peculiar treatment of the legend in one por- 
 tion of his " Salon." Especially the treatment of the 
 delivery of this Ahasuerus of the ocean (taken by 
 Heine from a Dutch drama of the same title) gave me 
 everything ready to use the legend as the libretto of 
 an opera. I came to an understanding about it with 
 Heine himself, drew up the scheme, and gave it. to 
 M. Leon Fillet, with the proposition that he should 
 have a French libretto made from it for me. 
 
 Everything was brought thus far when Meyerbeer 
 again left Faris, and had to leave the fulfilment of my 
 wishes to fate. Soon after I was astounded at being 
 informed by Fillet that the scheme I had handed in 
 pleased him so much that he would be glad to have 
 me part with it altogether to him. He was, it ap- 
 
20 A UTOBIO GRAPHY. 
 
 peared, under the necessity, in fulfilment of an earlier 
 promise, of at once giving another composer a 
 libretto ; the scheme 1 had prepared was precisely 
 fitted for the purpose, and I should probably have lit- 
 tle hesitation in consenting to the proposed surrender 
 of it, when I recollected that I could not possibly have 
 any hope of securing an immediate personal engagement 
 to compose an opera within the next four years, inas- 
 much as he must first fulfil his agreements with sev- 
 eral candidates for the grand opera. Of course it 
 would be too long for me to carry the scheme of this 
 opera about with me all that while ; I should certainly 
 find some new one, and should soon console myself 
 for the sacrifice 1 I obstinately opposed this presump- 
 tion, but without being able to arrange anything more 
 than a postponement of the whole question for the 
 time being. I counted on the speedy return of Mey- 
 erbeer, and so kept silence. 
 
 During this time, I was commissioned by Schlesinger 
 to write for his Gazette Mtisicale. I contributed sev- 
 eral articles of considerable length on German music, 
 etc. A little sketch called "A Pilgrimage to Beet- 
 hoven " was especially praised. These performances 
 were of not a little help to me in making myself known 
 and esteemed in Paris. In November of this year I 
 entirely completed the score of my " Rienzi," and 
 sent it without delay to Dresden. This period was 
 the culminating-point of my want and misery ; it M'as 
 then that I wrote for the Gazette Mtisicale my little 
 story, " Das ende cincs dent sc lien Musikers in Paris" 
 in which I made the unhappy hero die with this creed 
 upon his lips : " I believe in God, Mozart, and Beet- 
 
A UTOBIO GRAPHY. 2 1 
 
 hoven." It was a good thing for me that my opera 
 was finished, for I found myself compelled for a long 
 time after this to abandon every attempt at true artis- 
 tic work. I had to set myself to making for Schlcs- 
 inger instrumental arrangements of every imaginable 
 kind down to those for the cornet-a-piston — the only 
 means by which I could better my situation. I spent 
 the winter of i840-'4i in the dreariest fashion, and in 
 the spring I went into the country at Meudon. 
 
 As the summer came I longed for intellectual work 
 again, and the opportunity for it came sooner than I 
 thought. I learned that my scheme of a libretto for 
 the " Flying Dutchman" had already been put into 
 the hands of a writer (Paul Fouche), and I saw that 
 unless I finally consented to part with it, I should be 
 cheated out of it altogether under one pretext or 
 another. So I at last agreed, for a specified sum, to 
 give up my scheme altogether. 
 
 This left me with nothing more pressing to do than 
 to put my subject into German verse myself. But 
 to compose it I needed a piano — for, after a nine 
 months' interruption of any kind of musical produc- 
 tion, I had to work myself back into the musical 
 atmosphere. I hired a piano, but when it had come I 
 walked about it in an agony of anxiety ; I feared to 
 find that I was no longer a musician. 
 
 I began with the sailors' chorus and the spinning- 
 song ; everything went easily, fluently, and I fairly 
 shouted for joy as I felt through my whole being that 
 I was still an artist. In seven weeks the opera was 
 finished. 
 
 But at the end of this time petty wants and necessi- 
 
22 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 ties again began to oppress me, and it was two full 
 months before I could write the overture to the com- 
 pleted opera, though I carried it in my mind in an 
 almost finished state. Of course I had no wish so 
 strong as to secure the speedy performance of the 
 opera in Germany ; but I received unfavorable 
 answers both from Munich and Leipzig : the opera, 
 it was said, was not exactly fitted for Germany. I — 
 fool that I was — had thought it fitted only for Ger- 
 many, for it touched chords that can only vibrate in a 
 German. 
 
 Finally I sent my work to Meyerbeer, at Berlin, 
 with the request that he would procure its acceptance 
 at the royal theatre there ; and this was before long 
 effected. 
 
 As my " Rienzi " had already been accepted at 
 Dresden, I could now look forward to the production 
 of two of my works at the first of the German thea- 
 tres. Involuntarily I had the conviction forced upon 
 me that Paris, oddly enough, had been of the greatest 
 service to me as far as Germany was concerned ; but 
 in Paris itself I had no prospect of success, and I left 
 it in the spring of 1842. 
 
 For the first time I saw the Rhine ; and with bright 
 tears standing in my eyes, I— poor artist as I was — 
 swore lasting fealty to my German fatherland. 
 
 -:o: 
 
 The autobiography given us by Wagner, and prefixed to 
 the German edition of his collected works, ends abruptly at 
 this point ; thus furnishing us with his own record of the 
 difficulties and trials of his early life, and leaving the story of 
 
A UTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 23 
 
 his later career to others at the very moment when his first 
 marked success brought his name most prominently before 
 the world. 
 
 The translator believes that he may venture, without passing 
 beyond the proper limits of his undertaking, to briefly supply 
 the record of Wagner's later work ; endeavoring to continue 
 the plan followed in the autobiography itself — to give rather 
 those facts which bear upon the art-life of the composer than 
 to enter into ordinary biographical details. 
 
 In October, 1842, Wagner's " Rienzi " was at last produced 
 at Dresden, and met with a success that secured his appoint- 
 ment, almost immediately, to the post of Kapellmeister at the 
 Dresden Opera House. During the three years following 
 his acceptance of this office, he composed Tannhiiuser, which 
 was first performed in October, 1845. An)ong his minor 
 works produced during the same period were the Grass seiner 
 Tre 11671 an Friedrich August den Geliebten (1844), and the 
 Liebesmahl der Apostel {i?>d,^). "The Flying Dutchman" 
 was repeatedly and successfully performed under his direc- 
 tion. 
 
 We gain from the autobiography some knowledge of Wag- 
 ner's liberal political opinions. The revolution of 1848, reach- 
 ing its culminating point in Dresden, engaged his warmest 
 sympathy. He was an active leader in the political agitation 
 which led to it, and became so deeply involved with the rev- 
 olutionary party that he was among the first of those whom 
 its downfall compelled to save themselves by flight beyond 
 the German border. On May 7, 1849, j"st after the insurrec- 
 tion of that month, he left Dresden and escaped to Zurich. 
 
 Here he was well received, and became a citizen of the 
 canton. In 1850 he was appointed director of the Zurich 
 Musical Society and of the orchestra at the city theatre. 
 He continued to compose with remarkable rapidity and fer- 
 tility, and during his residence in Switzerland he completed 
 " Lohengrin," and the libretto and part of the music of the 
 " Nibelungen." In 1858 he left Zurich, and resided succes- 
 sively in Italy, Paris, Vienna and Carlsruhe, spending but a 
 short time in each city. " Lohengrin " was produced in 
 
24 AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Paris during his residence there, but fliiled to secure public 
 attention and was ahiiost immediately withdrawn. 
 
 Soon after his return to Germany, Wagner attracted the at- 
 tention of the music-loving I.udwig, the young king of liava- 
 ria, with whom his relations have ever since been of the most 
 intimate character. He established himself in Munich, and 
 made it not only, his residence but the centre of all his artis- 
 tic life — producing his works at the royal theatre under his 
 own supervision, and receiving from the king every necessary 
 aid in the execution of his jilans. 
 
 " Tristan und Isolde" appeared in 1865 ; and in June, 1868, 
 " Die Meistersinger von Niirnberg " was produced, Wagner 
 watching its performance from a seat beside the king. In 
 September, 1869, "Rheingold," the prelude to his great com- 
 position of the " Nibelungen," was brought out at the royal 
 theatre, but without the success which had been looked for. 
 
 After the close of the Franco-German war, an attempt was 
 made to secure Wagner for Berlin, as " general musical direc- 
 tor," the office formerly filled by Meyerbeer. But although 
 he visited Berlin to debate the matter, the project was not 
 carried out, and he returned to Munich. 
 
 Here the great project of a Wagner theatre was formed — a 
 theatre which should be devoted exclusively to the production 
 of his own works, and to the carrying out of his own beliefs as 
 to the union of their dramatic and musical elements. Baireuth 
 was selected as the site of the structure ; Wagner societies 
 were formed throughout Germany to aid the plan ; the com- 
 poser himself, in the summer of 1872, made a journey through 
 Germany, giving concerts in the leading cities of the empire 
 for the purpose of increasing the building-fund. The king 
 of Bavaria has also greatly aided the undertaking. The cor- 
 ner-stone of the Baireuth theatre was laid in May, 1872, and 
 the building is now rapidly approaching completion. 
 
MISCELLANIES 
 
THE LOVE- veto: 
 
 (DAS LIEBESVERBOT.) 
 
 THE STORY OF THE I'TRST PERFORMANCE OF AN 
 OPERA. 
 
 ONE beautiful morning I stole away from my as- 
 sociates, to take a solitary breakfast at the 
 Schlackenburg, and to seize the opportunity to write 
 out in my note-book the scheme for the text of a new 
 opera. I had made myself master, for this end, of 
 the story of Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure," 
 which, in a fashion befitting my mood at the moment, 
 I had freely converted into an opera libretto, and had 
 given it the title of "The Love-Veto." The ideas 
 of the school of " Young Europe," then so prevalent, 
 and the reading of " Ardinghello " worked upon by the 
 mood into which I had fallen, opposed to the German 
 school of operatic music, gave a coloring to my con- 
 ception — which was in special opposition to the puri- 
 tanic spirit of hypocrisy, and tended toward the open 
 worship of undisguised sensuousness. I sought to 
 grasp the serious Shakespearean theme only in this 
 construction ; I saw only the gloomy, severely right- 
 eous Angelo, himself burning with the most fiery pas- 
 sion for the beautiful Novice ; while she, as she begs 
 him for the pardon of the brother who has been sen- 
 tenced to die for a criminal love, kindles the most 
 consuming flame in the rigid puritan by the warmth 
 of her own human feeling. It by no means suited my 
 mood to perceive that these powerful motives had 
 
28 " THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 only been so richly developed in Shakespeare's drama 
 in order that they might afterwards be all the more 
 justly weighed in the scales of righteousness ; I only 
 cared to expose the crime of hypocrisy and the sin 
 against nature in this moral despotism. 
 
 And so I let the " Measure for Measure" part of 
 it pass altogether, and let only the hypocrite be pun- 
 ished through his self-avenging love. I transferred 
 the story from the fabulous Vienna to the capital of 
 glowing Sicily, where a German governor, shocked 
 at the incomprehensibly light morals of the people, 
 attempts to introduce a puritanical reform — in which 
 he lamentably fails. Perhaps the " Muet de Portici " 
 helped a little in this idea, and recollections of" the 
 Sicilian Vespers " may have had something to do with 
 it ; and when I think, finally, that the gentle Sicilian 
 Bellini may also be counted among the factors of this 
 composition, I positively have to laugh at the amazing 
 quid-pro-quo into which these extraordinary miscon- 
 ceptions shaped themselves. 
 
 But it was the winter of 183 5-' 36 before I completed 
 the whole score of my opera. It was done among 
 the distracting influences of my connection with the 
 little theatre at Magdeburg, where I for two winters 
 superintended, as musical director, the operatic per- 
 formances. A certain growing savagery of taste had 
 arisen from my close association with German operatic 
 affairs, and this was so preserved in the whole plan 
 and execution of my work, that the young enthusiast 
 in Beethoven and Weber would certainly never have 
 been recognized through this score. 
 
 Its fate was as follows. 
 
 In spite of royal aid and the interference of the the- 
 atre-committee in the affairs of the management, our 
 worthy director remained in a state of perennial bank- 
 ruptcy, and a continuance of theatrical undertakings 
 under his superintendence in any form, was not to 
 be thought of. And so the production of my opera 
 
THE love-veto: 
 
 29 
 
 by the excellent troupe that stood at my service, must 
 be the starting-point for a thorough change in my de- 
 cidedly unpromising condition. I had the right to 
 demand a benefit to cover certain travelling expense.-, 
 incurred during the previous summer ; and of course I 
 fixed upon the production of my own work for this oc- 
 casion, and took pains to make the favor shown to 
 me as inexpensive as possible for the management. 
 Since, in spite of this, they necessarily incurred some 
 expense for the new opera, I arranged that the re- 
 ceipts of the first performance should pass to them, 
 while I should only lay claim to those of the second. 
 The fact that the time for the study of the score would 
 stretch to the very end of the season, did not seem to 
 me unfavorable, for I had a right to expect that the 
 last performances of a troupe that had often been re- 
 ceived with unusual favor would meet with more than 
 the customary approval of the public. Unhappily, 
 however, we never reached the anticipated favorable 
 ending of their engagement which was set for the end 
 of April ; for on account of the delay in the payment 
 of their salaries, the most admired members of the 
 troupe, who could find better places elsewhere, gave 
 notice of their departure before the end of March — 
 the management having, through lack of funds, no 
 means whatever at their disposal to counteract this 
 movement. 
 
 I must confess that I was now discouraged ; the 
 probability of the production of my "Love-Veto" 
 seemed more than questionable. I owed it only to 
 my personal popularity among the troupe, that the 
 singers finally allowed themselves to be persuaded not 
 only to remain until the end of March, but also to un- 
 dertake in so short a time the really arduous study of 
 my opera. The time, indeed, if there were to be two 
 performances, was cut down so sharply that we had 
 only ten days before us for all our rehearsals. As we 
 had not to do with a trifling vaudeville, but (in spite 
 
30 
 
 "THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 of the somewhat frivolous character of the music) with 
 an extended opera abounding in compHcated combi- 
 nations, the undertaking may certainly be called a 
 foolhardy one. Still I trusted to the special pains 
 which the singers took to please me, working all their 
 mornings and evenings ; and since it was after all ab- 
 solutely impossible that we could attain to any absolute 
 safety in the matter, especially as regarded the mem- 
 ory of these persecuted beings, I put my last reliance 
 on some miracle which I might be able to effect 
 through the expertness I had acquired as a conductor. 
 
 The remarkable capacity I had for assisting the 
 singers and keeping them to a certain deceptive flu- 
 ency in spite of the most perfect uncertainty on their 
 part, appeared during our few orchestral rehearsals, 
 where I managed, by constant prompting, joining 
 loudly in the singing, and sharp directions as to the 
 necessary action, to keep the whole in such reasonable 
 running order that one would imagine it was going off 
 quite respectably. But alas ! we did not consider the 
 fact that at the actual performance, and in the presence 
 of the public, all these vigorous methods of running 
 the dramatic and musical machinery would be limited 
 to the signs of my baton and such expression as I 
 could convey by my manner. 
 
 The singers, especially the male element of ^^ per- 
 sonnel, were really so extremely uncertain that a certain 
 constraint arising from this weakened the effectiveness 
 of their roles from beginning to end. The first tenor, 
 who was gifted with one of the feeblest of memories, 
 did his very best to fill out the vivacious and exciting 
 character of his part — that of the scapegrace Lucio — 
 by bringing into play the regular routine he had ac- 
 quired in Zampa and Fra Diavolo, — and especially by 
 the introduction of an immeasurably thick, fluttering, 
 and brilliant plume. In spite of this, however, it was 
 not to be concealed that the public (more especially as 
 the management had not provided for the printing of 
 
THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 31 
 
 libretti) remained in the densest ignorance of the prog- 
 ress and purport of what was sung. With the excep- 
 tion of some of the female roles (which met with con- 
 siderable applause) the whole affair, which I had based 
 on vigorous, energetic action and dialogue, became a 
 kind of musical game of shadows on the scene ; to 
 which the orchestra, often with superfluous noise, gave 
 inexplicable solutions. As a characteristic illustration 
 of the way my shades of tone were rendered, I must 
 mention that the director of a Prussian band, who had 
 been pleased with the matter in all other respects, 
 thought it necessary to give me, for use in future 
 work, a little benevolent instruction on the treatment 
 of the Turkish drum. 
 
 But before I sketch the further fate of this extraor- 
 dinary youthful effort, I pause for a moment to give 
 some little detail of its character, especially in the mat- 
 ter of its plot. The Shakespearean drama, a thor- 
 oughly serious one in its nature, was converted in my 
 scheme into the following conception : 
 
 A King of Sicily leaves his kingdom, to make a 
 journey to Naples ; and gives over to the governor 
 whom he appoints — who is named simply " Friedrich " 
 to sufficiently characterize him as a German — the 
 absolute power to use every means within the royal 
 prerogative, in the attempt to effect a thorough re- 
 form in the morals of the capital, at which the severe 
 and rigid councillor had been much scandalized. At 
 the beginning of the piece, the public officials are 
 discovered hard at work, closing or tearing down 
 •houses of popular resort in a suburb of Palermo, and 
 carrying their occupants, landlords and servants away 
 to prison. The people resist this initiative ; terrific 
 tumult ; the chief of the Sh\xr\, Brighella (basso buffo), 
 in the midst of the press, and after a drum-roll to call 
 the attention of the people, reads aloud the order 
 of the governor, in accordance with which these for- 
 cible measures for the moral improvement of the city 
 
32 "THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 had been taken. He is interrupted by general jeering 
 and a chorus of abuse ; Lucio, a young nobleman 
 and jovial ne'er-dp-weel (tenor), seems about to place 
 "himself at the head of the mob, and finds a new 
 motive to connect himself "with the cause of the per- 
 secuted people when he sees his friend Claudio (also 
 tenor), led by on his way to prison, and discovers 
 that according to some old and forgotten law which 
 Friedrich had hunted out, he is to be punished by 
 death for an illicit love affair. His mistress, his 
 marriage with whom has been prevented by the op- 
 position of her parents, has become a mother ; Fried- 
 rich's puritanic fanaticism is now added to the hatred 
 of her relatives against him; he has every reason to 
 fear the worst, and puts his only hope of safety in the 
 mercy of the governor, if the pleading of his sister 
 Isabella can succeed in softening the heart of the 
 stubborn ruler. Lucio answers his friend, that he 
 will at once visit Isabella at the Elizabethan convent, 
 which she had entered as a novice only a little while 
 before. 
 
 There, within the silent walls of the convent, we 
 soon make closer acquaintance with this sister, as 
 she is engaged in conversation with her friend Mari- 
 anna, who, like herself, has entered the place as a 
 novice. Marianna reveals to her friend, from whom she 
 has long been separated, the sad fate that has brought 
 her here. She was enticed by promises of good faith 
 and constancy, into a secret liaison with a man of 
 high position ; but it was not long before she found 
 herself betrayed and left in want, and even persecuted 
 by him ; for her betrayer proved to be the most 
 powerful personage in the state — none less than the 
 present governor appointed by the king. Isabella 
 gives furious vent to her indignation at this, and is 
 only quieted by her decision to retire from a world in 
 which such a villanous crime can be committed. 
 When Lucio brings her the news of the fate of her 
 
" THE LOVE-VETO." 33 
 
 own brother, her condemnation of the latter's deed 
 is lost in her rage at the vileness of the hypocritical 
 governor, who can take it upon himself to punish so 
 cruelly the unspeakably smaller fault of one who at 
 least has not been guilty of the sin of a betrayal. 
 Her violent excitement appears to Lucio in a false 
 light ; suddenly kindled into passionate love, he be- 
 seeches her to abandon the convent forever and to 
 accept his hand. She promptly. and with dignity 
 checks this audacious suitor ; but resolves without a 
 moment's hesitation to accompany him to the judg- 
 nieni hall of the governor. 
 
 Here the trial scene is preparing, which I introduced 
 v/ith a burlesque hearing of various violators of the 
 moral code, by Brighella, the chief of the Sbirri. The 
 serious side of the situation thus becomes all the more 
 impressive when the gloomy figure of Friedrich en- 
 ters among the turbulent people, commanding silence ; 
 and the trial of Claudio is begun by him in the sever- 
 est form. The implacable governor is about to pro- 
 nounce sentence, when Isabella enters, and demands a 
 private interview with him. In this interview she 
 controls her emotion before the man so dreaded and 
 yet so despised by her, and appeals at first only to his 
 generosity and mercy. His objections only add to 
 her passionate appeal ; she places her brother's crime 
 before him in the most touching light, and begs him 
 to pardon the human and by no means unpardonable 
 fault. As she sees the impression made by her warm 
 presentation of the case, she continues with increasing 
 ardor to work upon the feelings of the heart of the 
 rule;- that is now so harshly closed against her — a heart 
 which cannot have failed to have sometimes e.\perienced 
 like emotions to those by which her brother had 
 been carried away, and to whose own experience she 
 now appealed for aid in her agonized prayer for mercy. 
 And now at last the ice of this hardened heart is 
 broken ; Friedrich, excited to the last degree by Isa- 
 2* 
 
34 
 
 THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 bella's beauty, is no longer master of himself; he 
 promises her all that she asks, at the price of — her 
 love. She no sooner comprehends this result, than, 
 roused to fury by such incomprehensible villany, she 
 rushes to the door and windows, and summons the 
 people to her that she may expose the hypocrite be- 
 fore all the world. But as the crowd pours into the 
 room, Friedrich summons all the energy of despera- 
 tion, and in a few Convincing sentences points out to 
 her how impossible is the success of her design ; that 
 it would only be necessary for him to boldly deny her 
 accusation, say that the proposal was an attempt at a 
 bribe, and that he would undoubtedly be believed if it 
 came to the question of disproving the imputation of a 
 frivolous love affair. Isabella, herself ashamed and 
 confused, recognizes the madness of her course, and 
 gives herself up to silent despair. But as Friedrich 
 again announces to the people his intended measures of 
 extreme severity, and gives the condemned man 
 notice of his sentence, Isabella, whose thoughts have 
 been turned to Marianna. by this painful reminder of 
 her history, all at once conceives with lightning-like 
 rapidity a means of accomplishing by deceit what 
 is impossible by force. Her manner passes in an in- 
 stant from the deepest grief into wantonness ; she turns 
 to her stricken brother, his despairing friend and the 
 helpless people, with the assurance that the merriest 
 of festivals is in store for all, — that the carnival 
 festivities that the governor has just sternly forbidden, 
 are to go on with more riotous jollity than ever ; for 
 that the dreaded ruler had only put on the pretence of 
 all this cruelty, in order to surprise them all the more 
 agreeably by himself taking the jolliest part in what he 
 had before forbidden. Everyone believes her mad ; 
 and Friedrich especially reproves her with bitter harsh- 
 ness for her incomprehensible folly. But a few words 
 from her suffice to excite the governor himself to an 
 ecstasy of joy ; for she promises him in a secret, trust- 
 
" THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 35 
 
 ing whisper, the fulfilment of all his wishes, and that 
 she will send him on the following night a message to 
 give him full assurance of his bliss. 
 
 Thus ends the first act, in the midst of the wildest 
 excitement. What the quickly- conceived plan of the 
 heroine really is, we ascertain at the beginning of the 
 second act, when she visits her brother's prison, de- 
 termined first to put him to the test and learn if he is 
 really worthy to be saved. She tells him of Fried- 
 rich's shameful proposals, and asks him if he desires 
 to regain his ill-spent life at the cost of his sister's 
 honor? His first expression of outspoken horror, and 
 his willingness to sacrifice himself (manifested in his 
 farewell to his sister, and his committal to her of the 
 most touching messages for the loved one he must leave 
 behind), are at length succeeded by a softer mood, 
 which carries the unhappy man at last from grief to 
 weakness. Isabella, who is about to announce to him 
 his safety, checks herself in amazement as she sees her 
 brother pass from the heights of noble devotion to the 
 murmured confession of his unconquered love of 
 life, — even to the hesitating question, whether the 
 price of his safety really seems to her impossible. 
 She starts up in fury, thrusts her unworthy brother 
 from her, and declares that added to the shame of his 
 death he bears with him from this moment her heartiest 
 contempt. 
 
 After she has left him with the keeper, her self- 
 control shows itself again in her sudden change back 
 to a brighter and braver mood ; she decides to punish 
 the pitiable waverer by keeping him in continued un- 
 certainty concerning his fate, but does not turn from 
 her determination to free the world from the vilest 
 hypocrite that ever attempted to impose laws upon it. 
 She instructs Marianna that she must fill the place of 
 the falsely loved Isabella at the meeting promised to 
 Friedrich for the night ; and she sends to the latter 
 the appointment for this meeting, which it is arranged 
 
36 " THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 (in order that he may be more completely entrapped), 
 shall take place at a masque, and in one of the very 
 pleasure- resorts which he had himself suppressed. 
 She announces Friedrich's love for her and the pre- 
 tended necessity for her yielding to it, to the reckless 
 Lucio in such amazingly wanton fashion that he, gen- 
 erally so unscrupulous himself, falls into a stupefaction 
 of astonishment at it, and then into a desperate fury ; 
 he swears that even if the noble maiden herself con- 
 sents to submit to this unheard of shame, he will keep 
 it from her by every means in his power, and sooner 
 set all Palermo in flames and uproar than have it 
 succeed. 
 
 He arranges that all his friends and acquaintances 
 shall meet him at evening at the end of the corso, as if 
 to begin the forbidden carnival procession. At the com- 
 ing on of night, when everything is growing wild and 
 riotous, Lucio himself appears, and seeks to rouse the 
 throng to open and forcible insurrection, — singing a 
 reckless carnival song with the refrain, 
 
 " Who in our pleasure finds no zest, 
 We've a dagger here for his sullen breast." 
 
 As a band of Sbirri under Brighella approaches to 
 disperse the fantastically-dressed crowd, the riot is 
 on the very verge of an outbreak ; but Lucio begs 
 them to submit for the present, and to separate, but 
 remain near at hand ; for he will find and bring to 
 them the true leader of their plan. Close by is the 
 place which Isabella has rashly pointed out to him as 
 the rendezvous for her meeting with the governor. 
 Lucio lies in wait for the latter, and soon perceives 
 him approaching carefully disguised in a mask ; he 
 seizes him, and as he wrests himself away, is about to 
 follow him, with his drawn sword, when he is himself 
 stopped and turned aside at the instigation of Isabella, 
 who is concealed in the shrubbery near by. Isabella 
 appears, rejoicing at the thought that Marianna's faith- 
 
" THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 37 
 
 less spouse is now restored to her ; and, as she beheves 
 that she now carries in her hand the promised pardon 
 for her brother, is about to generously deny herself 
 any further revenge, when she breaks the seal by the 
 light of a torch, and to her horror recognizes the death 
 sentence, which, through her desire to keep back the 
 news of the pardon from her brother, and her bribe 
 to the turnkey, chance has thus brought into her 
 hands. After a hard conflict with the passion that 
 consumed him, Friedrich, feeling himself powerless 
 before it, had determined, though he died as a crimi- 
 nal, still to meet his ruin like a man of honor. One 
 hour on Isabella's breast ; — then his own death by the 
 same rigid law to the severity of which Claudio's life 
 must also fall a victim. 
 
 Isabella, who sees in this action only a new accumu- 
 lation of the hypocrite's villanies, again breaks out 
 with a fury of despair. At her summons to instant 
 rebellion against the despicable tyrant, the multitude 
 gathers about her in wild and excited confusion ; but 
 Lucio, who appears among them, bitterly advises the 
 people to give no heed to a woman that is only de- 
 ceiving them as she had deceived him (he, of course, 
 being under the delusion that she has been shamefully 
 false). Renewed confusion follows, and Isabella's 
 desperation increases ; when suddenly there comes 
 from the background a comic appeal for help from 
 Brighella, who, himself upon some jealous quest or 
 other, has seized by mistake upon the masked gover- 
 nor, and so brings about his discovery. Friedrich is 
 unmasked : Marianna is recognized, clinging trem- 
 bling to his side ; amazement, disgust, and exultation 
 spread among the people ; and Friedrich gloomily 
 demands that he be taken before the court of the king, 
 whose return they are expecting, to himself receive his 
 . death sentence. But Claudio, who has been set free 
 by the jubilant people, tells him that capital punish- 
 ment is not inflicted for love-crimes in all cases. 
 
38 " THE LOVE-VETOr 
 
 Messengers now announce the sudden arrival of the 
 King in the harbor ; and it is decided to give the be- 
 loved sovereign, who will see with delight what a 
 failure the gloomy puritanism of the German must be 
 in glowing Sicily, a joyous and loyal welcome home. 
 They say of him, "he enjoys a merry festival better 
 than all your melancholy laws." Friedrich, with his 
 bride Marianna.whom he has wedded anew, opens the 
 procession ; and the novice, who has now abandoned 
 the convent forever, follows with Lucio, in the second 
 couple. 
 
 * * * * tt -if** 
 
 I had elaborated these bright and in some respects 
 boldly-planned scenes, in an appropriate and rather 
 careful versification. The police authorities at first 
 objected to the title of my work, which, if it had not 
 been changed, would have been to blame for the utter 
 failure of all my plans for the performance. It was 
 the week before Easter, and performances of light or 
 frivolous pieces were forbidden during this period. 
 Fortunately the magistrate who had the matter in 
 charge had not examined the text with any care, and 
 as I assured him that it was modeled on a very 
 serious Shakespearean work, he contented himself with 
 altering the title ; this certainly had something excit- 
 ing about it, while the name, " The Novice of 
 Palermo " seemed to have no objectionable features, 
 and no scruples were raised about its incorrectness. 
 
 Quite the opposite of this happened to me in Leip- 
 zig a short time afterward, where I endeavored to 
 procure the production of my new work instead of 
 the sacrificed " Fairies." The director of the theatre 
 here, whom I hoped to gain over to my plan by flat- 
 teringly giving the part of Marianna to his daughter, 
 who was about to make her debut, — found in the ten- 
 dency which he thought he discovered in the subject, 
 a very specious excuse for declining my opera. He 
 considered that even if the magistrates of Leipzig 
 
"■THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 39 
 
 would permit the performance of it, of which he, in 
 his esteem for those personages, was very doubtful, — 
 he certainly could not, in the character of a conscien- 
 tious father, permit his daughter to appear in it. 
 
 As I have said, I had nothing to suffer on account of 
 this questionable peculiarity of my libretto at the Mag- 
 deburg performance, for, as has been intimated, the 
 subject remained entirely incomprehensible to the au- 
 dience on account of the confused character of the 
 acting. This circumstance, and the fact that on ac- 
 count of it there. was no opposition to the toidency 
 of the work, made a second performance possible, — 
 not an objection being made to it for the excellent 
 reason that nobody bothered himself about it at all. 
 Feeling perfectly conscious that my opera had pro- 
 duced no impression whatever, and had left the audi- 
 ence in an entirely undecided state as to what all 
 this meant, I nevertheless counted, considering the 
 fact that this was the last performance of our company, 
 upon good and even large receipts, and so did not 
 hesitate to charge the so-called " full " entrance-price. 
 
 Whether anybody might, have come by the time 
 the overture began, I am not in a position to decide 
 with any accuracy ; about a quarter of an hour before 
 the time fixed for beginning I only saw my lodging- 
 house keeper and her husband, and a Polish Jew in 
 full dress seated conspicuously in one of the re- 
 served seats of the parquette. 
 
 In spite of this fact I was still hoping for an increase 
 of the audience, when suddenly a most extraordinary 
 performance took place behind the scenes. All at 
 once the husband of my prima donna (the imper- 
 sonator of Isabella) pounced upon the second tenor, 
 a very young and handsome fellow (the singer of my 
 Claudio), against whom the injured spouse had long 
 nourished a secret jealousy. It seemed that the 
 prima donna's husband, who had from behind the 
 curtain inspected with me the composition of the 
 
40 "THE LOVE-VETO." 
 
 audience, considered that the time had now arrived 
 when, without damage to the prospects of the theatre, 
 he could take his revenge on his wife's lover. Claudio 
 was so pounded and belabored by him that the un- 
 happy individual was compelled to retire to the dress- 
 ing-room with his face all bleeding. Isabella was 
 informed of this, and rushing desperately toward her 
 furious lord received from him a series of such violent 
 cuffs that she forthwith went into spasms. The con- 
 fusion among my pcrsojincl was now quite boundless ; 
 everybody took sides with one party or the other, 
 and everything seemed on the point of a general fight. 
 It seemed as if this unhappy evening appeared to all 
 of them precisely calculated for a final settling up of 
 all sorts of fancied insults. This much was evident — 
 that the couple who had suffered under the "love- 
 veto " (Liebcsvcrbot) of Isabella's husband were cer- 
 tainly unable to appear on this occasion. The mana- 
 ger was sent before the curtain, to announce to the 
 remarkably made-up little company assembled in the 
 theatre, that on account of " various adverse circum- 
 stances that had arisen " the performance of the 
 opera could not take place. 
 
 No further attempt was ever made to rehabilitate 
 my youthful production. 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 OWANT and Misery, protecting deities of the 
 German musician (unless indeed he happens to 
 be the Capellmeister of a court theatre) — Want 
 and Misery — you shall have the first and the most 
 honorable mention at the very beginning of even this 
 reminiscence of my life ! Let me sing your praises, 
 steadfast companions of mine ! You have kept faith 
 with me and never left me ! You have kept from me 
 with your sturdy hands all happy changes of fate, 
 and sheltered me from the oppressive sunbeams of 
 fortune ! You have ever cast a black shadow over 
 the vain goods of this world ; receive my thanks for 
 your most unwearying devotion ! Yet, if you can so 
 arrange it, I beseech you to seek out by and by some 
 other protege, for I would fain see, from very curi- 
 osity, how I could perhaps get on without you. At 
 the least I beg you to descend with special force on 
 these political dreamers of ours — those madmen who 
 seek to unite Germany under one sceptre : — for then 
 there would be but one court theatre, but one single 
 Capellmeister ! What would become of my pros- 
 pects then ! Of my only hopes, that even now seem 
 dim and dreary to me, — even now, when there are 
 still many German court theatres ? But — I see that 
 I am growing wickedly audacious ; pardon, O god- 
 desses, the rash wish that I have uttered ! You know 
 my heart, and know how I am devoted to you, and 
 
42 -4 PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 how I would remain your devotee though there should 
 be in Germany a thousand court theatres. Amen. 
 
 Before this daily prayer of mine I begin nothing — 
 not even the story of my Pilgrimage to Beethoven. 
 
 Incase this important document should be published 
 after my death, I believe it necessary to explain who 
 I am, for without such an explanation much that is con- 
 tained herein might be utterly unintelligible. Listen 
 then, all the world, and you, ye executors of testaments. 
 
 My native town is a commonplace city of central 
 Germany. I hardly know for what I was originally 
 intended ; I only remember that I heard one evening 
 a symphony of Beethoven ; that I thereupon fell ill of 
 a fever ; and that when I recovered I was — a musi- 
 cian. Perhaps it may be a result of this circumstance 
 that even after I had become acquainted with much 
 other noble music I still loved, honored, and idolized 
 Beethoven more than all. I knew no greater pleas- 
 ure than to bury myself in the depths of this great 
 genius, until at length I imagined myself a part 
 of it ; and began to honor myself as this little part, — 
 to gain higher conceptions and views ; in brief, to 
 become that which the wise are wont to call — a fool. 
 But my madness was of an amiable sort, and injured 
 no one ; the bread that I ate while I was in this con- 
 dition was very dry, the drink that I drank was very 
 thin ; for giving lessons is not a very profitable busi- 
 ness with us, O honored world and executors ! 
 
 So I lived for awhile in my garret, until it suddenly 
 occurred to me that the man whose creations I most 
 honored — was still alive ! I did not comprehend why 
 1 had not thought of this before. It had not for a 
 moment suggested itself to me that Beethoven still 
 existed ; that he could eat bread and breathe the air 
 like one of us ; yet this Beethoven still lived in 
 Vienna, and was also a poor German musician ! 
 
 And now my peace of mind was over. All my 
 thoughts tended toward one wish, — to see Beethoven! 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 43 
 
 No Mussulman ever longed more faithfully to make 
 his pilgrimage to the grave of the prophet, than I to 
 the room in which Beethoven lived. 
 
 But how should 1 bring about the execution of my 
 purpose ? It was a long journey to Vienna, and I 
 should need money to make it ; I, an unfortunate, who 
 hardly made enough to keep life in his body ! I must 
 devise some extraordinary means to gain the necessary 
 sum. I carried to a publisher a few piano sonatas 
 that I had composed after the model of the master, 
 and speedily convinced the man that I was a lunatic. 
 Nevertheless he was good enough to advise me, that if 
 I wanted to earn a few thalers by my compositions I 
 had better set to work to gain a small reputation by 
 galops and potpourris. I shuddered ; but my longing 
 to see Beethoven won the day ; I composed the 
 galops and potpourris, but I could not bring myself 
 to cast a glance at Beethoven during this period — for 
 I feared to alienate him utterly. 
 
 To my grief, however, I was not even paid for this 
 first sacrifice of my purity ; for the publisher ex- 
 plained to me that the first thing to be done was to 
 make myself something of a name. I shuddered 
 again, and fell into despair. But this state of mind 
 nevertheless produced several excellent galops. I 
 really received some money for these, and at last 
 believed I had enough to carry out my project. Two 
 years had passed, however, and I had lived in perpet- 
 ual fear that Beethoven might die before I had earned 
 a reputation by galops and potpourris. But, thank 
 God, he has outlived the brilliancy of m)'^ renown ! 
 Glorious Beethoven, forgive me this reputation ! It 
 was made solely that I might behold thee ! 
 
 Ah, what bliss ! my goal was reached. Who was 
 happier than I ? I could pack my bundle, and take 
 up my journey to Beethoven ! A holy awe oppressed 
 me as I passed out at the gate and turned me toward 
 the south. I would gladly have taken a place in the 
 
44 ^ PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 diligence — not because I cared for the hardship of 
 pedestrianism — for what fatigues would I not go 
 through for such an object ? — but because I could 
 reach Beethoven the sooner so. But I had done too 
 little for my reputation as a composer of galops to ■ 
 have secured money enough to pay my fare. I bore 
 all difficulties, and deemed myself happy that I had 
 progressed so far that these could lead me to my goal. 
 What emotions I felt — what dreams ! No lover could 
 be happier who, after a long parting, turned back 
 toward the love of his youth. 
 
 So I came into beautiful Bohemia, the land of 
 harpers and roadside singers. In a little town I came 
 upon a company of travelling musicians ; they formed 
 a little orchestra, made up of a bass-viol, two violins, 
 two horns, a clarinet, and a flute, and there were two 
 women who played the harp, and two female singers 
 with sweet voices. They played dances and sang bal- 
 lads ; money was given to them, and they went on. 
 I met them again in a shady place by the roadside ; 
 they were encamped there, and were dining. I joined 
 them, said that I, too, was a wandering musician, and 
 we were soon friends. As they played their dances, 
 I asked them timidly if they could play my galops. 
 The blessed people ! they did not know them. Ah, 
 what a happiness that was for me ! 
 
 I asked them if they did not play other music 
 besides dances. " Most certainly," they said ; " but 
 only for ourselves, and not for the fastidious people." 
 They unpacked their music. I caught sight of Beet- 
 hoven's great Septuor ; in amazement I asked them if 
 they played tJiat, too? "Why not?" replied the 
 eldest. "Joseph has a lame hand and cannot play 
 the second violin just now ; otherwise v/e would enjoy 
 playing it for you." 
 
 Beside myself, I forthwith seized Joseph's violin, 
 promised to supply his place as far as I could ; — and 
 we began the Septuor. 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 45 
 
 Ah, what a deHght it was ! Here, beside the 
 Bohemian highway, under the open sky, the Septuor 
 of Beethoven was performed witli a clearness, a pre- 
 cision, and a deep expression, such as one seldom 
 finds among the most masterly of virtuosos ! O great 
 Beethoven, we brought to thee a worthy sacrifice ! 
 
 We were just at the finale, when — for the road 
 passed up a steep hill just here — an elegant travelling- 
 carriage drew near us, slowly and noiselessly, and at 
 last stopped beside us. An amazingly tall and won- 
 derfully fair young man lay stretched out in the vehi- 
 cle ; he listened with considerable attention to our 
 music, took out his pocket-book, and wrote a few- 
 words in it. Then he let fall a gold-piccc from the 
 carriage, and drove on, speaking a few words of Eng- 
 lish to his servant — from which I discovered that he 
 must be an Englishman. 
 
 This occurrence threw us into a discord ; luckily we 
 had finished the performance of the Septuor. I em- 
 braced my friends, and would liave accompanied 
 them ; but they explained that they must leave the 
 highway here and strike into a path across the fields 
 to reach their home. If Beethoven himself had not 
 been waiting for me, I would have gone thither with 
 them. As it was, we separated with no little emotion, 
 and parted. Later it occurred to me that no one had 
 picked up the Englishman's gold-piece. 
 
 In the next inn, which I entered to refresh myself, 
 I found the Englishman seated at an excellent repast. 
 He looked at me for a long while, and at last addressed 
 me in passable German. 
 
 " Where are your companions ? " he asked. 
 
 " They have gone home," said I. 
 
 "Take your violin," he continued, "and play 
 something. Here is some money." 
 
 I was offended at this, and explained that I did not 
 play for money ; further, that I had no violin ; and I 
 briefly related to him how I had met the musicians. 
 
46 A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 " They were good musicians," said the Englishman, 
 " and the Beethoven symphony was also good." 
 
 This observation struck me ; I asked whether he 
 himself was musical. 
 
 "Yes," he answered; "I play the flute twice a 
 week ; on Thursday I play the French horn ; and on 
 Sundays I compose." 
 
 That was certainly a good deal ; I stood amazed. 
 I had never in my life heard of travelling English 
 musicians. I decided, therefore, that they must be in 
 a most excellent position if they could make their 
 wanderings with such fine equipages. I asked if he 
 was a musician by profession. 
 
 •For some time I received no reply ; at last he an- 
 swered slowly that he was very wealthy. 
 
 My error was plain ; I had certainly offended him 
 by my inquiry. Somewhat confused, I remained 
 silent, and went on with my simple meal. 
 
 The Englishman, who again took a long look at 
 me, began again. "Do you know Beethoven ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 I replied that I had never been in Vienna, but that 
 I was at this moment on the way thither to satisfy the 
 keen longing that I felt to see the idolized master. 
 
 " Where do you come from ? " he asked. " From 
 
 L ? That is not far. I come from England, and 
 
 also desire to know Beethoven. We will both make 
 his acquaintance ; he is a very celebrated composer." 
 
 What an extraordinary meeting ! I thought. Great 
 master, what different people you attract ! On foot 
 and in carriages they make their pilgrimages to you ! 
 My Englishman interested trie greatly, but I confess 
 that I envied him very little on account of his fine 
 carriage. It seemed to me that my difficult pilgrim- 
 age was more holy and loyal, and that its goal must 
 give me more pleasure than him who went in pride 
 and splendor. 
 
 The postilion blew his horn ; the Englishman drove 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVRN. 47 
 
 on, calling to me that he would see Beethoven sooner 
 than I. 
 
 I had gone but a few miles further when I unex- 
 pectedly came upon him again. This time it was on 
 the road. One of the wheels of his carriage had 
 broken ; but he still sat within in majestic calm, his 
 servant behind him, in spite of the fact that the wagon 
 hung far over to one side. I discovered that they 
 were waiting for the postilion, who had gone on to a 
 village a considerable distance in advance to bring a 
 wheelwright. They had waited a long while ; and as 
 the servant only spoke English, I determined to go 
 forward myself to the village to Kurry the postillion 
 and the wheelwright back. I found the former in a 
 tavern, where he was sitting over his brandy, not 
 troubling himself especially about the Englishman ; 
 but I nevertheless succeeded in speedily taking him 
 back with the mechanic to the broken carriage. The 
 damage was soon repaired ; the Englishman promised 
 to announce me at Beethoven's, and drove away. 
 
 What was my amazement to overtake him the next 
 day again. This time he had not broken a wheel, but 
 had halted calmly in the middle of the road, and was 
 reading a book ; and he appeared quite pleased as he 
 saw me again approaching. 
 
 " I have waited some hours," said he, "because it 
 occurred to me just here that I had done wrong not to 
 invite you to drive with me to Beethoven's. Driving 
 is far better than walking. Come into the carriage." 
 
 I was amazed. For a moment I hesitated whether 
 I should not accept his offer ; but I remembered the 
 vow that I had made the day before when I saw the 
 Englishman drive away ; — I had vowed that no matter 
 what might happen I would make my pilgrimage on 
 foot. I declared this to be my resolution, and now it 
 was the Englishman's turn to be astonished. He re- 
 peated his offer, and that he had waited hours for me, 
 in spite of the fact that he had had his wheel tho- 
 
48 A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 roughly repaired at the place where he had passed the 
 night, and had been much delayed thereby. I re- 
 mained firm, however, and he drove away. 
 
 To tell the truth I had a secret prejudice against 
 him, for a peculiar feeling forced itself upon me that 
 this Englishman would some time or other bring me 
 into great embarrassment. Besides, his admiration of 
 Beethoven and his intention to make his acquaintance 
 impressed me as rather the impertinent mood of a rich 
 aristocrat than as the deep and earnest yearning of an 
 enthusiastic soul. For these reasons I felt an inclination 
 to avoid him, that I might not debase my own pious 
 longing by his companionship. 
 
 But as though my fate were trying to reveal to me 
 into what a dangerous connection with this man I 
 should some day come, I met him again on the even- 
 ing of the same day, stopped before an inn and appar- 
 ently waiting for me a second time — for he sat back- 
 wards in his carriage and looked back along the road in 
 my direction. 
 
 "Sir," said he, " I have again been waiting some 
 hours for you. Will you ride with me to see Beet- 
 hoven ? " 
 
 This time my surprise was joined with a certain dis- 
 gust. This extraordinary persistency in serving me 
 could be only interpreted in one way — that the Eng- 
 lishman, perceiving my growing dislike for him, was 
 endeavoring to force himself upon me for my own 
 injury. I again refused his offer, with unconcealed 
 irritation. He cried out haughtily, "Damn it, you 
 seem to care very little for Beethoven," and drove 
 rapidly away. 
 
 This was, as it turned out, the last time that I met 
 the islander during the whole of the journey that 
 remained before reaching Vienna. At last I trod the 
 streets of the city ; the end of my pilgrimage was 
 reached. With what emotions I entered this Mecca 
 of my faith ! All the difficulties of the long and weary 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 49 
 
 journey were forgotten ; I was at my goal — ^within the 
 walls that surrounded Beethoven. 
 
 I was too deeply moved to think of the immediate 
 fulfilment of my project. I at once inquired, it is true, 
 for Beethoven's dwelling, but only to take up my 
 quarters in his neighborhood. Almost opposite the 
 house in which the master lived, there was a hotel, not 
 too expensive for me ; here I hired a little room in the 
 fifth story, and prepared myself for the greatest event 
 of my life — a visit to Beethoven. 
 
 After I had rested for two days, and had fasted and 
 prayed, but had not taken a single look at Vienna, I 
 summoned up my courage, left the hotel, and crossed 
 obliquely to the marvellous house. I was told that 
 Beethoven was not at home. This rather pleased me 
 than otherwise, for I gained time to collect myself. 
 But when the same answer was given to me four times 
 before night, — and with a certain heightened tone, 
 — I decided that this was an unlucky day, and gave 
 up my visit in despair. 
 
 As I went back to the hotel, who should nod to me 
 with considerable cordiality from a window of the first 
 story but — my Englishman ! 
 
 " Have you seen Beethoven ? " he called to me. 
 
 " Not yet ; he was not in," I answered, surprised at 
 this repeated encounter. He met me on the steps 
 and insisted with remarkable cordiality on my going 
 to his room. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " I have seen you go to Beethoven's 
 house five times to-day. I have been here a number 
 of days, and took lodgings in this wretched hotel in 
 order to be near him. Believe me, it is a very diffi- 
 cult task to get at Beethoven ; the gentleman has 
 many caprices. I called on him six times when I was 
 first here, and was always refused. Now I have taken 
 to getting up very early and sitting at the window 
 until late in the evening, to see when he goes out. 
 But the gentleman never seems to go out." 
 3 
 
50 A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 " You think then that Beethoven was at home to- 
 day, but denied himself to me?" cried I, excitedly. 
 
 ' ' Undoubtedly ; you and I have both been turned 
 away. And it is especially disagreeable to me, for I 
 didn't come to see Vienna, but Beethoven." 
 
 This was very sad news for me. Nevertheless I 
 made the experiment again the next day — but again 
 in vain. The gates of heaven were shut against me. 
 
 The Englishman, who always watched my attempt 
 with excited attention from his window, had at last re- 
 ceived positive information that Beethoven was really 
 not to be approached. He was thoroughly vexed, 
 but immeasurably persevering. My patience, however, 
 was soon exhausted, for I had more reason for it than 
 he. A week had gradually slipped away without the 
 attainment of my object ; and the income from my 
 galops by no means permitted me a long residence in 
 Vienna. I gradually began to despair. 
 
 I communicated my sorrows to the landlord of the 
 hotel. He smiled, and promised to tell me the rea- 
 son of my woes if I would swear not to betray it to 
 the Englishman. Foreseeing disaster, I made the vow 
 demanded of me. 
 
 " You see," said the trusty landlord, " hosts of 
 Englishmen come here to see Herr von Beethoven 
 and make his acquaintance. This annoys Herr von 
 Beethoven so much, and he has been in such a rage 
 at the impertinence of these people, that he makes it 
 absolutely impossible for any stranger to get admit- 
 tance to him. He is a singular man, and this may be 
 pardoned in him. It is an excellent thing for my 
 hotel, however, for it is generally liberally patronized 
 by Englishmen, who are compelled by their anxiety to 
 see Herr Beethoven to remain my guests longer than 
 they otherwise would. Since you promise me, how- 
 ever, not to betray me to these gentlemen, I hope to 
 find a means to secure your admission to Herr Beet- 
 hoven." 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 51 
 
 This was refreshing ; so I had not reached the goal, 
 because I — poor devil — passed for an Englishman! 
 My presentiment was justified — the Englishman was 
 my ruin ! I would have left the house at once, for of 
 course every one that lodged there was taken for an 
 Englishman at Beethoven's, and I was already out- 
 lawed for this reason ; but the landlord's promise re- 
 strained me, — that he would bring about an opportun- 
 ity to see and speak with the master. The English- 
 man, whom I detested from my soul, had meanwhile 
 begun all sorts of intrigues and bribes, but without 
 result. 
 
 So several more fruitless days slipped away, during 
 which the receipts from my galops visibly diminished ; 
 till at last the landlord confided to me that I could not 
 fail to meet Beethoven if I would go into a particular 
 beer-garden, whither he went almost daily at a certain 
 hour. At the same time I received from my coun- 
 sellor certain unmistakable descriptions of the per- 
 sonal appearance of the great master, which would en- 
 able me to recognize him. I roused myself, and deter- 
 mined not to put off my happiness until to-morrow. 
 It was impossible to catch Beethoven as he went out, 
 for he always left his house by a back way ; so there 
 was nothing left for me but the beer-garden. Unfor- 
 tunately, however, I looked there for the master both 
 on this and the two following days without success. 
 
 At last on the fourth day, as I again directed my 
 steps to the momentous beer-garden at the appointed 
 hour, I perceived to my horror that the Englishman 
 was cautiously and observantly following me at a dis- 
 tance. The wretch, perpetually watching at his win- 
 dow, had not let the fact escape him that I went out 
 every day at the same hour and in the same direction. 
 He had been struck by this, and at once suspecting 
 that I had found some clue by which to trace out Beet- 
 hoven, he had decided to take advantage of my pre- 
 sumed discovery. He told me all this with the great- 
 
52 
 
 A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 est frankness, and forthwith declared that he proposed 
 to follow me everywhere. In vain were all my en- 
 deavors to deceive him, or to make him believe that I 
 had no other purpose in view than to visit, for my own 
 refreshment, a beer-garden that was far too unfashion- 
 able to be worth the consideration of a gentleman like 
 him ; he kept steadfastly to his resolution, and I had 
 my luck to curse for it. At last I tried rudeness, and 
 sought to rid myself of him by insolence ; far from let- 
 ting himself be influenced by this, however, he con- 
 tented himself with a gentle smile. His fixed idea 
 was — to see Beethoven ; nothing else disturbed him in 
 the least. 
 
 In truth, it was to be ; on this day I was for the 
 first time to behold the great Beethoven. No words 
 can picture my ecstasy — or at the same time describe 
 my rage — as, seated beside my " gentleman," I saw 
 approaching a man whose carriage and appearance 
 fully bore out the description that the landlord had 
 given me of the master. The long blue overcoat, the 
 tangled, bristling grey hair, and more than these the 
 features, the expression of the face, as they had long 
 hovered before my imagination, pictured from an ex- 
 cellent portrait. No mistake was possible ; I had rec- 
 ognized him in an instant ! He passed us with short 
 and hurried steps ; surprise and reverence enchained 
 my senses. 
 
 The Englishman missed none of my movements; 
 he looked with curiosity at the new-comer, who with- 
 drew into the most secluded corner of the beer-garden, 
 — at this hour almost deserted, — ordered wine, and then 
 remained for a time in an attitude of deep thought. 
 My beating heart said to me — " It is he ! " For a mo- 
 ment I forgot my neighbor, and looked with curious 
 eye and unspeakable emotion upon the man whose 
 genius had alone ruled over all my thoughts and feel- 
 ings since I had learned to think and feel. Involuntarily 
 I began to murmur softly to myself, and fell into a 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 S3 
 
 kind of soliloquy that ended with the but too distinctly 
 uttered words — " Beethoven — it is thou, then, whom I 
 see!" 
 
 Nothing escaped my accursed neighbor, who, bend- 
 ing close beside "me, had hstened with bated breath 
 to my murmuring. I was roused in horror from my 
 deep ecstasy by the words — "Yes, this gentleman is 
 Beethoven! Come, let us introduce ourselves at 
 once ! " 
 
 Filled with anxiety and disgust I held the cursed 
 Englishman back by the arm. 
 
 " What are you going to do? " I cried — " do you 
 mean to disgrace us? Here — in such a place — so 
 utterly without regard to common courtesy ? " 
 
 "Oh," responded he, "it's a capital opportunity; 
 we shan't easily find a better one." 
 
 With this he drew a kind of note-book from his 
 pocket, and would have rushed forthwith upon the 
 man in the blue overcoat. Beside myself, I seized 
 the lunatic by the skirts of his coat, and cried out furi- 
 ously, " Are you stark mad ? " 
 
 This proceeding had attracted the attention of the 
 stranger. He seemed to guess, with painful annoy- 
 ance, that he was the subject of our excitement, and 
 after he had hastily emptied his glass he rose to go 
 away. Hardly had the Englishman perceived this 
 than he tore himself from me with such force that he 
 left one of his coat-skirts in my hand, and threw him- 
 self in Beethoven's path. The latter sought to avoid 
 him ; but the wretch was before him, and making him 
 a marvellous bow according to the latest English fash- 
 ion, addressed him as follows : 
 
 " I have the honor to introduce myself to that very 
 famous composer and most estimable man — Herr 
 Beethoven." 
 
 He had no need to add anything further, for with 
 his first words Beethoven, casting a single glance upon 
 me, had turned away with a hasty start to one side. 
 
54 ^ PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 and had vanished from the garden with the speed of 
 lightning. Not the less did the irrepressible Briton 
 show his intention to pursue the fugitive, when I seized, 
 in a fury of rage, on the remnant of his coat skirts. 
 Somewhat astonished, he checked himself, and cried 
 out in a singular tone : 
 
 " Damn it ! This gentleman is worthy to be an 
 Englishman, and I shall certainly make no delay in 
 forming his acquaintance ! " 
 
 I stood there stupefied ; this terrible adventure put. 
 an end to every hope of mine to see the dearest wish 
 of my heart fulfilled ! 
 
 It was very clear to me that from this time forth 
 every attempt to approach Beethoven in an ordinary 
 fashion must be perfectly vain. In my ruinous cir- 
 cumstances I had only to decide whether I would at 
 once enter upon my homeward journey with my ob- 
 ject unaccomplished, or whether I should make one 
 last desperate endeavor to reach my goal. At the first 
 alternative I shuddered to the bottom of my soul. 
 Who, so near as this to the gates of the holy of holies, 
 could see them close upon him without being fairly 
 annihilated ? Before I gave up the salvation of my 
 soul, then, I would make one more desperate attempt. 
 But what step was there for me to take — what way left 
 me to pursue ? For a long time I could think of 
 nothing definite. Alas, all consciousness was be- 
 numbed ; nothing presented itself to my imagination 
 but the remembrance of what I had passed through 
 when I held the vile Englishman's coat-skirts in my 
 hands. Beethoven's side glance at my unlucky self 
 during this frightful catastrophe had not escaped me ; 
 I felt what such a glance must mean ; he had — taken 
 me for an Englishman ! 
 
 What should I do then, to elude the wrath of the 
 master ? Everything depended on informing him that 
 I was a simple German soul, full of worldly poverty, 
 but more than worldly enthusiasm. 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 55 
 
 So I decided at last to pour out my heart, — to write. 
 I did so ; told him briefly the history of my life ; how 
 I had become a musician ; how I idolized him ; how I 
 had longed to make his acquaintance ; how 1 had given 
 up two years to gaining a reputation as a composer of 
 galops ; how I had begun and ended my pilgrimage ; 
 what woes the Englishman had brought upon me, and 
 in what a cruel situation I now found myself. As I 
 felt my heart grow consciously lighter during this 
 summary of my griefs, I even passed into a certain 
 degree of confidence, from the pleasure of this feeling ; 
 I mingled in my letter some frank and rather decided 
 complaints of the unjust cruelty with which I, poor 
 devil, had been treated by the master. I closed my 
 letter with positive enthusiasm ; my eyes swam as I 
 wrote the address — "to HerrLudwig von Beethoven." 
 I uttered a silent prayer, and myself delivered the 
 letter at Beethoven's house. 
 
 As I returned to my hotel, full of enthusiasm — 
 great Heaven ! what brought the horrible Englishman 
 again before my eyes ? He had watched this last 
 errand also from his window; he had seen on my 
 features the happiness of hope, and this was enough 
 to deliver me again into his power. He stopped me 
 on the steps with the question, " Good news ? When 
 shall we see Beethoven ? " 
 
 " Never ! never ! " cried I in despair — " Beethoven 
 will never in his life see you again ! Let me go, 
 villain ! We have nothing in common ! " 
 
 " Most decidedly we have something in common," 
 responded he, coldly ; " where is the skirt of my coat, 
 sir ? Who authorized you to forcibly deprive me of 
 it ? Do you know, sir, that you are to blame for the 
 behavior of Beethoven toward me ? How was he to 
 find it en rdgle to permit the acquaintance of a gentle- 
 man with only one coat-skirt ? " 
 
 Furious at seeing the fault thus cast upon me, I 
 cried — "You shall have the coat-skirt back, sir! 
 
56 ^ PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 Treasure it up as a shameful reminder of the way In 
 which you insulted the great Beethoven, and ruined a 
 poor musician ! — Farewell ! may we never see each 
 other again ! " 
 
 He sought to restrain me, and to pacify me by as- 
 suring me that he had still a large number of coats in 
 the best possible condition ; I must tell him when 
 Beethoven would receive us. But I rushed past him 
 up into my fifth story ; and there I locked myself in 
 and waited for Beethoven's answer. 
 
 But how shall I describe what passed within me — 
 around me — when I really received within an hour a 
 little piece of note-paper on which was hastily written 
 
 — " Pardon me, Herr R , if I ask you to call for 
 
 the first time to-morrow morning ; for I am at work to 
 get off a packet of music by post. I expect you to- 
 morrow. Beethoven." 
 
 First of all I sank upon my knees and thanked 
 Heaven for this marvellous boon ; my eyes were 
 clouded with burning tears. But at length my emo- 
 tions broke loose in the wildest joy ; I sprang up and 
 danced about my little bedroom like a madman. I 
 hardly know what I danced ; but I remember that to 
 my infinite shame I suddenly became aware that I was 
 accompanying myself by whistling a galop. This un- 
 happy discovery brought me to myself again ; I left 
 my room and the hotel, and rushed into the streets of 
 Vienna fairly drunken with delight. 
 
 Heavens ! My woes had made me utterly forget 
 that I was in Vienna ! How the lively stir of the peo- 
 ple of the imperial city delighted me ! I was in an 
 enthusiastic mood, and saw everything with enthusias- 
 tic eyes. The somewhat superficial sensuousness of the 
 Viennese seemed the fresh warmth of life ; their frivo- 
 lous and not very fastidious pursuit of pleasure passed 
 for natural and frank appreciation of the beautiful. I 
 looked over the five daily theatre-bills ; on one of 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 57 
 
 them I saw announced " Fidelia, — opera by Beetho- 
 ven." 
 
 I must go to the theatre, be the receipts from my 
 galops ever so sadly lessened ! As I came into the 
 parquette the overture began. This was the rear- 
 rangement of the opera that had once — to the honor of 
 the highly critical public of Vienna — failed, under the 
 title of "Leonore." Even in this later form I had 
 nowhere been able to produce it ; and the delight 
 may be imagined, which 1 experienced as I now heard 
 for the first time this glorious novelty. A very young 
 girl rendered the role of Leonore ; yet this singer 
 seemed even in her early youth to have fairly wed 
 herself to the genius of Beethoven. With what ardor, 
 poetic feeling, deep emotion did she depict this won- 
 derful woman ! Her name was Wilhelmine Schroder. 
 She had gained for herself the noble merit of opening 
 Beethoven's work to the German public ; for I saw 
 that evening, that even the superficial Viennese were 
 roused to thorough enthusiasm. For me the very 
 heavens were opened ; all was illuminated for me, and 
 I bowed down before the Genius that had led me — 
 like Florestan — from night and chains to light and 
 liberty. 
 
 That night I could not sleep. What I had just gone 
 through and what awaited me on the morrow, was too 
 great and overwhelming to have let me carry it quietly 
 into my dreams. I lay awake ; I wandered ; I pre- 
 pared myself to appear before Beethoven. At last the 
 day appeared ; I waited with impatience for a time 
 suitable for a morning call ; it came, and I started 
 forth. The most important event of my life stood be- 
 fore me ; I trembled at the thought. 
 
 But I was to pass through a terrible trial. 
 
 Leaning against Beethoven's door-post there awaited 
 me with great sang-froid, my demon — the Englishman ! 
 The villain had bribed everybody — finally even the 
 landlord. The latter had read Beethoven's open note 
 
58 ^ PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 before I had seen it myself, and had betrayed its con- 
 tents to the Briton. 
 
 A cold sweat burst from me at the sight. All ro- 
 mance, all divine ecstasy disappeared. I was again in 
 his power. 
 
 " Come," said the wretch, " let us introduce our- 
 selves to Beethoven ! " 
 
 At first I thought of helping myself out of the diffi- 
 culty with a lie, and asserting that I was not on the 
 way to Beethoven at all. But he at once deprived me 
 of all possibility of refuge, by explaining to me with 
 the greatest candor that he had discovered my secret ; 
 and declaring that he would not leave me till we had 
 seen Beethoven. I sought at first to dissuade him 
 good-humoredly from his design ; — in vain. I fell into 
 a rage ; — in vain. Finally 1 hoped to escape him by 
 fleetness of foot. I flew up the steps like an arrow, and 
 jerked at the bell like a madman. But before the door 
 was opened the man stood beside me, seized the" skirt 
 of my coat and said : " Don't run away from me ! I 
 have a right to your coat-skirts, and I'll hold fast by 
 them until we stand in Beethoven's presence." 
 
 I turned upon him in a fury, and struggled to free 
 myself ; I even felt tempted to defend myself by phys- 
 ical force against the proud son of Albion — when sud- 
 denly the door was opened. An old servant appeared, 
 frowning as she discovered us in our extraordinary po- 
 sition ; and seemed about to shut the door again upon 
 us. In my anxiety I called my name aloud, and af- 
 firmed that I had been invited by Herr Beethoven him- 
 self. 
 
 The old woman was still in doubt, for the sight of the 
 Englishman seemed to rouse in her a very just suspi- 
 cion, — when suddenly, as luck would have it, Beet- 
 hoven himself appeared at the door of his study. Tak- 
 ing advantage of this moment, I rushed quickly in, 
 and sought to approach the master to excuse myself. 
 But I dragged in the Englishman with me, for he 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 59 
 
 clung to me still. He carried out his purpose, and did 
 not let me go until we stood before Beethoven. I 
 bowed, and stammered out my name ; and though he 
 certainly did not understand it, he seemed to know that 
 I was the one who had written to him. He motioned 
 to me to go into his room ; and without being in the 
 least disturbed by Beethoven's amazed look, my com- 
 panion slipped hastily in after me. 
 
 Here I was — in the sanctuary ; but the horrible em- 
 barrassment into which the villainous Britisher had led 
 me robbed me of all that beneficent mood that was 
 necessary to worthily enjoy my good fortune. Beet- 
 hoven's appearance was certainly not in itself adapted to 
 have an agreeable and soothing effect. He was in a 
 somewhat disorderly dishabille ; he wore a red woollen 
 belt around his body ; long, stiff, gray hair hung in 
 disorder about his head ; and his gloomy, repellent ex- 
 pression did not tend to allay my confusion. We sat 
 down at a table covered with pens and paper. 
 
 There was a decided feeling of awkwardness ; no 
 one spoke. Beethoven was evidently out of temper at 
 having to receive two persons instead of one. 
 
 At last he began by saying in a harsh voice — ' ' You 
 come from L ? " 
 
 I was about to answer, but he interrupted me ; lay- 
 ing a pencil and sheet of paper before me, he added : 
 — " Write ; I cannot hear." 
 
 I knew of Beethoven's deafness, and had prepared 
 myself for it. Nevertheless it went through my heart 
 like a pang when I heard his harsh and broken voice 
 say " I cannot hear." To live in the world joyless 
 and in poverty ; to find one's only exalted happiness 
 in the power of music — and to have to say " I cannot 
 hear ! " In one moment there came to me the full un- 
 derstanding of Beethoven's manner, of the deep sorrow 
 in his face, of the gloomy sadness of his glance, of the 
 firm-set haughtiness of his lips : — he could not hear ! 
 
 Confused, and without knowing what I said, I wrote 
 
6o -4 PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 an entreaty for his pardon and a brief explanation of 
 the circumstances that had forced me to appear in the 
 company of the EngHshman. The latter sat silent and 
 contented opposite Beethoven, who, when he had read 
 my words, turned to him rather sharply with the in- 
 quiry what he desired from him ? 
 
 " I have the honor" — replied the Briton. 
 
 " I can't understand you," cried Beethoven, hastily 
 interrupting him. " I cannot hear, and I can speak 
 but little. Write down what you want with me." 
 
 The Englishman quietly reflected fora moment, then 
 drew an elegant music-book from his pocket, and said 
 to me " Good. — Write — I request Herr Beethoven to 
 look at this composition of mine ; if he finds a pas- 
 sage that does not please him, he will have the kind- 
 ness to mark a cross against it." 
 
 I wrote down his request literally, in the hope that 
 we might thus get rid of him. And such was really the 
 result. After Beethoven had read it, he laid the Eng- 
 Hshman's composition on the table with a peculiar 
 smile, nodded abruptly, and said " I will send it to 
 you." 
 
 With this my " gentleman" was content. He rose, 
 made an especially magnificent bow, and took his 
 leave. I drew a long breath ; — he was gone. 
 
 Now for the first time I felt myself in the very 
 sanctuary. Even Beethoven's features grew obviously 
 brighter ; he looked quietly at me for a moment, and 
 began : 
 
 " The Englishman has caused you no little trouble? " 
 said he. " Find consolation with me ; these travelling 
 Englishmen have tortured me to death. They come 
 to-day to see a poor musician as they would go to- 
 morrow to look at some rare animal. I am heartily 
 sorry to have confounded you with him. — ^You wrote 
 me that you were pleased with my compositions. I am 
 glad of that, for I have little confidence now in pleas- 
 ing people with my productions." 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. Qi 
 
 This cordiality in addressing me soon did away with 
 all my embarrassment ; a thrill of joy ran through me 
 at these simple words. I wrote that I was by no 
 means the only one filled with such ardent enthusiasm 
 for every one of his creations, as to have no dearer 
 wish than, for instance, to gain for my native city the 
 happiness of seeing him once in its midst ; — that he 
 might then convince himself what effect his works pro- 
 duced upon the public. 
 
 " I can well believe," he answered, " that my com- 
 positions are more appreciated in North Germany. 
 The Viennese often provoke me ; they hear too much 
 wretched stuff every day, to be always in the mood to 
 take an earnest interest in anything serious." 
 
 I sought to combat this view, and instanced the fact 
 that I had yesterday attended a performance of ' ' Fi- 
 delio," which the Viennese public had received with 
 the most obvious enthusiasm. 
 
 "Hm! Hm!" muttered the master, — " The ' Fi- 
 delio' ! But I know that the people only applaud it 
 out of vanity, after all, for they imagine that in my 
 rearrangement of the opera I only followed their ad- 
 vice. So they seek to reward me for my trouble, and 
 cry bravo ! It's a good-natured, uneducated populace ; 
 so I like better to be among it than among wise peo- 
 ple. Does ' Fidelio ' please you ? " 
 
 I told him of the impression that the performance of 
 the day before had made upon me, and remarked that 
 the whole had gained most gloriously by the additions 
 that had been made to it. 
 
 " It is vexatious work," said Beethoven ; " I am no 
 composer of operas ; at least I know of no theatre in 
 the world for which I would care to compose an opera 
 again. If I should make an opera according to my 
 own conception, the people would absolutely flee from 
 it ; for there would be no airs, duetts, trios, and all 
 that nonsense to be found in it, with which operas are 
 stitched together nowadays ; — and what I would sub- 
 
62 ^ PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 stitute for these no singer would sing and no audience 
 hear. They all know nothing deeper than brilliant 
 falsehoods, sparkling nonsense," and sugar-coated dul- 
 ness. The man who created a true musical drama 
 would be looked upon as a fool — and would be one in 
 very truth if he did not keep such a thing to himself, 
 but wanted to bring it before the public." 
 
 " And how should one go to work," I asked excit- 
 edly, " to produce such a musical drama ? " 
 
 " As Shakespeare did when he wrote his plays " — 
 was the almost angry answer. Then he continued : 
 ' ' The man who has to trouble himself with fitting all 
 sorts of brilliant prattle to women with passable voices, 
 so that they may gain applause by it, should make 
 himself a Parisian man-milliner, not a dramatic com- 
 poser. For myself, I am not made for such trifling. 
 I know very well that certain wiseacres say of me for 
 this reason that though I have some ability in in- 
 strumentation I should never be at home in vocal 
 music. They are right — for they understand by vocal 
 music only operatic music ; and as for my being at 
 home in that — Heaven forbid ! " 
 
 I ventured to ask if he really thought that any one, 
 after hearing his "Adelaide," would dare to deny him 
 the most brilliant genius for vocal music also ? 
 
 " Well," he said after a short pause, " ' Adelaide' 
 and things of that kind are small matters, after all, 
 that soon fall into the hands of the professional vir- 
 tuosi — to serve them as opportunities to bring out 
 their brilliant art-touches. Why should not vocal 
 music form a great and serious genre by itself as well 
 as instrumental, — that should receive as much respect 
 from the frivolous tribe of singers in its execution, as 
 is demanded of an orchestra in the production of a 
 sympliony. The human voice exists. It is a far more 
 beautiful and noble organ of tone than any instrument 
 of an orchestra. Ought it not to be brought into as 
 independent use as this latter ? What new results 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 63 
 
 might not be gained by such a method ! For it is pre- 
 cisely the character of the human voice, utterly differ- 
 ent by nature from the peculiarities of an instrument, 
 that could be brought out and retained, and could be 
 capable of the most varying combinations. In instru- 
 ments, the primal organs of creation and nature find 
 their representation ; they cannot be sharply deter- 
 mined and defined, for they but repeat primal feelings 
 as they came forth from the chaos of the first creation, 
 when there were perhaps no human beings in exist- 
 ence to receive them in their hearts. With the gen- 
 ius of the human voice it is entirely otherwise ; this 
 represents the human heart, and its isolated, individ- 
 ual emotion. Its character is therefore limited, but 
 fixed and defined. Let these two elements be brought 
 together, then ; let them be united ! Let those wild 
 primal emotions that stretch out into the infinite, that 
 are represented by instruments, be contrasted with the 
 clear, definite emotions of the human heart, represented 
 by the human voice. The addition of the second 
 element will work beneficently and soothingly upon 
 the conflict of the elemental emotions, and give to 
 their course a well-defined and united cMannel ; and 
 the human heart itself, in receiving these elemental 
 emotions, will be immeasurably strengthened and 
 broadened ; and made capable of feeling clearly what 
 was before an uncertain presage of the highest ideal, 
 now changed into a divine knowledge." 
 
 Beethoven paused here a moment, as if fatigued. 
 Then, with a light sigh, he continued : — " It is true that 
 many obstacles are met with in the attempt to solve 
 this problem ; in order to sing one has need of words. 
 But what man could put into words the poetry that 
 must form the basis of such a union of elements ? Poetry 
 must stand aside here ; for words are too weak things 
 for this task. — You will soon hear a new composition 
 of mine which will remind you of what I am now ex- 
 plaining. It is a symphony with choruses. I call 
 
64 ^ PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 your attention to the difficulty I had in this, in getting 
 over the obstacle of the inadequacy of the poetry 
 which I required to help me. Finally I decided to 
 choose our Schiller's beautiful " Hymn to Joy" ; this 
 is at least a noble and elevating creation, even though 
 it is far from expressing what in this case, it is true, no 
 verses in the world c<7«<A/ express." 
 
 Even now I can hardly comprehend the happiness 
 that I enjoyed in the fact that Beethoven himself 
 should thus help me by these explanations to the full 
 understanding of his last giant symphony, which at 
 that time must have been barely finished, but which 
 was as yet known to no one. I expressed to him my 
 enthusiastic thanks for this certainly rare condescen- 
 sion. At the same time I expressed the delighted sur- 
 prise that he had given me in this news that the ap- 
 pearance of a new and great work of his composition 
 might soon be looked for. Tears stood stood in my 
 eyes — I could have kneeled before him. 
 
 Beethoven seemed to perceive my emotion. He 
 looked at me half sorrowfully, half with a mocking 
 smile, as he said : " You will be able to be my de- 
 fender when my new work is spoken of — think of me 
 then ; the wise people will believe me mad — at all events 
 
 they will call me so. Yet you see, Herr R , that 
 
 I am not exactly a madman, — though I might be un- 
 happy enough to be one. People demand of me that 
 I shall write according to their conception of what is 
 beautiful and good ; but they do not reflect that I, the 
 poor deaf man, must have thoughts that are all 
 my own, — that it is impossible for me to compose 
 otherwise than as I feel. And that I cannot think and 
 feel the things that they deem beautiful," he added 
 ironically, " that is my misfortune ! " 
 
 With this he rose and strode up and down the 
 room with short, quick strides. Deeply moved as I 
 was, I also rose — I felt myself trembling. It would 
 have been impossible for me to continue the conversa- 
 
A PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 65 
 
 tion either by pantomime or writing. I perceived 
 that the time had come when my visit might grow 
 burdensome to the master. To write my deep-felt 
 thanks and my farewell, seemed cold ; I contented 
 myself by taking my hat, standing before Beethoven, 
 and letting him read in my eyes what was passing within 
 me. 
 
 He seemed to understand me. " You are going ? " 
 he asked. " Do you remain any time longer in 
 Vienna ? " 
 
 I wrote that I had no other aim in this journey than 
 to become acquainted with him ; that as he had 
 deemed me worthy of such an unusual reception, I 
 was more than happy to find my goal reached, and 
 should start the next day on my return. 
 
 He answered, smiling, " You wrote to me how you 
 furnished yourself with money for this journey. You 
 should stay here in Vienna and make galops — they are 
 popular wares here." 
 
 I declared that all that was over for me, for that I 
 knew nothing that could ever again seem to me to de- 
 serve such a sacrifice. 
 
 " Well, well," he said, " perhaps something will yet 
 be found ! I — fool that I am — should be far better off 
 if I made galops ; if I go on as I have hitherto, I shall 
 always be in want. Bon voyage ! " he went on ; " bear 
 me in mind, and console yourself with me in all your 
 trials ! " 
 
 Deeply moved, and with tears in my eyes, I was 
 about to take my leave, when he called to me — " Wait ! 
 Let us finish up the musical Englishman. Let us see 
 where the crosses come in." 
 
 With this he seized the Englishman's music-book, 
 and smilingly looked through it ; then he carefully 
 folded it up again, wrapped it in paper, took up a 
 heavy music-pen, and drew a gigantic cross across the 
 whole wrapper. And then he handed it to me with 
 the remark, " Kindly return the fortunate being his 
 
S6 ^ PILGRIMAGE TO BEETHOVEN. 
 
 masterpiece. He is an ass — and yet I envy him his 
 long ears. Farewell, mein Lieber, and remember me 
 in kindness." 
 
 With this he dismissed me. Deeply agitated, I 
 passed out of the room and from the house. 
 
 At the hotel I met the Englishman's servant, as he 
 was arranging his master's trunk in the travelling car- 
 riage. His goal, too, had been reached ; I was com- 
 pelled to confess that he too had shown persistency. 
 I hurried to my room and made my preparations to 
 begin, the next day, my pedestrian journey back again. 
 I had to laugh, as I looked at the cross on the wrapper 
 of the Englishman's composition. Yet the cross was a 
 memorial of Beethoven, and I begrudged it to the evil 
 demon of my pilgrimage. My decision was quickly 
 made. I took the wrapper off, took out my gallops, and 
 wrapped them instead in this condemnatory covering. I 
 returned the Englishman his composition without a 
 wrapper, and accompanied it with a note in which I 
 informed him that Beethoven envied him, and that he 
 declared he did not know where to put a cross on such 
 a work. 
 
 As I left the hotel I saw my wretched companion 
 getting into his carriage. 
 
 " Good-by " — he shouted : — " You have done me a 
 great service. I am delighted to have made Herr 
 Beethoven's acquaintance. Will you go to Italy with 
 me?" 
 
 " What are you after there ? " asked I in reply. 
 
 " I want to make the acquaintance of Rossini — he is 
 a very celebrated composer." 
 
 " Good luck ! " I called. "/ know Beethoven ; and 
 with that I have enough for all my life." 
 
 We parted. I cast one longing look towards 
 Beethoven's house, and turned to the northward — ex- 
 alted and ennobled in heart. 
 
AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 WE have just buried him. It was cold and cloudy 
 weather, and there were but few of us. The 
 Englishman was there ; he is going to erect a monu- 
 ment to him ; it would be better if he paid his debts. 
 
 It was a dreary business. The first biting air of 
 winter checked one's breath ; no one could speak, and 
 the funeral sermon was dispensed with. 
 
 Yet nevertheless you must know that he whom we 
 buried was a good man and an honest German musi- 
 cian. He had a soft heart, and always wept when 
 they whipped the wretched horses in the Paris streets. 
 He was of gentle nature, and never went into a rage 
 when the gamins pushed him off the narrow sidewalk. 
 But unhappily he had a tender artist's conscience, was 
 ambitious, and without a talent for intrigue ; and he 
 had once in his youth seen Beethoven, which had so 
 turned his head that he could never truly find his 
 bearings in Paris. 
 
 It was a good deal more than a year ago that I saw 
 a large and remarkably beautiful Newfoundland dog 
 bathing in the fountain basin of the Palais Royal. 
 Lover of dogs as I am, I stood and watched the beau- 
 tiful animal, which at last left the basin, and followed 
 the call of a man who at first attracted my attention 
 only as the owner of the dog. The man was by no 
 means so beautiful to look upon as his dog. He was 
 clean, but dressed according to Heaven knows what 
 
68 AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 provincial fashion. Yet his features impressed me ; I 
 soon remembered that I had known them before ; — my 
 interest in the dog vanished — I rushed into the arms of 
 my old friend R . 
 
 We were happy over our reunion ; he was fairly 
 overcome by emotion. I took him to the Caf6 de la 
 Rotonde ; I drank tea with rum ; he, coffee — with 
 tears. 
 
 " But what in the world," I began at last, " brings 
 you to Paris ? You, the insignificant musician from 
 your fifth story in the side street of a provincial 
 town? " 
 
 " My friend," said he, " call it the preternatural cu- 
 riosity to see how people lived au sixifeme in Paris ; or 
 the human curiosity to discover whether I might not 
 get down to the deuxi^me or even to the premier — I 
 am not very clear about it myself. Before all things, 
 however, I could not help tearing myself away from 
 the misery of the German provinces; and without 
 tasting the unquestionably greater comfort of the Ger- 
 man capitals, rushing into the very^capital of the world, 
 — where the art of all nations comes to a focus, where 
 the artists of all nations find recognition, — where I also 
 hope to see satisfied that little portion of ambition that 
 Heaven — doubtless by mistake — has put into my 
 heart." 
 
 "Your ambition is natural," said I, "and I can 
 pardon it, even though it surprises me a little, in you 
 particularly. But let us see with what means you pro- 
 pose to nourish your ambitious efforts. How much 
 money do you make a year ? Don't be alarmed ! I 
 know you were a poor devil, and that there's no ques- 
 tion of rents in this case — that's a matter of course. 
 Still, I must assume that you must have either won 
 money in a lottery, or that you enjoy the protection 
 of a rich patron or relative to such an extent as to pro- 
 vide you with a passable annual income for at least 
 ten years." 
 
AN END IN PARK. 
 
 69 
 
 "That's the way you ridiculous people look at 
 things," said my friend with a good-natured smile, af- 
 ter he had recovered from his first alarm. " Such pro- 
 saic adjuncts appear to you at once as the chief things 
 concerned. Nothing of all these, my dearest friend ! 
 I am poor ; in a few weeks I shall even be without a 
 sou ; but what of that ? I have been assured that I 
 have talent. Have I then chosen Tunis to use it in ? 
 No ; I have come to Paris ! Here I shall see if they 
 deceived me when they attributed talent to me — or if 
 I really have it. In the first case, I shall be quickly and 
 willingly undeceived, and shall go quietly home again 
 to my little room, with a clear understanding of my- 
 self. In the second case, I shall find my talent paid 
 for quicker and better in Paris than anywhere else in 
 the world. — Ah, don't smile ; — try rather to bring up 
 some worthy argument against me." 
 
 " My dear fellow," I said, " I smile no longer ; for 
 at this moment a certain sorrowful feeling thrills 
 through me, that gives me a deep anxiety for you and 
 your magnificent dog. I know that even if you are 
 economical, your excellent animal will still consume a 
 good deal. Are you going to feed yourself and him 
 with your talent ? — ^That is praiseworthy, for self- 
 preservation is the first duty, but humanity towards 
 animals a second and more beautiful one. — But tell 
 me, how are you going to bring your talent into play ? 
 What are your plans ? Tell me them." 
 
 " It's a good thing that you ask me about plans," 
 was the answer ; " you shall hear a good quantity of 
 them, for you must know that I am especially rich in 
 plans. First, I am thinking of an opera ; I am pro- 
 vided with completed works, with half-finished ones, 
 and with a large number of schenies of all kinds — for 
 the grand opera and the comic. — Don't answer ! — I am 
 prepared to find that this will not be a matter to be 
 arranged all at once, and so I count it only as the 
 basis of my efforts. But even if I can't hope to see 
 
70 ^4iV END IN PARIS. 
 
 an opera of mine produced immediately, at least I can 
 count upon being -speedily informed whether the man- 
 agement will accept my compositions or not. — My 
 friend, you are smiling again — but say nothing ! I know 
 what objection you mean to make, and I will at once 
 reply to it. I am convinced that in this respect, too, I 
 shall have to contend with all sorts of obstacles. But 
 in what will these consist ? Assuredly in nothing but 
 competition. The greatest talent of the world assem- 
 bles here, and offers its productions ; the management 
 are therefore bound to make a severe trial of what is 
 submitted ; the path must be forever closed to 
 bunglers ; only works of special distinction must 
 enjoy the honor of selection. — Good ! — I have prepared 
 myself for this examination, and desire no distinction 
 without deserving it. What should I have to fear be- 
 side this competition ? Shall I believe that here also 
 the customary servile tricks are in vogue ? Here, in 
 Paris, the capital of free France, where there is a press 
 that exposes every abuse and corruption and makes it 
 impossible ? — where it is possible for merit alone to 
 gain applause from the great public that cannot be 
 bribed ? " 
 
 "The public?" interrupted I; — "you are right 
 there. I believe too that with your talent you might 
 count upon success as soon as you had to deal with 
 the public only. But you are sadly in error, my poor 
 friend, as to the ease of the means for getting before 
 it ! It is not the competition of talent, among which 
 you will have to fight, but the competition of repu- 
 tations and personal interests. If you are certain of 
 a decided and influential protection, venture upon the 
 conflict ; but without this and without money — stand 
 off", for you must fail without even having gained con- 
 sideration. There will be no question of estimating 
 your talents or your labor (even that would be a favor 
 without precedent) ; — but there will only be taken 
 into consideration what name you bear. Since there's 
 
AN END IN PARIS. "ji 
 
 no reputation attaching to this name, and it is not to 
 be found on any list of rentiers, you and your talent 
 remain unnoticed." 
 
 But my reply failed to produce the intended result 
 upon my enthusiastic friend. He was out of humor, 
 but he put no faith in what I said. I went on and 
 asked him what he could think of to do so that he 
 might make a little reputation in some other way, 
 that could be of assistance to him in afterward un- 
 dertaking, with more prospect of success, the execu- 
 tion of the decisive plan he had communicated to me? 
 
 This suggestion seemed to drive away his ill-humor. 
 " Listen," he said. "You know I have always had 
 a great partiality for instrumental music. Here in 
 Paris, where a kind of ctdtiis of Beethoven seems to be 
 established, I can certainly hope that his coutryman 
 and most ardent admirer will have no difficulty in 
 gaining a hearing, when he endeavors to bring before 
 the public his own attempts to approach the unattain- 
 able model — be these attempts ever so feeble." 
 
 " Permit me to interrupt you there," said I ; 
 " Beethoven is fairly deified — so far you are right. 
 But remember that it is his name, his reputation that 
 is worshipped. That name, placed before any work 
 that is worthy of the great master, is sufficient to 
 make people see the beauties of it at once. But put 
 any other name before the same composition, and it 
 wouldn't induce even the management of a concert- 
 room to notice even the most brilliant part of it." 
 
 " That is false ! " exclaimed my friend rather angrily. 
 " It is plain that you mean to systematically discour- 
 age me and frighten me away from the path to fame. 
 But you shall not succeed ! " 
 
 " I know you, and can pardon you," I returned. 
 " But I must add, that in pursuing this latter plan 
 also, you will encounter precisely the same difficulties 
 that are always in the way of an artist without a 
 reputation — be his talents what they may — here where 
 
72 
 
 AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 people have far too little time to trouble themselves 
 about hidden treasures. Both plans must be regarded 
 as means for strengthening and taking advantage of a 
 reputation that is already made — but not in the least 
 as methods of obtaining one. Your efforts for the pro- 
 duction of your instrumental compositions will either 
 be altogether neglected, or, if your works are con- 
 ceived in that bold and original fashion that you ad- 
 mire in Beethoven, they will be considered bombastic 
 and heavy, and sent back to you with this opinion." 
 
 " But," interrupted my friend, " how if I have 
 already provided against such a judgment? What if, 
 foreseeing this, I have composed works which, for the 
 very purpose of producing them before a merely 
 superficial audience, I have arranged in that favorite 
 modern fashion which, it is true, I detest from the 
 bottom of my heart, but which even the greatest 
 artists have not shrunk from using as a first means of 
 attracting ? " 
 
 " Then people will tell you that your work is too 
 light and shallow to catch the public ear, between 
 the works of Beethoven and Musard ! " 
 
 " O my dear fellow," cried my dear friend — "now 
 I see clearly that you are only chaffing me ! You are 
 and always will be a 6.xoV\. farceur ! " 
 
 And my friend stamped his foot laughingly, and 
 brought it down so hard on his dog's beautiful paw, 
 that the latter howled aloud ; but a moment after, 
 licking his master's hand, seemed to beseech him no 
 longer to take my objections in jest. 
 
 "You see," said I, "that it isn't always a good 
 thing to take earnest for jest. But apart from this, 
 pray tell me what other plans could induce you to 
 exchange your modest home for vast Paris. Tell me 
 in what other way, — if you should for my sake aban- 
 don the two schemes already mentioned, — you would 
 proppse to try making the necessary reputation for 
 yourself? " 
 
AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 73 
 
 " Merely out of spite toward your extraordinary spirit 
 of contradiction," said he in reply, " I will go on in 
 the enumeration of my plans. I know that nothing 
 is more affected nowadays in Paris salons, than those 
 spirited and sympathetic romances and ballads that 
 are precisely to the taste of the French people, and 
 that have been transplanted hither from our own 
 home. Think of Franz Schubert's songs and the repu- 
 tation they have here 1 This is a kind of composition 
 that thoroughly suits my fancy, and I feel that I am 
 capable of doing something really meritorious in it. 
 I will bring my songs before the public, and perhaps 
 I shall have the luck that so man)' others have had — 
 to attract the attention of one of the directors of the 
 opera here, by such unassuming compositions, to 
 such a degree that he will honor me by an order for 
 an opera." 
 
 The dog gave another loud yelp ; but this time-it 
 was I who, in a convulsion of laughter, had trod upon 
 the excellent beast's paw. 
 
 " What " — I shouted — " is it possible that you seri- 
 ously hold such mad notions ? What in all the world 
 can justify you — " 
 
 " Good God " — interrupted the enthusiast — " haven't 
 such cases happened often enough before ? Shall I 
 show you the papers in which I have repeatedly 
 read how such and such a director was so carried 
 away by hearing a romansa — how such and such 
 a famous poet was so attracted by the hitherto un- 
 recognized talent of a composer, that both instantly 
 united in declaring — the one that he would forthwith 
 furnish him a libretto — the other that he would pro- 
 duce the opera that should be thus ordered ?" 
 
 " Oh," said I, all at once filled with sorrow, " is 
 that the way things stand ? Newspaper notices have 
 turned your honest, childlike brain ? Dear friend, if 
 you would only read a third, and only believe a quar- 
 ter, of everything that comes to you through that 
 4 
 
74 
 
 AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 channel ! Our directors have much else to do beside 
 listening to the singing of romansas, and going into 
 enthusiasm over them ! And even granting that this 
 could be a possible means of getting a reputation, by 
 whom would you have your romansas sung ? " 
 
 " By whom but by the same famous singers and 
 prime donne who so often, with the kindest readiness, 
 undertake the task of bringing for the first time favor- 
 ably before the public the productions of unknown or 
 repressed talent ? Or perhaps I have been deceived 
 in this too by false newspaper notices?" 
 
 " My friend," I replied, " God knows how far I am 
 from denying that noble hearts of this sort beat below 
 the throats of our famous singers and songstresses. 
 But to attain the honor of such protection, some 
 other requisites are necessary ; you can easily imagine 
 what a competition there must be in this also ; and 
 that it requires a decidedly influential introduction to 
 make it clear to the noble hearts aforesaid that one 
 really is an unrecognized genius. — My poor friend, 
 have you any other plans ? " 
 
 At this he was fairly beside himself. He turned 
 sharply and angrily away — though not without some 
 consideration for his dog. 
 
 " And if I had plans as numerous as the sands of 
 the sea," he cried, " you should not hear another one ! 
 Go ! You are my enemy ! Inexorable ! — but you shall 
 not triumph ! Tell me — I will ask you only one thing 
 more — tell me, unhappy man 1 how have the innum- 
 erable people made their beginning who have become 
 first well known in Paris, and then famous? " 
 
 " Ask them " — I answered, my coolness somewhat 
 disturbed ; " perhaps you can find out. For me — I 
 do not know ! " 
 
 "Here, here!" called the deluded man excitedly 
 to his magnificent dog. " You are no longer a friend 
 of mine," said he, turning hastily to me. " But your 
 cold scorn shall not see me blench ! In one year you 
 
AN END IN PARIS. 75 
 
 shall either be able to learn from every street gamin 
 where my house is, or yon shall receive directions 
 ivhere to come — to see me die ! Farewell ! " 
 
 He whistled shrilly to his dog — a discord — and. he 
 and his companion were gone like lightning. I could 
 not overtake them. 
 
 For the next few days, — in which all my efforts to 
 find out the lodging of my friend proved in vain, — I 
 could not help feeling keenly how wrong I had been 
 not to have more consideration for the characteristics of 
 so deep and enthusiastic a spirit, than I had shown in 
 my harsh and perhaps exaggerated replies to such in- 
 nocently told plans. In mycreditable purpose of fright- 
 ening him as much as possible from his intentions, — 
 because I did not believe him to be the man, either in 
 his outward situation or inward character, to follow 
 out such a complicated path to his ambitions as that 
 which formed the object of his plans, — in this credit- 
 able purpose of mine, I say, I had not remembered 
 that I was not dealing with an easily convinced, yielding 
 being, but with a man whose inmost belief in the 
 divine and indisputable truth of his art had reached 
 such a point of fanaticism, that it had imparted an 
 inexorable and obstinate cast to his otherwise mild 
 and gentle nature. 
 
 Undoubtedly — I thought to myself — he is at this 
 moment wandering through the Paris streets, with the 
 firm conviction that he need only come to a decision 
 as to which of his plans he shall first adopt, — in order 
 to shine at once upon that theatre -placard which rep- 
 resents to a certain extent the end of the perspective 
 of his schemes. Undoubtedly he is at this moment 
 giving some old beggar a sou, with perfect confidence 
 that in a few months he can hand him a napoleon. 
 
 The longer our separation lasted, — the vainer were 
 my efforts to discover my friend, — the more (for I con- 
 fess my weakness) the confidence he had expressed 
 
7b AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 gained upon me ; until I allowed myself to be so far 
 led astray by it as to now and then cast a glance at 
 this or that placard of a musical performance, to see if 
 I could not discover in some corner the name of my 
 credulous enthusiast. And the more this exploration 
 proved in vain, so much the more did an increasing 
 faith — strange to say — become associated with my 
 friendly sympathy, — a faith that after all it was not im- 
 possible that my friend might succeed ; — that perhaps 
 even now, while I was anxiously seeking him, his 
 peculiar talent had been already discovered and recog- 
 nized by some important personage ; — that perhaps 
 one of those very commissions had already been given 
 to him, the successful execution of which would bring 
 to him happiness, fame — and Heaven knows what be- 
 sides. Why not ? Does not every deeply enthusias- 
 tic soul pursue a star ? And may not his be a lucky 
 star ? May not miracles happen, to reveal the rich- 
 ness of a hidden treasure ? 
 
 The very fact that I nowhere saw a romance, an 
 overture, or anything of that nature advertised under 
 my friend's name, led me to believe that he had tried 
 his most ambitious plan first, and with success ; and 
 that, despising the narrower ways to public recogni- 
 tion, he was now fully occupied in the composition of 
 an opera of at least five acts. It is true, it struck me 
 that I never found him at any of the centres of artistic 
 activity, or met anybody that knew anything of him ; 
 but at the same time, as I frequented these sanctuaries 
 but little myself, I decided that it was only / that was 
 so unfortunate as not. to penetrate into those regions 
 where his fame was already shining in brilliant beams. 
 
 It may be imagined, however, that it took a long 
 time to change what was at first only pitying sympa- 
 thy for my friend, into a full confidence in his happy 
 star. I only reached this point after passing through 
 all the various phases of fear, doubt, and hope. It 
 took a long time ; and for this reason it was, that al- 
 
AN END IN PA'HIS. 
 
 77 
 
 most a year had passed, since the day when I had met 
 in the Palais Royal a beautiful dog and an enthusias- 
 tic friend. During this time wonderfully successful 
 speculations had brought me to such a point of good 
 fortune, that, like Polycrates, I feared I should shortly 
 meet with some considerable piece of ill-luck. ,1 
 thought, in fact, that I could already forsee this ill- 
 fortune distinctly ; and it was in rather a gloomy 
 mood that I one day started out, as my custom was, 
 for a walk in the Champs Elysees. 
 
 It was autumn ; the faded leaves were falling from 
 the trees, and the sky hung gray, as with age, above 
 the various elysian splendors. But not the less did 
 Punchinello continue to renew his time-honored furies 
 of rage ; in his blind wrath the rash being continued to 
 set at naught the principles of human justice, until at 
 last the demoniac principle so strikingly represented 
 by the chained cat, overcomes with superhuman claws 
 the audacious defiance of the presumptuous mortal. 
 
 Suddenly I heard close by me, but a short distance 
 from the modest theatre of Punchinello's cruel deeds, 
 the following strangely accented soHloquy in German : 
 
 " Capital ! Capital ! Where in the world have I 
 let myself be led to look for what I might have found 
 so near at home ! What ! Shall I despise this stage, 
 on which the most striking political and poetic truths 
 are so clearly and intelligibly set forth-^presented 
 with such sensible taste to the most receptive and least 
 assuming of audiences ? Isn't this ■ rash being Don 
 Juan ? Isn't this horribly beautiful white cat the 
 Commendatore on horseback as he lived and looked ? 
 How the artistic meaning of this drama will be height- 
 ened and made clear when my music contributes its 
 part to it ! What sonorous voices those actors have ! 
 And the cat — ah ! the cat ! What undiscovered fasci- 
 nations lie hidden in her beauteous throat ! Now she 
 utters no sound ; — now she is utterly and entirely 
 demoniac ; but what an expression she will make 
 
78 AN .END IN PARIS. 
 
 when she sings the fioriture that I will compose ex- 
 clusively for her ! What an exquisite portamento she 
 will bring to the execution of that preternatural chro- 
 matic scale ! With what terrible fascination she will 
 smile when she sings the passage that is destined to 
 be so famous in the future — ' O Punchinello, thou art 
 lo'st.' — What a scheme ! And what an opportunity 
 Punchinello's continual beatings will give me to bring 
 the tam-tam into play ! Why do I hesitate ! I must 
 get the director's favor at once. Here I can proceed 
 directly — there's no antechamber here ! With a single 
 step I am in the very sanctuary — before the man 
 whose divinely prescient eye will recognize genius in 
 me. Or — what if I should meet with rivalry? What 
 if the cat — quick, before it is too late ! " 
 
 With these words the soliloquizer would have 
 rushed upon the Punch-and-Judy booth. But I had 
 quickly recognized my friend, and decided to prevent 
 a scandal. I seized him, and, embracing him, turned 
 him with his face toward me. 
 
 "Who is it?" he cried out angrily. But in a 
 moment he recognized me, quickly drew away from 
 me, and added coldly — " I might have known that you 
 would hold me back from this step also — the last that 
 I can take to save myself Let me go, or I may be 
 too late ! " 
 
 Again I "seized him; but though I this time suc- 
 ceeded in restraining him from advancing toward the 
 theatre, I could not move him from the spot where he 
 stood. I gained time, however, to look at him more 
 thoroughly. 
 
 Good God ! In what a state did I find him ! I do 
 not speak of his dress, but of his features ; — the 
 former was poor and neglected, but the latter were terri- 
 ble. His frank and hearty courage had disappeared. 
 His eyes wandered in a lifeless, rigid way ; his blanched 
 and sunken cheeks told not of trouble only — the dark 
 spots upon them told also of the pangs — of hunger ! 
 
AN END IN PAKIS. yg 
 
 As I looked at him with the bitterest feelings of an- 
 guish, he too seemed touched, for he tried less forci- 
 bly to tear himself away. 
 
 " How are you, dear R ? " I asked in a broken 
 
 voice. Smiling sadly, I added " Where is that 
 noble dog of yours ? " 
 
 He looked up gloomily. " Stolen ! " was his ab- 
 rupt answer. 
 
 " Not sold?" I asked. 
 
 " Wretch ! " cried he fiercely, " are you too like the 
 Englishman ? " 
 
 I did not understand what he was talking about. 
 " Come," said I in a shaken voice, — " Come ! Take 
 me to your lodging ; I have a great deal to talk over 
 with you." 
 
 " You will soon find out my lodgings without my 
 help,'' said he. " The year is not gone yet! At this 
 moment I am on the road to recognition — to fortune. 
 But leave me ! — You have no faith in it ! Why should 
 one preach to the deaf? You must needs see to be- 
 lieve. Good ! Very soon you shall see ! But let me 
 go, if you would not have me hold you my sworn 
 enemy." 
 
 I held his hands tighter. "Where is your lodg- 
 ing ? " I asked. " Come — lead me there. We will 
 have a friendly, hearty talk — if it must be — over your 
 schemes." 
 
 " You shall know them as soon as they are carried 
 out," said he. "Quadrilles — galops — those are my 
 forte ! You shall see and hear ! Do you see that 
 cat ? She shall help me to some valuable copyright ! 
 See how smooth she is — how prettily she licks her 
 lips ! Think how it will be when the most spirited 
 chromatics, accompanied by the most delicate groans 
 and sobs in the world, issue from that mouth ! Think 
 of that, my good fellow! Oh, you have no fancy— 
 you ! Let me go — let me go ! You have no imagi- 
 nation I " 
 
80 AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 I held him fast again and most urgently renewed my 
 request that he would take me to his house ; but with- 
 out effect. His eyes were fixed with an excited glare 
 upon the cat. 
 
 " How everything depends on her!" said he: — 
 " Fortune, honor, fame lie in her soft paws. Heaven 
 direct her heart and grant me her favor ! She looks 
 kindly at me ; yes, that is the feline character. She 
 is kind — courteous — immeasurably courteous ! But she 
 is a cat — a perjured, faithless cat ! Wait — I can compel 
 thee — I have a noble dog — he'll inspire respect in thee. 
 Victory ! I have won ! .Where is my dog ? " 
 
 In his delirous excitement he had shouted these last 
 words in a shrill shriek. He looked hurriedly about, 
 seeming to seek his dog. His searching glance fell 
 upon the broad roadway. Just then there rode past, 
 on a beautiful horse, a man of elegant appearance — an 
 Englishman, to judge by his physiognomy and the 
 peculiar cut of his clothes ; beside him ran a large and 
 beautiful Newfoundland dog, barking gayly. 
 
 " Ha ! My presentiment — " shrieked my friend 
 furiously at the sight : — " Curse him ! My dog ! My 
 dog ! " 
 
 All my strength was vain against the overwhelming 
 force with which the unhappy man tore himself away 
 like lightning. He shot like an arrow after the horse- 
 man, who at this moment chanced to spur his horse 
 into a full gallop which the dog accompanied with 
 merry gambols. I ran after him in vain. What exer- 
 tion can equal the effort of a madman ? — I saw the 
 horseman and the dog, with my friend, turn into a side 
 street leading to the Faubourg du Roule ; but when I 
 reached the street all were out of sight. 
 
 Let it suffice to say that all my efforts to discover a 
 trace of the lost ones were utterly in vain. 
 
 Greatly shaken, and myself excited almost to mad- 
 ness, I was at length forced to give up my search. 
 But it will be readily conceived that I did not on that 
 
AN END IN PARIS. 8 1 
 
 account cease to make daily efforts to find some guide 
 which could lead me to the dwelling of my unhappy 
 friend. I inquired in every place that had any con- 
 nection whatever with music — but nowhere could I find 
 the slightest information. Only in the sacred ante- 
 chamber of the opera, some of the lowest of the offi- 
 cials remembered a melancholy, wretched being, who 
 had often been there and waited for an audience ; — but 
 of whose name and residence, of course, no one knew 
 anything. Every other means — even that of the 
 police — led to just as little trustworthy traces ; even 
 these guardians of the public safety did not seem to 
 have thought it necessary to trouble themselves about 
 the unfortunate man. 
 
 I fell into despair : when one day, about two months 
 after the occurrence in the Champs Ely sees, a letter 
 was handed to me in an indirect way, through one of 
 my acquaintances. I opened it with a feeling of com- 
 ing trouble, and read these brief words : — 
 
 " My dear frieftd, come — to see me die." The ad- 
 dress given indicated a narrow alley on Montmartre. 
 
 I could not weep — I hastened to Montmartre. Fol- 
 lowing the address I reached one of those wretched 
 and miserable houses that are to be found in the side 
 streets of this quarter of the city. In spite of its squalid 
 exterior this building did not fail to rise to a fifth 
 story ; my friend seemed to have regarded this circum- 
 stance with pleasure ; and I was also compelled to 
 mount by the same dizzy path. But it was worth the 
 trouble ; for on asking after my friend I was directed 
 to a room in the rear. On this side of the house, it 
 is true, one was denied the out-look into the giant 
 street (some four feet wide) ; but was rewarded for 
 this by a far more beautiful prospect of all Paris. 
 
 I found my unhappy enthusiast sitting up in his sick- 
 bed, enjoying this glorious view. His face and his 
 whole body were far more meagre and haggard than 
 on that day in the Champs Elysees ; yet his expression 
 
82 AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 was more satisfactory than at that time. The frighted, 
 wild, almost maddened look, the terrible brightness of 
 his eyes, had disappeared ; his eyes were dim and al- 
 most lustreless ; the ghastly dark spots upon his 
 cheeks seemed to have changed into a general wast- 
 ing away. 
 
 Trembling, but with a quiet expression, he extended 
 his hand to me with the words — " Pardon me, dear 
 friend; and thank you for coming." 
 
 The singularly gentle and sonorous tone in which he 
 spoke these few words, made a deeply affecting im- 
 pression upon me — as indeed his very 'look had al- 
 ready done. I pressed his hand ; but I wept and 
 could not speak. 
 
 " I think," continued my friend after a moment of 
 emotion, " it must be a good deal more than a year 
 since we met in that bright Palais Royal ; — I haven't 
 entirely kept my word ; it was impossible, with my 
 best efforts, to become famous within a year ; and on 
 the other hand it is not my fault that I could not write 
 to you punctually at the termination of the year 
 whither you should come to see me die ; in spite of 
 all my pains I had not got so far. — Do not weep, my 
 friend ; — there was a time when I had to beg you not 
 to laugh." 
 
 I would have spoken, but speech failed me. " Let 
 me go on," said the dying man. "It is easy for me, 
 and I owe you an account of many things. I am 
 certain that I shall not be alive to-morrow ; so hear 
 my history to-day. It is a simple one, my. friend ; 
 very simple. There are no extraordinary complications 
 in it ; no surprising chances of fortune ; no interesting 
 details. Don't be afraid that your patience shall be 
 exhausted by the ease of speech that is now vouch- 
 safed to me and that might perhaps tempt me into 
 garrulity — for there have been days, mein Lieber, 
 when I could not utter a single syllable. — Listen ! 
 When I think of it, and consider the circumstances in 
 
AN END IN PARIS. 83 
 
 which you now find me, I feel it unnecessary to assure 
 you that my fate has not been a brilliant one. Indeed 
 I hardly need to tell you the details of those events 
 among which my enthusiastic credulity met its ruin. 
 Let it suffice to say that it was not upon the rocks 
 that I was shattered. Ah, the shipwrecked man is 
 very happy who goes down in a storm ! No, they 
 were bogs and sloughs in which I sank ! Such a slough, 
 meinTheuerer, surrounds all those proud and shining 
 temples of art toward which we poor fools make our 
 pilgrimages, with an enthusiasm as though the very 
 salvation of our souls was to be gained within them. 
 Happy is the trifler ! With a single successful en- 
 trechat he is in a position to dash past the slough at 
 once. Happy the rich man ! His well-trained steed 
 needs but one touch of the golden spurs to bear him 
 quickly over. But woe to the enthusiast who, believ- 
 ing the morass to be but a flowery meadow, sinks into 
 it beyond the power of saving, and becomes the food 
 of frogs and toads ! See, my friend, these vile vermin 
 have fed on me ; there is not left in me one drop of 
 blood ! Shall I tell you how it happened ? Why ? — 
 You see me succumb ; let it suffice me to say that I 
 was not conquered on the field of battle — but — how 
 vile it is to tell ! — I died of hunger in the antechamber ! 
 They are terrible — these antechambers : — and do you 
 know, there are many of them — very many of them, 
 in Paris — with benches of velvet as well as of wood, 
 heated and unhealed, paved arid unpaved ! " 
 
 " In these antechambers," continued my friend, 
 " I have dreamed away a bright year of my life. I 
 dreamed much and strangely ; — wild, fabulous things 
 out of the Arabian Nights — of men and cattle, gold 
 and dross. I dreamed of gods and contrabass!, of 
 diamond snuff-boxes and prime donne, of satin coats 
 and admiring lords, of songstresses and five-franc 
 pieces. Between my dreams it often seemed to me as 
 though I heard the complaining, ghostly tones of the 
 
84 ^^ END IN PARIS. 
 
 hautbois ; the sound stirred through all my nerves and 
 penetrated my heart. One day when I dreamed most 
 wildly, and this hautbois tone thrilled through me 
 most painfully, I suddenly awoke and found that I was 
 mad. I remember, at least, that I forgot what I had 
 so often done, — to make a deep reverence to the ser- 
 vant as I left the antechamber, — the reason, by the 
 bye, that I never dared to go back to that one, — for 
 how would the servant have received me ? 
 
 " So I left the asylum of my dreams with an uncer- 
 tain step ; on the threshold of the building I suddenly 
 fell. I had fallen over my poor dog, who made his an- 
 techamber in the street according to his custom, and 
 waited for his fortunate master, to whom it was per- 
 mitted to have his antechamber among human beings. 
 This dog, I must tell you, was of the greatest service 
 to me, for I had to thank him and his beauty that the 
 servant at the antechambers now and then cast a glance 
 of consideration upon me. Unfortunately he lost his 
 beauty with every day, for hunger raged in his vitals 
 as well. This gave me great anxiety, for I saw that it 
 would soon be all over with the servant's favor ; al- 
 ready a scornful smile played about his lips. — As I 
 said, I fell over my dog. I do not know how long I 
 lay there ; I did not notice the kicks that I perhaps 
 received from the passers-by ; but at last the gentlest 
 kisses awakened me — the warm tongue of the poor ani- 
 mal. I rose ; and in a lucid moment I saw what was 
 the most important duty before me — the feeding of 
 my dog. A discriminating old-clothes merchant gave 
 a few sous for my wretched waistcoat. My dog was 
 fed, and what he left — I ate. This agreed thoroughly 
 with him, but I could no longer digest. The revenue 
 derived from one of my treasures, an old ring of my 
 grandmother's, was sufficient to give the dog all his lost 
 beauty back again. He flourished again — destructive 
 prosperity ! 
 
 In my own brain it grew worse and worse ; — I hardly 
 
AN END IN PARIS. 85 
 
 know what went on there, but I remember that one 
 day I was seized with an irresistible desire to discover 
 the devil. My dog accompanied me, bright with 
 beauty, to the doors of the concert Musard. Did I 
 hope to meet the devil there ? I hardly know. I 
 watched the people going in — and whom should I see 
 among them ? The vile Englishman, — the same, just 
 as he used to look, quite unchanged, — just as he was 
 when he so nearly ruined me with Beethoven, as I 
 have told you. 
 
 " I was horrified ; I was prepared, it is true, to meet a 
 spirit of the under- world — but not to see this earthly 
 spectre. What were my feelings when the wretch at 
 once recognized me ! I could not avoid him, the crowd 
 pressed us together. Involuntarily and in decided 
 opposition to the custom of his own country, he was 
 forced to sink into the arms that I had raised to force 
 my way through the press. There he lay, pressed 
 fast to my breast, that thrilled with a thousand horrible 
 emotions. It was a fearful moment ! But we were 
 soon more at liberty, and he freed himself from my em- 
 brace with a certain disgust. I would have fled, but it 
 was impossible. 
 
 " ' Welcome, mein Herr ! ' said the Briton ; ' It is 
 charming to find you always in the path of art ! Let 
 us go this time to Musard.' 
 
 " Furious with rage, I could say nothing in reply but 
 ' To the Devil ! ' 
 
 "'Yes,' he replied, ' they say it is rather devilish 
 there. I made a composition last Sunday that I want 
 to present to Musard. Do you know him ? Will you 
 introduce me to him ? ' 
 
 " My detestation of this spectre changed into a terri- 
 ble anxiety ; urged on by this, I succeeded in escaping 
 and fled to the boulevard ; my noble dog sprang bark- 
 ing after. 
 
 " In an instant the Englishman was again at my side ; 
 
86 AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 he arrested me, and said excitedly ' Sir, does that 
 splendid dog belong to you ? ' 
 
 " ' Yes.' 
 
 " ' Ah — but he is a fine one ! Sir, I will give you fifty 
 guineas for that dog. You know it's the proper thing 
 for a gentleman to have a dog of that sort, and I have 
 already had a good many in my possession. But, un- 
 happily, the beasts were all unmusical ; they could 
 not endure to have me play the flute or the horn, and 
 so they all ran away. But now I must assume that 
 since you are so fortunate as to be a musician, your 
 dog must be musical also. 
 
 " ' I venture to hope, therefore, that he will stay with 
 me, too. So I offer you fifty guineas for the beast.' 
 
 " ' Wretch,' I cried, ' my friend is not for sale for all 
 Britain ! ' 
 
 " With this I ran hurriedly away, my dog before me. 
 I turned into the side streets leading to the place where 
 I generally passed the night. It was bright moonlight ; 
 now and then I looked fearfully around ; to my horror 
 I fancied that I saw the lank figure of the Englishman 
 following me. I redoubled my speed, and looked 
 around still more anxiously ; sometimes I saw the 
 spectre — sometimes not. Panting, I reached my asy- 
 lum, gave my dog his food, and stretched myself hun- 
 gry upon my hard bed. 
 
 " I slept long, and had frightful dreams. When I 
 awoke — my noble dog was gone. How he got away 
 from me, or how he was seduced away through the door 
 — albeit this was but badly locked — is still incomprehen- 
 sible to me. I called, searched for him, until I sank 
 down with a groan. 
 
 " You remember that I saw the villain again one day 
 in the Champs Elysees, — you know what exertions I 
 made to regain possession of him ; but you do 7iot know 
 that the animal knew mc, but fled from me and from 
 my call like a wild beast of the wilderness ! Yet I fol- 
 lowed him and the Satanic rider till the latter rode into a 
 
AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 87 
 
 gateway which shut clanging behind him and the dog. 
 In my rage I thundered at the gate ; a furious barking 
 was the answer. Stunned, and as though utterly anni- 
 hilated, I leaned against the gate, until at last a horribly 
 executed scale on the French horn, that reached my 
 ears from the lower story of the elegant hotel, and was 
 followed by a subdued, complaining howl, — aroused 
 me from my stupor. I laughed aloud, and went my 
 way." 
 
 Deeply moved, my friend paused ; however easy it 
 was for him to talk, his excitement was a terrible strain 
 upon him. He could no longer sit erect in bed, — he 
 sank back with a light groan. There was a long pause ; 
 I looked at the poor fellow with the keenest distress ; 
 that soft flush appeared upon his cheeks, that is pecu- 
 liar to the consumptive. He had closed his eyes ; his 
 breath came in light and almost ethereal motion. 
 
 I waited anxiously for the moment when I might 
 venture to ask him in what possible way Tcould help 
 him. At last he opened his eyes again ; a soft, singu- 
 lar brilliancy was in the look he turned upon me. 
 
 " My poor friend,'' I began; "you see me beside 
 you with the sad request that you will let me serve 
 you in some way. If you have a single wish — tell it 
 to me, I beseech you." 
 
 He answered smiling — "So impatient for my will, 
 my friend ? Give yourself no anxiety ; you are re- 
 membered in it— But will you not hear how it hap- 
 pened that your poor brother came to die ? You see, 
 I want my story to be known to one single soul, at 
 least ; but I know of no one who troubles himself 
 about me — unless it be you. 
 
 " Don't be afraid that I shall exert myself too much. 
 I feel better — easier. I have no difficulty in breathing 
 — it is easy for me to talk. Besides, you see I have 
 but little more to tell. 
 
 " You can imagine that after that point at which I 
 left off in my story, I had nothing more to do with 
 
88 ^N' END IN PARIS. 
 
 outward experiences. From that time the history of 
 my inner life begins — for from that time I knew that I 
 must die. 
 
 " That terrible scale on the French horn in the Eng- 
 lishman's hotel, filled me with such an irresistible hatred 
 of life, that I decided to die quickly. I ought not to 
 take any credit to myself for this decision, it is true, 
 for it was no longer a matter of choice whether I lived 
 or died. Something had broken in my breast, that 
 left behind it what seemed like a long-drawn whirring 
 sound ; and as this died away, I felt light and well, as 
 I had never felt before, — and I knew that my end was 
 near. How happy I was at the thought ! How the 
 prospect of a speedy dissolution cheered me, — the feel- 
 ing that I suddenly experienced in every portion of 
 my wasted frame ! Unconscious of all outward sur- 
 roundings, and not knowing where my uncertain steps 
 were leading me, I had reached the heights of Mont- 
 martre. I bid the "hill of martyrs" welcome, and 
 decided that I would die there. I, too, die for the 
 purity of my faith — and so I also can call myself a mar- 
 tyr, even though this belief of mine be opposed by 
 nothing — but hunger. 
 
 " Here then I, the homeless one, took up my dwell- 
 ing, asking nothing but this bed, and that the scores 
 and papers I had left in a wretched nook in the city, 
 should be brought to me ; for unfortunately I had not 
 succeeded in making use of them anywhere as a pawn- 
 pledge. You see, I lie here, and have decided to die 
 in God and pure music. A friend will close my eyes ; 
 the little that I leave behind me will suffice to pay my 
 debts , and I shall not want for an honorable grave. — 
 Tell me, what could I wish for more ? " 
 
 At last I gave expression to my pent-up emotion. 
 " What " — I cried — " could you only make use of me 
 for this last sad service? Could your friend — be he 
 ever so powerless — serve you in no other way than 
 this ? I beseech you, tell me one thing — was it mis- 
 
AN END IN PARIS. gg 
 
 trust of my friendship that kept you from asking of me 
 — from telling me sooner of your fate ?" 
 
 "Ah, do not reproach me," said he soothingly; 
 " don't reproach me if I confess to you that I had fallen 
 into the insane idea that you were my enemy. When 
 I found that you were not, my brain was in such a 
 condition ais deprived me of all responsibility for my 
 own will. I felt as though I had no right to any com- 
 munication with sensible beings. Pardon me, and be 
 kinder to me than I was to you ! Give me your hand, 
 and let this debt of my life be paid." 
 
 I could not refuse ; I seized his hand and burst into 
 tears. I saw that my friend's strength was fast ebbing 
 away. He could no longer raise himself in bed ; the 
 changing flush grew dimmer on his pallid cheeks. 
 
 " One little matter of business, my dear friend," — 
 he said ; " call it my last testament ! — I desire, first — 
 that my debts be paid. The poor people who took 
 me in have nursed me willingly and dunned me but 
 little ; they must be paid. A few other creditors, too, 
 whose names you will find put down on this paper. I 
 devote to these payments all my property — my com- 
 positions there, and here my note-book, in which I 
 have entered my musical memoranda and fancies. I 
 leave it to your skill, my experienced friend, to have 
 as much of this legacy as possible sold, and to devote 
 the receipts to the payment of my worldly debts. — 
 
 " I desire, secondly — that you will not beat my dog 
 if 3'ou happen to come across him. I take it for 
 granted that he has already suffered fearfully through 
 the Englishman's French horn, as a punishment for 
 his faithlessness. — I forgive him I — 
 
 " Thirdly, I desire that the story of my life in Paris 
 shall be published (my name being suppressed), that 
 it may serve as a wholesome warning to every fool 
 that is like me. — 
 
 " Fourthly, I ask for an honorable grave, but with- 
 out ornament or excessive show. A few persons only 
 
go AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 will serve me as mourners ; you will find their names 
 and addresses in my note-book. The costs of the burial 
 are to be contributed by you and them. — Amen ! 
 
 "And now" — continued the dying man after a 
 pause caused by his increasing weakness ; — " now one 
 word concerning my beliefs. — I believe in God, Mozart, 
 and Beethoven, and in their disciples and apostles ; I 
 believe in the Holy Ghost and the truth of Art — one 
 and indivisible ; I believe that this art proceeds from 
 God and dwells in the hearts of all enlightened men ; 
 I believe that whoever has revelled in the glorious joys 
 of this high art must be forever devoted to it and can 
 never repudiate it ; I believe that all may become 
 blessed through this art, and that therefore it is per- 
 mitted to any one to die of hunger for its sake ; I be- 
 lieve that I shall become most happy through death ; 
 I believe that I have been on earth a discordant chord, 
 that shall be made harmonious and clear by death. I 
 believe in a last judgment, that shall fearfully damn 
 all those who have dared on this earth to make profit 
 out of this chaste and holy art — who have disgraced 
 it and dishonored it through badness of heart and the 
 coarse instincts of sensuality ; I believe that such men 
 will be condemned to hear their own music through 
 all eternity. I believe, on the other hand, that the 
 true disciples of pure art will be glorified in a divine 
 atmosphere of sun-illumined, fragrant concords, and 
 united eternally with the divine source of all harmony. 
 And may a merciful lot be granted me ! Amen ! " — 
 
 I almost thought that my friend's ardent prayer was 
 already fulfilled, so divinely clear was his eye — he lay 
 so entranced in breathless stillness. But his exces- 
 sively feeble breath — almost imperceptible — convinced 
 me that he was still alive. Softly, but very distinctly, 
 he whispered " Rejoice, ye Faithful, for the bliss to 
 which you go is great ! " 
 
 He was silent ; the brightness in his eyes died 
 
AN END IN PARIS. 
 
 91 
 
 away; his lips wore a happy smile. I closed his eyes, 
 and prayed God that my death might be like his. 
 
 Who knows what passed away in this human being, 
 and left no trace ? Was it a Mozart — a Beethoven ? 
 Who can tell ; and who can dispute me when I say 
 that in him there died an artist who would have blessed 
 the whole world with his creations, had he not been 
 driven to starvation ? I ask — who can prove the con- 
 trary ? 
 
 None of those that followed his body to the grave 
 dared to dispute it ; there were only two besides my- 
 self, — a philologist and a painter ; one person had been 
 kept away by a cold — others had no time. 
 
 As we. quietly approached the cemetery of Mont- 
 martre, we noticed a beautiful dog, who snuffed at the 
 bier and the coffin. I recognized the animal and looked 
 around ; I perceived the Englishman on horseback. 
 He did not seem to understand the restless behavior 
 of his dog, and dismounting, gave his horse to his 
 groom and joined us in the cemetery. 
 
 " Whom are you burying, sir ? " he asked. 
 
 " That dog's master," said I in reply. 
 
 " Damn it ! " he cried, " I am sorry to hear that 
 the gentleman is dead, without receiving the money 
 for his beast. I meant it for him, and have tried to 
 get an opportunity to send it to him — in spite of the 
 fact that the dog howls during my practising. But I 
 will make good my error, and devote the fifty guineas 
 for the dog to a monument to be erected over the 
 grave of this excellent gentleman." 
 
 He went and mounted his horse. The dog remained 
 beside the grave ; the Englishman rode away. 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 I. 
 
 DER KREISCHUTZ ; AN ADDRESS TO THE PARISIAN 
 PUBLIC. 
 
 IN the midst of the Bohemian forests, as old as the 
 world, lies the Wolfsschlucht, — the wolf's ravine, — 
 the legend of which lived among the people up to the 
 time of the Thirty Years' War, which put an end to 
 the last traces of German glory. Then, however, like 
 so many mystic memories, it died away. Even at 
 that time the majority only knew of the mysterious ra- 
 vine through hearsay ; it was said that this or that 
 hunter, wandering sometime through wild and track- 
 less forest solitudes, on unknown trails and in direc- 
 tions which he could not define, had suddenly chanced, 
 he knew not how, upon the edge of the Wolfsschlucht. 
 Such a hunter would tell of the horrible things that 
 he had seen on gazing down into it — things that made 
 his hearer cross himself and commend himself to his 
 patron saint with the prayer that he might never be 
 lost in that region. Even while approaching the 
 hunter had heard a singular sound ; stifled sobs and 
 groans swept through the broad branches of the old 
 fir-trees, which of themselves moved their dark tops 
 hither and thither ; and all this while the wind was 
 perfectly still. Reaching the edge, he peered down 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 93 
 
 into an abyss, into whose depths his eye could not 
 penetrate. Rocky fragments raised themselves in the 
 shape of human limbs and ghastly, distorted faces ; 
 beside them heaps of black stones took the forms of 
 frogs and lizards ; farther down in the depths these 
 forms appeared to be alive ; they moved, crawled, 
 and rolled away in clumsy, chaotic masses ; the ground 
 beneath them could not be distinguished. Only pale 
 mists rose constantly up from it, and spread abroad 
 pestilential odors ; here and there they separated and 
 stretched themselves out into great sheets that took on 
 the forms of human beings with convulsively distorted 
 features. In the midst of all this horror there sat 
 upon a rotten stump an enormous owl, stupid with 
 the torpor of the daytime ; and opposite to this was 
 a dark cavern in the rocks, the entrance to which 
 was watched by two monsters horribly formed of ser- 
 pents, toads, and lizards. These, apparently endowed 
 with life, like all that the abyss concealed, lay in a 
 sleep like death ; and whatever moved seemed only 
 the movement of one who dreamed ; so that the 
 frightful thought occurred to the hunter — how all this 
 brood would come to life when midnight came ! 
 
 But what he heard filled him with more horror than 
 what he saw. A stormy wind, that moved nothing, 
 and the breath of which he could not feel, howled 
 across the chasm — then ceased suddenly, as though 
 listening to itself, only to break forth again with more 
 furious rage than ever. Frightful shrieks rose from 
 below ; and then a flock of countless birds of prey 
 flew about the depths of the abyss, raised itself like a 
 black covering above the ravine, and sank back again 
 into the darkness. Their croakings sounded to the 
 hunter like the groans of the damned, and pierced his 
 heart with an anguish never felt before. He had never 
 heard such a shriek — beside which all the croaking of 
 the ravens seemed to him like the songs of nightin- 
 gales, — and now again all was silent. Every motion 
 
94 DER FREISCHOTZ in PARIS. 
 
 Startled him ; there only seemed to be a heavy crawl 
 ing in the abyss below, and the owl flapped his wing 
 once heavily, as though in a dream. 
 
 The most fearless hunter — the one best acquaintei 
 with the midnight terrors of the woods, — fled awa; 
 aghast, like a timid deer ; and without minding th 
 path, rushed directly for the nearest loiterer — th 
 nearest hut — only to meet a human being to whom h^ 
 could narrate the horrors he had seen — which, never 
 theless, he never could find language to describe 
 How could he rid himself of such a recollection ? 
 
 Happy is the youth who bears in his heart a pure 
 true love ! That alone can drive away any terror 
 that he can imagine befalling him. Is not his belove( 
 his sheltering spirit, his guardian angel, that follow 
 him everywhere, shines within him, and diffuses peac 
 and warmth throughout his inner life ? Since he ha 
 loved, he is no longer the rough, harsh hunter, revel 
 ling in blood and the slaughter of game. His belovei 
 has taught him to see the diviner part of the creation 
 and to hear the voices that speak to him from the mys 
 terious silence of the woods. He feels himself seizei 
 with pity now, when the deer springs through the un 
 derbrush ; he fulfils the duties of his calling wit] 
 reluctant trembling, and could weep when he sees th 
 tears in the eyes of the noble prey lying at his feet. 
 
 And yet he cannot but love the rough labor of th 
 woods ; for he has to thank his skill as a hunter an( 
 his prowess as a marksman, for the privilege of striv 
 ing for the hand of his sweetheart. The forester' 
 daughter must only belong to her father's successor i; 
 the office ; and to gain this inheritance of forestry h 
 must succeed in the trial of marksmanship on the da; 
 of his marriage ; if he does not show then that he is 
 thoroughly sure shot, he fails of his reward — he lose 
 both forestership and bride ! His heart must be fim 
 and strong, his sight unwavering ; his hand must no 
 tremble. 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 95 
 
 But the nearer the decisive moment approaches, tlie 
 more his good fortune seems to abandon him. Hereto- 
 fore the most skilful marksman, it often happens to him 
 now to rove all day through the woods without bring- 
 ing home the most trifling booty. What ill luck pur- 
 sues him ? If it be sympathy with the game that 
 has grown so confiding, why should he miss when he 
 aims at some bird of prey, for whom he has no sympa- 
 thy ? Why should he miss even in shooting at a mark, 
 when his object is to carry home to his sweetheart 
 some ribbon he has won, to drive away her anxiety ? 
 The old forester shakes his head ; his betrothed grows 
 more anxious with every day ; our hunter wanders 
 through the woods a prey to gloomy thoughts. He 
 ponders on his ill-luck, and seeks to find a reason for it. 
 
 Then there rises in his memory the day when his 
 fate led him to the edge of the Woifsschlucht ; the 
 groaning and sobbing in the pine-branches, the horri- 
 ble croaking of the flock of night-birds, again confuse 
 his brain. He believes himself a prey to some hellish 
 power, that, jealous of his happiness, has sworn his 
 ruin. And all that he has heard of the Wild Hunts- 
 man and his hunt comes back into his memory. This 
 was a hellish confusion of huntsmen, horses, hounds, 
 and stags, that swept by above the forest in the un- 
 holy hours of midnight. Woe to him who was in 
 its path ! The human heart was too weak to with- 
 stand the effect of this chaos of clanging weapons, hor- 
 rible hunting-calls, horn-blasts, barking of dogs and 
 neighing of horses ; — he who had seen the wild hunt 
 was almost sure to die soon after. 
 
 The young hunter remembered having heard of the 
 leader of this wild tumult ; a godless hunter-prince 
 among the damned, who now as the evil spirit Samicl 
 arose to take his part among his faithful hunters in 
 these nightly forays. It is true, his companion laughs 
 at him, when our hunter is with him, calling this le- 
 gend of the Wild Huntsman a mere old wives' tale ; 
 
96 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 yet it is this very wild and audacious comrade that 
 inspires him with the greatest horror. In truth, he is 
 already a recruit of Samiel ; he knows of secret means 
 — of magic spells — through which one can be certain 
 of his shot. He tells him that if one appears at a cer- 
 tain hour at an appointed place, one may banish evil 
 spirits by the aid of a few trifling vows, and make 
 them obedient to one's self ; if he will but follow him, he 
 promises to make him bullets that shall hit the most 
 distant mark according to his wishes ; — these are 
 called " Freikugeln," and he who uses them is a 
 " Freischiitz." 
 
 The youth listens in amazement. Shall he not believe 
 in invisible spirits, when he remembers how he — once 
 the best marksman of them all — can no longer'trust 
 his gun that has hitherto never missed its mark? His 
 peace of mind is gone ; faith and hope waver within 
 him. The decisive day approaches ; his fate — once in 
 his own hands — now seems controlled by hostile pow- 
 ers ; he must conquer these with their own weapons. 
 He has decided. Where shall he appear to cast the 
 magic bullets ? In the Wolfsschlucht. In the Wolfs- 
 schlucht, and at midnight ? His hair stands on end — 
 for now he understands it all. But he understands 
 also that there is no longer any retreat. Hell has 
 gained him, even if he does not win his bride to-mor- 
 row. Shall he give her up ? Impossible. Only his 
 courage can save him — and he is brave. And so he 
 consents. 
 
 Once more, late in the evening, he visits the forest- 
 er's house ; pale and with gloomy look, he approaches 
 his beloved. The sight of the sweet, pure girl no 
 longer soothes him ; her faith in God oppresses him 
 like mockery ; who is it that helps him to win his 
 bride ? 
 
 The leaves rustle gently around the lonely house ; 
 the girl's companion seeks to cheer the saddened pair ; 
 but he sits brooding and staring out into the night. 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 97 
 
 His sweetheart throws her arm around him ; but her 
 gentle whispers are drowned in the harsh creakings of 
 the dark fir-trees — that he hears ever and anon, recall- 
 ing him to himself as though with the voice of the 
 deadly terror that is in his heart. Suddenly he tears 
 himself from the arms of the terrified and anxious 
 bride : — to possess her he is ready to risk the salva- 
 tion of his soul. 
 
 He rushes out and away. With wonderful accuracy 
 he follows the unknown path. The way seeqjis to 
 clear before him, that leads him to the abyss of horror 
 where his companion has already made his prepara- 
 tions for the gloomy work. In vain the spirit of his 
 mother appears, warning him away. The memory of 
 the maiden that he must lose if he hesitates, urges him 
 onward. He descends into the ravine and enters the 
 circle of the hellish conjuror. And hell responds to 
 him ; that which the hunter foresaw as he approached 
 the chasm by day, is now fulfilled at midnight. All 
 around' him awakes from its death-like sleep ; be- 
 comes alive, turns and stretches itself ; the howling in- 
 creases to a roar, — the groaning to a raging bellow ; a 
 thousand monsters surround the magic circle. No 
 shrinking now — or we are lost ! Suddenly the Wild 
 Hunt thunders past above his head ; his senses reel ; 
 he falls unconscious to the ground — and when he 
 wakes again — ? 
 
 During the night seven magic bullets are cast. Six 
 of them must infallibly hit any mark that may be 
 chosen ; but the seventh belongs to hini that gave the 
 rest their fortune — and this one will turn as pleases him. 
 The two hunters divide them — the caster of the bullets 
 taking three ; the candidate for the maiden's hand 
 takes four. 
 
 The prince arrives in person to superintend the ar- 
 rangements for the trial of the marksmun's skill. The 
 hunters waste their bullets in the strife for his favor in 
 the preliminary hunt ; it isthcseventh bullet which the 
 5 
 
g8 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 would-be bridegroom, who now begins again to make 
 constant misses, treasures up for the last decisive shot. 
 For this trial, a white dove that suddenl}' starts up i^ 
 pointed out as the mark ; he pulls the trigger, and his 
 beloved, who is just approaching with her bridesmaids 
 through the shrubbery, falls wounded, bathed in blood. • 
 
 Samiel has secured his payment ; will he gain the 
 young hunter for his wild hunt — the young hunter 
 whom the darkness of madness has encompassed ? 
 
 Such is the legend of the Freischiitz. It seems to be 
 the very poem for those Bohemian forests, whose dark 
 and gloomy aspect makes it easily conceivable that the 
 isolated beings that live among them think themselves 
 — if not positively the prey of some demoniac power of 
 nature — at least hopelessly under its control. And in 
 this very characteristic is to be found the specifically 
 German character of this and similar traditions ; it is 
 so sharply defined by natural surroundings, that to it 
 alone is to be attributed the origin of that demoniac 
 imagery, which, among other peoples, not equally 
 subject to the influence of nature, rather takes on 
 forms derived from human society, or from ruling 
 religions and metaphysical ideas. Though it may not 
 be wanting in the elements of horror, such imagery is 
 not in the latter case altogether horrible ; pathos ap- 
 pears through its horror ; and regret for the lost para- 
 dise of a purely natural life somewhat mitigates the 
 dread of the deserted mother nature's vengeance. 
 
 What we have described is purely German. Every- 
 where else we find the devil going about among man- 
 kind ; forcing witches and enchanters to obey his will 
 and then arbitrarily giving them over to the stake or 
 saving them from death. We even see him appear 
 as a paterfamilias, and guard his son with suspicious 
 ;;crupulousncss. - But even the roughest peasant no 
 longer believes all this nowadays, for such proceed- 
 ings are pictured too bluntly as taking place in every- 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 99 
 
 day life — in which he knows they no longer happen ; 
 while the secret, mysterious relations of the human 
 heart to the strange nature around it, have not yet 
 come to an end. In its eloquent silence, this latter 
 still speaks to the heart just as it did a thousand years 
 ago ; and what was told in the very gray of antiquity is 
 understood to-day as easily as then. For this reason 
 it is that the legend of nature ever remains the inex- 
 haustible resource of the poet in his intercourse with 
 his people. 
 
 But only from this very people that invented the le- 
 gend of the Freischiitz, and feels itself to-day under its 
 influence, could come a musical poet of true genius, who 
 could hit upon the idea of creating a great musical work 
 upon a dramatic basis derived from that legend. If he 
 understood truly the fundamental spirit of the popular 
 poem here presented to him, and felt himself able to 
 call by his music into full and mystic life what was in- 
 dicated in this characteristic creation, — he knew that 
 he should be fully understood in turn by his people, 
 from the mystic sounds of his overture to the childlike 
 and simple fashioning of the " Jungfernkranz." 
 
 And indeed, in glorifying the old folks-legend of his 
 home, the artist assured himself an unprecedented suc- 
 cess. His countrymen both from north and south, 
 from the disciple of Kant's " Kritik der reinen Ver- 
 nunft" to the readers of the Viennese fashionable jour- 
 nals, united in admiration of the melodies of this pure 
 and deep elegy. The Berlin philosopher stammered 
 out " We twine for thee the maiden's wreath" (Jung- 
 fernkranz) ; the police director repeated enthusiasti- 
 cally " Through the forest, through the meadows " ; 
 while the court lackey sang, in hoarser voice, " What 
 is fitting on earth." And I can remember how I 
 studied as a boy, to get the demon-like expression in 
 gesture and voice necessary for the proper harsh per- 
 formance of" Herein this earthly vale of wees." The 
 Austrian grenadiers marched to the hunter's chorus ; 
 
lap DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 Prince Metternich danced to the music of the Bohemian 
 peasants' " Landler " ; and the students of Jena sung 
 the scoffing chorus after their professors. The most 
 opposing tendencies of political life met here in a single 
 point of union ; " Der Freischiitz " was heard, sung, 
 and danced from one end of Germany to the other. 
 
 And you too, promenaders of the Boisde Boulogne, 
 —you too have hummed the melodies of the " Frei- 
 schiitz " ; the hand-organs played the Hunter's Chorus 
 in the streets ; the op^ra comique did not scorn the 
 " Jungfernkranz " ; and the delicious air "How did 
 slumber come upon me ? " has repeatedly enchanted 
 the audiences of your salons. But do you understand 
 what you sing ? I doubt it greatly. On what my 
 doubt rests, however, it is difficult to say ; — not less dif- 
 ficult, certainly, than to explain to you that thoroughly 
 foreign German nature, from which those melodies pro- 
 ceeded. I should almost think mysdf compelled to 
 begin at the forest — which^/w the M^y, is just what 
 you don't understand. T^^^Soii^re^omething quite 
 different ; as different ^'^ rmMswWc^$^^^ 's from our 
 " Empfindsamkeit." /^ 
 
 We are truly a singular people ! 'ITThrough the. for- 
 ests, through the meadows," moves us to tears ; while 
 we look with dry eyes on thirty- four principalities 
 around us, instead of on one united fatherland ! You 
 who only go into enthusiasm when " la France " is 
 concerned, must look on this as a decided weakness ; 
 but it is precisely this weakness that you must share 
 if you would rightly understand ' ' Through the forests, 
 through the meadows " ; for it is this very weakness 
 that you have to thank for the wonderful score of the 
 Freischiitz, which you are about to have performed 
 before you with the greatest accuracy — unquestionably 
 for the purpose of learning to understand it in just the 
 way in which it is impossible for you to understand it. 
 
 You will not forsake Paris and its customs by one 
 hair's-breadth for this purpose ; the Freischiitz must 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. iqi 
 
 come there and exhibit himself to you ; you encourage 
 him to make himself at ease, to do precisely as though 
 he were at home ; for you want to hear and see him 
 as he is, — no longer in the costume of " Robin des 
 Bois," but honest and open-hearted — something like 
 the " Postilion de Longjumeau." So you say. But 
 all this is to be done in the " Academic royale de 
 musique," and that worthy establishment has ordi- 
 nances which must make the feeling of unembarrassed 
 ease decidedly difficult for the poor Freischiitz. 
 
 It is written there : — Thou shalt dance ! But that 
 he does not do ; he is far too heavy-spirited for that, 
 and. he lets the peasants and maidens do it for him at 
 the tavern. It is written also :-T-Thou shalt not .speak, 
 but shalt sing recitative ! But here is a dialogue of 
 the most complete naivetfe. It's air very well; but 
 you can't free him from ballet-dancing and singing 
 recitative, — for he is to present himself at the grand 
 opera ! 
 
 There might be, it is true, a simple method of get- 
 ting out of the difficulty ; and this would be to make 
 an exception for once for the sake of this glorious 
 work. But you will not adopt this means ; — for you 
 are only free when you want to be ; and in this case, 
 unfortunately, you don't want to be. You have heard 
 of the Wolfsschlucht and of a devil, Samiel ; and forth- 
 with the machinery of the grand opera comes into 
 your minds ; the rest is of no consequence to you. 
 You want ballet and recitative, and you have chosen 
 the most remarkable of your composers to make the 
 music for it. That you have chosen such a one does 
 you honor, and shows that you know how to value 
 our masterpiece. I know no one of the contemporary 
 French musicians who could understand the score of 
 the Freischiitz so well as the author of the Symplwnie 
 fantastique, and would be so capable as he of com- 
 pleting it, if that were necessary. He is a man of 
 genius, and no one recognizes more fully than I the 
 
102 -O^^ FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 irresistible strength of his poetic force. .He has con- 
 scientious principles, that permit him to follow the 
 strong bent of his talent, and in every one of his sym7 
 phonies there is revealed the inner compulsion which 
 the author could not escape. But precisely because of 
 the distinguished capabilities of M. Berlioz, I lay be- 
 fore him with confidence my remarks upon his work. 
 
 The score of Der Freischiitz is a finished whole, per- 
 fectly rounded in every part, as well in thought as in 
 form. Would not the omission of the smallest'part be 
 to maim or distort the master's work ? Have we to 
 deal here with the re-construction, to suit the needs of 
 our time, of a score that had its origin in the child- 
 hood of art ? The re-arrangement of a work which 
 its author failed to develop suflSciently, through his 
 ignorance of the technical means that are to-day at 
 our disposal ? Every one knows that there is nothing 
 of this kind to be done ; M. Berlioz would repel with 
 indignation a proposition of this character. — No. 
 What is in question now, is to bring perfect and 
 original work into concord, with conditions that are 
 exterior to it — foreign to it. And how shall this be 
 done ? 
 
 A score sanctified by twenty years of success, in 
 favor of which the royal academy of music proposes 
 for once to deviate from the strict rules that exclude 
 foreign music from its repertoire, in order to take its 
 part in the most brilliant triumph that any piece ever 
 won in any theatre, — such a score cannot control a 
 few rules of precedent and routine ? May it not be 
 demanded that it shall be produced in that primal form 
 that makes up so great a part of its originality ? — Yet 
 this is the sacrifice that is asked of us, is it not ? Or 
 do you think I am mistaken ? Do you think that the 
 ballet and recitative introduced by you would not dis- 
 tort the physiognomy of Weber's work ? If you re- 
 place a simple — often times witty and lively dialogue, 
 by a recitative which always becomes heavy in the 
 
DER FREISCHVTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 103 
 
 mouths of the singers, do you not believe that the 
 characteristic of cordial heartiness will altogether dis- 
 appear from it — that characteristic that makes the very 
 soul of the Bohemian peasant-scenes ? Must not the 
 confidential chat of the two girls in the lovely forest- 
 house necessarily lose its freshness and truth ? And 
 however well these recitatives might be arranged, 
 however artistically they might harmonize with the 
 general coloring of the work, they would not the less 
 destroy its symmetry. It is plain that the German 
 composer constantly had regard to the dialogue. The 
 song-pieces embrace but little ; and, if utterly over- 
 whelmed by the gigantic recitative that is added, they 
 would lose in sense and consequently in effect. 
 
 In this drama, where the song has so deep a signifi- 
 cance and so important a meaning, you will find none 
 of those noisy combination passages, of those deafen- 
 ing finales, to which the grand opera has accustomed 
 you. In the " Muet de Portici," in the " Huguenots," 
 in the "Jewess," it is necessary that the intermediate 
 passages between the pieces, on account of the consid- 
 erable dimensions of the latter, should be filled out by 
 recitative ; in this case dialogue would seem petty, 
 ridiculous, and exactly like a parody. How extraor- 
 dinary it would be, for instance, if between the grand 
 duet and the finale of the second act of the " Muet," 
 Masaniello should suddenly begin to talk ; or if, after 
 the combination passages of the fourth act of the 
 " Huguenots," Raoul and Valentine should prepare 
 the way for the grand duet that follows, by a dialogue, 
 even though it were in the most carefully chosen phrase - 
 ology ! Of course this would jar upon you ; and 
 rightly. 
 
 Very good. But what is an aesthetic necessity for 
 these operas of greater extent, would be, for precisely 
 the contrary reasons, ruinous for the Freischiitz, in 
 which the song passages embrace so much less. 
 
 'In regard to this matter, I foresee that where the 
 
I04 -^^^ FREISCHVTZ-IN PARIS. 
 
 scenes conveyed by the dialogue need a dramatic ac- 
 cent, M. Berlioz will give the reins to his fertile fancy ; 
 I can imagine the expression of gloomy energy which 
 he will give to the scene in which Kaspar tries to 
 weave his devilish web about his friend, as he presses 
 him to test the magic bullet, and that he may further 
 win him over to the standard of hell, asks him the 
 fearful question — " Coward, dost thou believe the sin 
 is not already upon thee ? Dost think this eagle has 
 been given to thee ? " — I am certain that at this pas- 
 sage deafening applause will reward the excellent addi- 
 tions of M. Berlioz ; but I am not less certain, that 
 after this recitative Kaspar's energetic, short aria at the 
 close of the act, will pass for a piece of music unworthy 
 of any particular consideration. 
 
 Thus you will have something entirely new — some- 
 thing remarkable, if you will ; and we, who know the 
 Freischiitz, and need no recitative to complete it, shall 
 with pleasure see the works of M. Berlioz enriched by 
 a new creation ; but we shall still doubt whether you 
 can be taught by this means to understand our Frei- 
 schiitz. You will delight yourselves with varying mu- 
 sic, now cheerful, now wild and spirit-like, that will 
 please your ears, yet at the same time affect you with 
 a sense of horror ; you will hear songs performed with 
 wonderful perfection, that up to this time have only 
 been sung moderately well for you ; a well arranged 
 dramatic declamation will lead you smoothly from one 
 vocal passage to another ; and yet you will feel with 
 annoyance the absence of many things to which you 
 are accustomed, and which you can with difficulty do 
 without The anticipations which will have been 
 nourished with regard to Weber's work, can and must 
 only awaken in you the desire for some new excite- 
 ment of the senses — just such a desire as the works 
 generally brought before you with such a preparation 
 really fulfil. But your expectations will find them- 
 selves disappointed ; for this work was created by its 
 
DBR FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 105 
 
 author with quite another purpose, and by no means 
 to satisfy the demands of the Royal Academy of 
 Music. 
 
 In the passage where, upon our stage, five musicians 
 take up their fiddles and horns at the door of a tavern, 
 and a few sturdy peasant lads whirl their ungraceful 
 sweethearts in the circle of the dance — in this passage 
 yon will suddenly behold the choregraphic celebrities 
 of the day appear before you ; you will see that smil- 
 ing cutter of capers who but yesterday strutted in his 
 fine gold-colored costume, receiving the graceful 
 sylphs one after the other in his arms. The latter will 
 do their best to show you Bohemian peasant dances, — 
 but in vain ; you will continually miss their pirouettes 
 and artistic caperings. Yet they will still give you 
 enough of this sort of thing to transport you, in fancy, 
 to the sphere of your customary enjoyments ; they will 
 recall to you the brilliant works of your own famous 
 authors, in which you have so often revelled, and you 
 will demand at least a piece like " William Tell" in 
 which also hunters, shepherds, and various other charm- 
 ing things appropriate to country life, appear. 
 
 But after these dances you will have nothing more of 
 that kind ; in the first act you have nothing but the air 
 " Through the forests, through the meadows," a drink- 
 ing song of twenty to eighty bars, and, instead of a 
 noisy finale, the singular musical outpourings of a hell- 
 ish rascal, which you certainly will not receive as an 
 aria. 
 
 Yet no ! — I am mistaken. You will have whole 
 scenes of recitative of such strong musical originality 
 ,as (I am convinced) few have had before ; for I know 
 how the brilliant invention of your distinguished com- 
 poser will feel itself stimulated to add nothing but 
 beautiful and strong passages to the masterpiece that 
 he so honors and admires. It is precisely for this 
 reason that you will not learn to understand the Frei- 
 schiitz ; and — who knows ? — perhaps what you do hear 
 
106 OER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 of it will destroy in you the wish to make acquaintance 
 with it in its simple and primitive form. 
 
 If it could really appear before you in its purity and 
 simplicity ; if, instead of the complicated, intricate 
 dances that on your stage will accompany the modest 
 bridal procession, you could only hear the little song 
 that, as I said, the Berlin philosophical student hums 
 as he goes ; if, instead of the exquisite recitative, you 
 could hear the simple dialogue that every German 
 student knows by heart — would you even then gain a 
 true comprehension of the Freischiitz ? Would it ex- 
 cite among you the unanimous applause which the 
 " Muet de Portici" called forth with us? Ah— I 
 doubt it greatly ; and perhaps the same doubt passed 
 like a dark cloud over M. Berlioz's spirit when the di- 
 rector of your grand opera commissioned him to pro- 
 vide the Freischiitz with ballet and recitative. 
 
 It is a great piece of good fortune that it was pre- 
 cisely M. Berlioz, who was entrusted with this task; 
 certainly no German musician would have ventured, 
 out of regard for the work and the master, to under- 
 take such a matter ; and in France no one but M. Ber- 
 lioz is capable of such an attempt. At least we have 
 the certainty that everything down to the seemingly 
 least important note, will be respected ; that nothing 
 will be struck out, and only exactly so much added as 
 is necessary to satisfy the demands of the Grand Opera's 
 regulations — rules which you think you must not dare 
 to violate, even in a single instance. 
 
 And it is precisely this that gives me such gloomy 
 presentiments with regard to our beloved " Frei- 
 schiitz." — Ah ! — if you would and could but hear and 
 see our true Freischiitz, — you might feel the anxiety 
 that now oppresses me, in the form of a friendly ap- 
 preciation on your own part of the peculiarity of that 
 spiritual life, which belongs to the German nation as a 
 birthright ; you would look kindly upon the silent 
 attraction that draws the German away from the life 
 
DER FRETS CHUTZ IN PARIS. 107 
 
 of his large cities, — wretchedly and clumsily imita- 
 tive of foreign influences, as it is, — and takes him back 
 to nature ; attracts him to the solitude of the forests, 
 that he may there reawaken those emotions for which 
 your language has not even a word, — but which those 
 mystic, clear tones of our Weber explain to us as 
 thoroughly as your exquisite decorations and ener- 
 vating music must make them lifeless and irrecogniza- 
 ble for you. 
 
 And yet — attempt it ! Try to breathe the fresh air 
 of our forests through this strange and heavy atmo- 
 sphere. I only fear that, even at the best, the un- 
 natural mixture that results will disagree with you. 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 II. 
 
 "LE FREISCHUTZ;" A REPORT TO GERMANY. 
 
 OMY glorious German Fatherland ! How I must 
 love thee — how I must glorify thee — if only be- 
 cause Der Freischiltz was born upon thy soil ! How I 
 must needs love the German people who love the Frei- 
 schiitz, who even to-day believe in that simple legend ; 
 who still in their manhood feel the sweet and mystic awe 
 that filled them in their youth ! — Ah, blessed German 
 Traumerei ! Fantasy that surrounds the forest, the 
 evening, the stars, the moon, the village clock when 
 it strikes seven ! How happy is he that understands 
 you, — that can feel with you, dream and wander with 
 you ! It is bliss to feel that I am a German ! 
 
 This, and much else that is beyond expression, 
 thrilled through my heart like a blissful dagger-stroke ; 
 I felt the burning v/ound, that penetrated even to my 
 brain, — but made delicious tears to flow instead of 
 blood. What it was — on what occasion it was, that 
 I received this blessed wound, I can tell no one here in 
 this great and brilliant Paris ; for here there are few 
 but Frenchmen, — and the French are a merry people, 
 full of wit and jest ; they would of a certainty grow 
 merrier still, make still better jokes and fun, if I should 
 tell them what it was that gave me that blessed wound. 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. \og 
 
 But you, my gifted German countrymen, — you will 
 not laugh ; you will understand me, whea I tell you 
 that it came at a certain passage in the Freischiitz. It 
 was- the place where the peasants had taken their sweet- 
 hearts by the hand, and waltzed with them in the inn ; 
 the hunter bridegroom remained alone at his table in the 
 open air ; he brooded over his ill-fortune ; the evening 
 grew darker, and far away sounded the horns accom- 
 panying the dance. 
 
 I wept, as I saw and heard this, and my neighbors 
 at the Paris opera imagined some great misfortune 
 must have happened to me. As I dried my tears, I 
 rubbed my eye-glasses, and planned that I would 
 write something about this Freischutz. The French 
 took care, in the course of the performance, that a 
 vast quantity of material should 'be furnished me for 
 my projected essay ; — ^but tq get proper control of it 
 all, permit me, I beg you, to do what the French are 
 so fond of doing — to proceed logically ; and so — to 
 begin at the beginning. 
 
 You know well enough undoubtedly, my fortunate 
 German countrymen, that no people in the world is so 
 perfect that it will not now and then appropriate the 
 appreciable advantages of another ; you know it and 
 can speak of it from your own experience. And in this 
 way it happened that the most perfect nation of the 
 earth — for all the world knows that the French at least 
 think themselves such — one day took a fancy to follow 
 this universal peculiarity of nations, that they might 
 see for once what their worthy neighbors had to offer 
 in exchange for the thousand glorious things which 
 they themselves had the generous habit of presenting 
 to them, year after year. The French had heard that 
 Der Freischiitz was really an excellent thing, and they 
 decided to see, for once, what there was in it, after all. 
 They remembered, it is true, a piece full of charming 
 music, that had been played somewhere about three 
 hundred times/and of which it was said that it had 
 
I lo DER FREISCHiJTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 been composed after the model of this same Frei- 
 schiitz. 
 
 This was called " Robin des Bois ! " and they were 
 assured that in the composition of it French culture 
 had done all it could to make the matter logical and 
 enjoyable. Of course they could not but believe that 
 all that was good in this " Robin des Bois, " especially 
 as the piece had been decidedly successful, was owing 
 to French art ; that they had seen and heard in it only 
 a French piece in which a few innocent foreign coup- 
 lets had been mingled ; and that for this reason they 
 had still to hear and make their acquaintance with the 
 real German national production. On the whole, they 
 were right in this belief The director of the grand 
 opera, as the highest representative of the French 
 popular inteUigence in art, decided, therefore, to have 
 his singers study and perform the real Freischlitz, in 
 its true form, ostensibly for the purpose of proving to 
 the Germans that even in Paris one understood how 
 to be really just. 
 
 There is, it is true, still another tradition about this 
 Parisian Freischiitz-legend. It has been surmised .that 
 a simple music-dealers' speculation supplied the poetic 
 stimulus for it, and that the cautious director had fol- 
 lowed this stimulus all the more willingly because the 
 treasury of the theatre had fallen into such a state, 
 owing to the perpetual failure of the most trusted mu- 
 sical banking-firms, that it was thought best to negotiate 
 a safe loan with a house so well known and in such good 
 credit as the German " Freischlitz." 
 
 However all this may be, fine phrases were not to be 
 wanting at such an opportunity. Much must be said 
 about a brilliant tribute that it been thought proper to 
 pay to a foreign master-piece — that is a matter of course. 
 And since we must always put unconditional faith in 
 a Frenchman wherever he boasts of his unselfish sen- 
 timents — we will not think otherwise than that it was 
 all as it was represented. 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 1 1 1 
 
 So it was decided — this Freischlitz should be repre- 
 sented as it is ; — principally because the grand opera 
 could not give the Robin des Bois arrangement (that 
 being the property of the Opera Comique) , and partly 
 because that arrangement had shown by its remarka- 
 ble success that there must be something behind this 
 Freischlitz — that is to say silver, gold and bank-notes. 
 The director had decided to undertake an exploring 
 expedition in search of these excellent httle matters, 
 and so he appointed the chief men of his realm a 
 grand council, that should help him to discover the 
 treasure. 
 
 The council held a sitting ; but its first discoveries 
 were only the difficulties that lay in the way of making 
 the unshapely, foreign Freischlitz capable, of collecting 
 an audience for the immense grand opera. 
 
 There was one great evil : — there was no logic in 
 the text ; and furthermore, it was German, — so that 
 no human being, least of all a Frenchman, could un- 
 derstand it. Both these disagreeable peculiarities, it was 
 finally decided, should be disposed of in this way : — 
 that an Italian should be selected, who should trans- 
 late the illogical German libretto into the French 
 language. 
 
 This was certainly a most brilliant idea ; but neither 
 Italian nor Frenchman could come to a decision as to 
 the principal point at issue — namely, what should the 
 piece be called ! " II franco Arciero " was too Italian ; 
 " Franc-tireur " might have been understood by a Ger- 
 man perhaps, but certainly not by a Frenchman. And 
 so at last the only means of solving the question was 
 hit upon ; they would call it " Le Freischutz" and thus 
 have the advantage of all possibility of misconcep- 
 tion. 
 
 After this question of this title had been settled, and 
 M. Pacini had been commissioned to translate the li- 
 bretto into French and supply it as far as possible with 
 logic, — the regulations of the grand opera came for- 
 
112 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 ward in all their majesty. A graceful giant appeared 
 and commanded — "there must be dancmg! " 
 
 There was universal alarm ; — for so far as could be 
 gathered from the score of the Freischiitz, there was 
 not a single air de danse to be found in the whole of 
 it ! Here was a terrible business ; no human being 
 could tell after what passage of this accursed music the 
 man in the gold-colored satin costume and the two 
 ladies with the long legs and short skirts, should be 
 allowed — to datice ! certainly not after the measure 
 of the vulgar " Landler " that sHpped in just before 
 Max's aria ? — Possibly after the hunter's chorus, — or 
 after the aria " How slumber comes ? " 
 
 It was desperate. But one must dance at least once ! 
 and the Freischiitz must receive the addition of a Bal- 
 let passage — even though it had been designed to per- 
 form it only in its true form. All scruples of conscience 
 were, indeed, overcome when it was remembered that 
 Weber had himself written an " Invitation to the 
 Dance." Who could object then, if, according to the 
 master's own invitation — one danced ? they embraced 
 each other ; the matter appeared righteously decided. 
 
 But now there suddenly appeared another mighty 
 law and spake — "ye shall not SPEAK !" — the unhappy 
 council of discovery had clean forgotten that the sing- 
 ers of this Freischiitz had just as much to say as to sing ; 
 and they fell anew into despair. All looked brood- 
 ingly before them ; the director asked the fates what 
 had become of the original performance of the Frei- 
 schiitz ? — Here there was no solution. The recitative 
 to " Euryanthe" could not be made to fit, — else they 
 might have helped themselves with that, as they had 
 before done with the " Invitation to the Dance." Some 
 act of violence must be committed — the dialogue must 
 be made into a recitative ! 
 
 As there was no Italian to be found who could com- 
 pose this recitative, as the Spaniards just now do very 
 little in the musical way, and the English were too 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 113 
 
 much occupied with the Corn Law, to busy themselves 
 with the composition of a recitative to the German 
 Freischutz, — they had of necessity to choose a French- 
 man for the task ; — and as M. Berlioz had already 
 written so much foolish and eccentric music, therefore 
 — according to the council of discovery — no one could 
 be so well-fitted as he for adding something to this 
 mad, original Freischutz. 
 
 M. Berlioz congratulated the Freischutz on having 
 fallen into his hands, — for he knew it and loved it, and 
 knew that it would be least distorted through his work. 
 With truly artistic conscientiousness, he undertook not 
 to change a note of Weber's score — not to leave out 
 anything, and not to add anything but what the director 
 and the council of discovery held to be necessary to 
 satisfy the tyrannous laws of the opera. He felt that, 
 so far as possible, the same respect must be shown to 
 this opera that we show in Germany to " Fra Diavolo," 
 for example, and the "Black Domino," which we 
 produce precisely in their original form, without 
 adding Bach's fugues or eight-voiced motettes, — or 
 without leaving out spirited couplets like " si brave, si 
 beau, Postilion de Longjumeau." 
 
 Despite the fact that I now knew our beloved 
 Freischutz to be in the very best French hands, I 
 could not help giving place, in my German heart, to 
 some dark misgivings as to the success of the under- 
 taking. It was impossible for me to believe that the 
 same Frenchmen, who knew no possible way to 
 procure the entry of our Freischutz upon their stage in 
 its original shape, could comprehend and understand 
 it if it came to their sight and hearing with a dis- 
 torted exterior. I decided therefore, in my patriotic 
 zeal, to give the Parisian public my view of their plan, 
 and so 1 had an essay printed in which I expressed 
 them freely and without embarrassment. 
 
 First of all, I thought it necessary to make the 
 French better acquainted with the nature and the 
 
1 14 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 legend of the Freischiitz ; I made them comprehend, 
 so far as I could, what was to be understood by a 
 Franc-tircur, what was meant by a balle-fraiiche, 
 what were the conditions of a " Jungfernkranz " — in 
 brief, I told them everything that every school-boy 
 understands with us. At the same time I advised 
 them with regard to the Bohemian forests and the 
 German love of dreaming ; — it is impossible for a 
 Frenchman to think of a German without woods and 
 Triiumerei, a circumstance which decidedly came to 
 my aid just here. 
 
 Furthermore, I expressed my misgivings, called the 
 attention of the public to the injurious effect upon the 
 simple form of the original work, of the dancer with 
 the golden-satin costume and the two ladies with long 
 legs and short, skirts ; and above all things prepared 
 them for the evil result that would arise from this fact, 
 that the many small and brief musical pieces of the 
 original opera would lose themselves among the reci- 
 tative, which would necessarily have a most dispro- 
 portionate length, and thus injure the impression 
 made by the arie and ballads, not to speak of the 
 disadvantage that in any case the fresh and often 
 naive dialogue of the German libretto would lose its 
 meaning and life even through the most skilful musical 
 arrangement. 
 
 In this way I did what I thought necessary to 
 defend our national property, in advance, from the 
 almost unavoidable event of the failure of the experi- 
 ment about to be made with it. 
 
 Everything opposed my purpose ; I was told that I 
 was wrong, and assured that I exaggerated the claims 
 of Der Freischiitz to originality. But unhappily my 
 prophecy was almost literally fulfilled. After the per- 
 formance many admitted that I had been right ; but 
 others declared that our Freischiitz amounted to 
 nothing. I am convinced that these latter are wrong ; 
 but to give a motive to their horrible declaration — to 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 IIS 
 
 make it possible to imagine how such an idea as that 
 the Freischiltz amounted to nothing could possibly 
 occur to these people — one must have heard and seen 
 the performance of it at the theatre of the Acadcmie 
 Ray ale de Musique. 
 
 It had not been possible for M. Berlioz to secure 
 the first singers of the opera for the roles of the 
 Freischiltz. The public and the opera itself had to 
 content themselves with the second rank of these 
 creatures, and suffice it to say that even the first rank 
 were of little account. The singers and songstresses 
 of the second rank are children of darkness, and are 
 very often positively ridiculed. — Every one knows, 
 however, that this does not benefit the ensemble, even 
 in French operas ; and in the performance of our glori- 
 ous Frei.schUtz, in which so much appears ridiculous to 
 the French on account of their national character, this 
 second class of singers had certainly an enlivening, if 
 not an elevating effect. I for my part laughed a great 
 deal even when the Frenchmen remained sober ; for 
 as I finally came to the conclusion that I was looking 
 at — God knows what — but certainly not my beloved 
 Freischiltz, I let all my pious scruples go by the 
 board, and laughed more furiously than anybody — 
 except at the beginning, at the passage where I have 
 already stated that I wept. 
 
 On the whole it may be assumed that the entire 
 persontiel of the Paris grand opera was in a dreamy 
 state — in which effect I may have been partly at fault 
 through my essay, in which I pointed out to the 
 public the matter of forests and revery. It seemed to 
 me that my directions had been understood and 
 carried out with frightful punctiliousness. The scene- 
 painters had naturally not suffered the scene to be 
 lacking in forests, and so nothing seemed to remain 
 for the singers to do but to undertake the Traumerei 
 for their part. They also wept copiously, and Samiel 
 went so far as to tremble. This trembling of his I 
 
Il6 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 must especially describe, and at once ; for it was a 
 point at which all my scruples dissolved into cheerful 
 merriment. 
 
 Samiel was a slim fellow of some twenty-five years 
 of age ; he wore a handsome Spanish costume, over 
 which he had casually thrown a black, flower-emliroid- 
 ered mantle. The expression of his face was highly 
 interesting — to which effect his elegant side-whiskers 
 undoubtedly contributed. For the rest, he was a 
 merry fellow, and of lively temperament, and played 
 most skilfully with Max the r61e of a Parisian police- 
 spy. With his body stretched forward, his finger on 
 his lips, he often, during Max's aria, approached the 
 unhappy young hunter with delicate caution, in order, 
 as it appeared, to understand what he was singing — 
 which was in very truth a difficult matter to discover, 
 as even the audience (in spite of the libretto) were not 
 unfrequently in doubt as to whether Max was singing 
 Italian or French. — Once, at the passage where Max, 
 in order to address to the fates his rash inquiry, had 
 placed himself close to the foot-lights, Samiel had 
 gotten so close to him that the word " Dieu " (enunci- 
 ated with overwhelming force) reached his compre- 
 hension. But this word appeared to have an extremely 
 disagreeable effect upon him ; for he hardly under- 
 stood it, when he felt it incumbent upon him to exe- 
 cute a trembling-scene such as had never taken place 
 in my presence even on the French stage. All the 
 world knows what perfection the French actors and 
 actresses have gained in the execution of trembling ; 
 but what Samiel accomplished in this respect reduced 
 everything else to the merest child's play. 
 
 The stage of the grand opera is, as may be con- 
 ceived, very deep and broad. And therefore it can 
 be pictured what a distance it was that Samiel trav- 
 ersed from Max's position near the lamps on the ex- 
 treme left, to the background at the extreme right — 
 accompanied by continual trembling of hands, legs, 
 
DER PREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. J17 
 
 head and body — after he had heard that word that was 
 so disagreeable to him. He had already trembled 
 away for some little time, when he had reached the 
 middle of the stage ; and it was therefore sadly to be 
 feared that with the amazing effort that this manoeuvre 
 must have cost him, he would give out before he 
 reached his goal in the background. 
 
 But nothing happens without calculation in French 
 theatres. Even in this case the manager had calcu- 
 lated Samiel's strength, and had given the machinist 
 orders to withdraw the wild huntsman down into a 
 trap-door. This happened punctually, and indeed ex- 
 actly at the right moment ; a flash of lightning that 
 for an instant took the place of Samiel did its part 
 toward the completion of the whole ; and we had the . 
 consolation of being able to believe that the godless 
 trembler in his subterranean refuge would find time 
 and nursing to refresh himself after his unheard of 
 fatigues. 
 
 Max gave the dreamy portion of his character de- 
 cidedly the most prominence ; and however well-fitted 
 this was, in general, to his role, he nevertheless carried 
 his dreamy forgetfulness somewhat too far. Often, 
 for instance, he forget even the key in which the or- 
 chestra was playing, according to Weber's copy, and 
 in the obstinacy of his revery, struck a somewhat 
 lower one, — through which his performance produced 
 a singular but by no means pleasing effect. In his 
 aria he wandered thus in sad perplexity between " for- 
 ests and meadows ; " — it may be said that he exag- 
 gerated his dreamy perplexity as well as the lowness 
 of his spirits.* 
 
 His comrade Kaspar, on the contrary, was merry 
 
 • A pun is confessedly untranslatable ; but that which Wagner makes 
 here upon the lowering of his voice from the key and the lowering of his 
 spirits, is too good for any reader of German to miss. " Man kann sa- 
 gen," says Wagner, " er iibertrieb die triiumerische Verwirrung so wie 
 seine Herabgestimmtheit ." — Translator. 
 
Il8 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 and ingenuous, in spite of the fact that his appearance 
 had a most mystic effect. His especially dreary face 
 by no means coincided well with his well-assumed be- 
 havior ; and besides, nothing could be more melan- 
 choly to think of than his walk. The singer of Kaspar 
 had hitherto been in the habit (so excellent a one for 
 contributing to one's public spirit) of singing in the 
 chorus ; as he was of unusually tall figure, he had always 
 (on account of the aforesaid estimable feeling for gen- 
 eral equality) endeavored to keep this conspicuous 
 trait of his limbs in better harmony with the bodily 
 ensemble of his colleagues. But he could not make 
 his head shorter without extreme inconvenience, and 
 therefore preferred to accomplish the salutary shorten- 
 ing of his body by a peculiarly bent and contracted 
 use of his legs. By means of this self-denying en- 
 deavor, the ensemble of the chorus, except where it was 
 altogether wretched, had always been successful ; and 
 also in the part of 'Kaspar the unselfish habit of our 
 singer, resulting from this, was of great service ; for, as 
 I have already remarked, it preserved (with the melan- 
 choly hue of his features), when opposed to the natural 
 good-natured bonhommie of the impersonator, the bal- 
 ance so extremely to be desired in the character of this 
 deep-dyed rascal. At least, it seemed so to the 
 Frenchmen, for however droll and ludicrous the effect 
 of Kaspar's walk and manner was upon them, they 
 were convinced that this was all as it should be, and 
 that the singer was in this way doing his best to give 
 expression to his role. 
 
 Toward the end of the opera it became clear to them 
 also that Kaspar was in league with the devil : — who 
 could have had any doubt of it, indeed, when he wit- 
 nessed the extraordinary and singular manner of death, 
 or rather of burial, that befel the godl.ess fellow ? For 
 after Kaspar had been struck by the shot that (on ac- 
 count of logic) was so perplexing to the Frenchmen, 
 he still had, as everybody knows, to receive a visit 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 "9 
 
 from Samiel. The wretch cursed (as it is traditional 
 to do in this situation) God and all the world ; but 
 when he forgot himself so much as to honor Samiel 
 himself with a curse, the latter received it so ill that 
 he instantly carried him away with him under the 
 theatre ; by which performance not only the chorus, 
 who all at once lost sight of Kaspar, and the prince, 
 who had, as is well-known, undertaken to have the 
 villain hurled into the Wolfsschlucht, were placed in 
 painful perplexity. Both chorus and prince, however, 
 with the presence of mind of Frenchmen, withdrew 
 from the affair by assuming an attitude as if nothing 
 particular had happened after all ; they let the matter 
 take its own course, and avenged themselves for the 
 over-hasty disappearance of Kaspar by conferring on 
 him, as a funeral sermon, some well-deserved epithets. 
 Besides all this, the Prince and his court were well 
 calculated to inspire respect. Both were dressed in 
 oriental costume, and their attire betrayed the fact 
 that the Prince must rule over an extraordinarily 
 extended kingdom. He himself, with some of the 
 grandees of his realm, wore a Turkish dress; from 
 which it could be seen that he .must be either sultan 
 or, at least, pacha of Egypt. The remainder of his 
 court, as also his remarkably numerous body-guard, 
 were, however, dressed in Chinese costume ; from 
 which fact it distinctly appeared that the empire of 
 their ruler extended at least from Constantinople to 
 Peking. But as all the remaining personnel were 
 dressed with conspicuous faithfulness in Bohemian 
 costume, nothing remained to be assumed but that 
 the powerful sultan had extended his boundaries also 
 to the north-west from Constantinople as far as Prague 
 and Toplitz. All the world knows, however, that 
 the Turks, even in their most brilliant period of con- 
 quest, never penetrated farther than to before Vienna ; 
 and so we must come to the conclusion that the cos- 
 tume-tailor of the grand opera is either in possession 
 
I20 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 of special historical documents that place him in a 
 position to know the record of the Turkish people 
 better than we do, or that he, voluntarily or invol- 
 untarily, transferred the history of our Freischiitz 
 from Bohemia to Hungary; in favor of which conjec- 
 ture, it is true, the unmistakably Bohemian and not 
 Hungarian costume of the peasants and hunters can- 
 not be cited ; but the historical fact favors it, that 
 Hungary was once under the dominion of the Turk- 
 ish sultan. At all events the idea was romantic — to 
 a certain extent oriental ; and beside, it made a good 
 moral impression, when one saw the ruler of all Mus- 
 selmans entering with such unprejudiced cordiality into 
 strictly christian negotiations with a hermit; he thus 
 gave to all christian powers the excellent lesson, that 
 they should also conduct themselves humanely toward 
 Mohammedans and Jews. 
 
 But let us leave the details of the performance ; if I 
 should relate everything that happened in the course of 
 it, to turn my patriotic mood into convulsive merri- 
 ment, I should have a hard and tedious task. Per- 
 mit me then only to express my opinion as to the 
 effect of the scheme and execution of our Parisian 
 Freischiitz. 
 
 I had feared beforehand that M. Berlioz's recitative, 
 besides producing an injurious effect its too great 
 protraction, would especially damage the general 
 result by the fact that the composer would often per- 
 mit himself to be tempted by some favorable oppor- 
 tunity to follow the force of his own creative faculty, 
 and so give his recitative a too great independence. 
 But I found at the performance (and, oddly enough, 
 I found to my sorrow), that M. Berlioz, in the com- 
 position of his recitative, had entirely refrained from 
 all ambitious effort, and had even taken pains to 
 throw his own work into the background. I say 
 that I found this out to my sorrow ; for he had not 
 only distorted the Freischiitz in this endeavor, but 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 121 
 
 had made it hopelessly tedious. This unfortunate 
 trait was evident in the impression it produced on 
 the French themselves, for whom M. Berlioz's work 
 was especially calculated. It would, it is true, often 
 have produced a disagreeable and painful feeling in 
 us Germans, to heir the bursts of applause that 
 would undoubtedly have accompanied M. Berlioz's 
 recitative if the latter had laid aside his modesty and 
 given himself up to his own ambitious inspiration ; 
 but these bursts of applause would still have been 
 tributes to the Freischiitz, as far as its Parisian per- 
 formance was concerned ; — the French would have 
 been enlivened by them, and at length would not 
 have found even our own countryman tedious. 
 
 But the precisely opposite effect was produced ; 
 this recitative gave nothing in return for that of 
 which it robbed the true and fresh aspect of the ro- 
 mantic opera ; and it contributed its part to the fullest 
 extent toward driving the audience to desperation, by 
 imposing upon it the worst of all evils — unlimited ennui. 
 
 The way in which the recitative was sung not a 
 little increased the fault already resting upon its 
 shoulders ; all the singers thought they must represent 
 Norma or Moses ; they constantly introduced porta- 
 menti, tremolo effects, and similar elevating accom- 
 paniments. 
 
 This appeared most painfully in the scene between 
 the two girls, Agathe and Annchen. Agathe, who 
 appeared to constantly imagine that she was Doni- 
 zetti's " Favorita," with her murdered innocence, wept 
 without intermission, constantly wore a sad aspect, 
 and occasionally experienced a spasm of terror. She 
 was dressed in a (certainly original) Bohemian peas- 
 ant's costume of satin and point-lace ; while Annchen 
 appeared in a coquettish ball-dress. Annchen ap- 
 peared to have some glimmering idea that she was 
 intended to represent a lively character; but simple 
 merriment is as entirely unknown to French ladies as 
 6 
 
122 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 coquetry is to ours. The foolish Annchen whom we 
 see on the German stage, as she sings " If there 
 should come a shapely lad," seizes the corners of her 
 apron and skips toward Agathe ; she nods her head 
 when propriety demands it, and casts down her eyes 
 when it is proper to do so. But this was purely 
 impossible for the Parisian Annchen. She preferred 
 to stand in one spot from the beginning to the end 
 of her aria, and to cast coquettish glances toward 
 the " lions' " box, — by which means she was con- 
 vinced that she gave a most satisfactory characterization 
 of a German maiden. The French did not seem to 
 notice anything remarkable about this — nor, indeed, 
 did I. 
 
 But the scene in which the accursed law which 
 forbids the singers to speak showed its most destruc- 
 tive influence, was the scene at the Wolfsschlucht. 
 Everything that Weber has Kaspar and Max speak 
 during this melodrama, must of course be sung in the 
 present case — and in this way stretched out in a fash- 
 ion that was positively unbearable. The Frenchmen 
 were especially indignant at this; the whole " hell's- 
 kitchen " as they called it seemed to them an incom- 
 prehensibly ridiculous thing ; and to waste so much time 
 over it entirely exhausted their patience. If they could 
 only have had some noises or amusing apparitions in 
 connection with it, — if only, instead of the tedious 
 death's-heads, a chain of imps and sylphs had formed 
 the circle ;— if, instead of a nasty owl raising his 
 wings, a wanton dancer had only flourished her petti- 
 coats and her legs, — or if, at least, certain unpreju- 
 diced nuns had devoted themselves to the seduction 
 of the phlegmatic young hunter, — then the Parisians 
 would have known where they were. But nothing 
 of all this happened ; and even Kaspar, who should 
 have been entirely occupied with his bullet-casting, 
 experienced a painful impatience at the extraordinary 
 lack of apparitions. With me it was not much bet- 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 123 
 
 ter; for as I perceived the ill-humor of the audience 
 around me, I uttered a silent prayer to all the saints 
 that they would induce the manager to produce some 
 few of his devices. 
 
 Kaspar and I had perceived with unconcealed joy, 
 that after the casting of the first bullet an unexpected 
 noise broke from one of the bushes, ceased again upon 
 the instant, but unfortunately left a very disagreeable 
 smell behind it. This beginning was certainly calcu- 
 lated to awaken hopes, which nevertheless remained 
 unfulfilled upon the casting of the second bullet. Full 
 of expectancy, therefore, Kaspar cried out the third 
 bullet ; I shared his eagerness — but again nothing hap- 
 pened ; — we were covered with shame at this ineffi- 
 ciency on Samiel's part, and hid our faces. But the 
 fourth bullet must be cast ; and now to our great satis- 
 faction, we saw, besides two bats which flew above the 
 circle, several will-o'-the-wisps dancing in the air, 
 which unfortunately put the melancholy Max in great 
 perplexity by their persistency in approaching too 
 near him. The fifth bullet was therefore cast amid 
 the most brilliant prospects — for now or never the 
 Wild Hunt must make its appearance. And as a fact 
 it did not keep us waiting longer ; — upon a mountain, 
 six feet above the heads of the two hunters, four naked 
 boys appeared, mystically illuminated ; they carried 
 bows and arrows, for which reason they were gener- 
 ally considered to be cupids ; they made a few gestures, 
 as though dancing the can-can, and hurried behind 
 the scenes. Very much the same feats were performed 
 by a lion, a wolf and a bear, as well as by four other 
 boys, who, also naked and with bows and arrows, fol- 
 lowed the Wild Hunt upon its way. 
 
 Terrible as had been the effect of these apparitions, 
 Kaspar and I could have wished that the terror might 
 be continued after the sixth bullet ; but here the 
 manager considered a pause necessary — probably to 
 give the terrified ladies in the boxes an opportunity 
 
124 •^■^^ FREISCHUTZ TN PARIS. 
 
 to in some degree recover themselves. But when I 
 saw what happened after the seventh bullet, I perceived 
 that this pause had been a pause of preparation, — for 
 without it what followed could not possibly have pro- 
 duced its intended mysterious effect. 
 
 Upon the bridge that led over the waterfall, there 
 appeared three men with cloaks of striking blackness ; 
 the same thing happened in the foreground, and pre- 
 cisely where Max was standing. The latter must cer- 
 tainly have taken these guests for funeral mutes, — for 
 their appearance made so disagreeable an impression 
 upon him that he could not refrain from dashing himself 
 at full length upon the ground. — With this ended the 
 horrors of the Wolfsschlucht. 
 
 But I see that I am again falling into the relation of 
 details; and in order to cut off this tempting path 
 once for all, I now undertake to say nothing more, 
 about the performance of the Parisian Freischiitz, but 
 to occupy myself entirely with the audience and its 
 judgment of our national work. 
 
 The Parisians in general are wont to look upon the 
 performances of the grand opera as fairly faultless; for 
 they know of no establishment where they can see an 
 opera better given. And so they could not be of any 
 other opinion, than that they had also seen the Frei- 
 schiitz perfectly well performed, and certainly better 
 than they could have seen it at any of the theatres of 
 Germany. Everything which seemed to them tedious 
 and foolish about the Freischiitz, they were therefore 
 not disposed to attribute to the faults of the performer ; 
 but at once adopted the conviction that what might be 
 a masterpiece for Germans, was for them mere twaddle. 
 The remembrance of "Robin des Bois " confirmed 
 them in this belief; for this re-arrangement of Der 
 Freischiitz had made, as I had already sufficiently 
 explained, an unheard-of success ; and since this honor 
 was not conferred upon the original also, the universal 
 impression was naturally that the re-arrangement must 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ !N PARIS. 125 
 
 be infinitely better. And in truth, it did have the 
 advantage that M. Berlioz's terribly long recitative 
 did not counteract the effect of the airs from Weber ; 
 and besides, the author of " Robin des Bois " had 
 been so fortunate as to introduce Logic into the pro- 
 ceedings of his drama. 
 
 There is something very extraordinary about this 
 Logic. As the French have arranged their language 
 according to its strictest rules, they demand that these 
 rules must be respected in all that is spoken in 
 that language. I have heard Frenchmen who were 
 otherwise greatly pleased with the performance of the 
 Freischiitz, who nevertheless came back to this one 
 point of objection — there was nothing logical in it. 
 Now it had never occurred to me in my life to make 
 logical researches into the Freischiitz, and I therefore 
 asked precisely what one was to understand by the 
 term in this case ? I learned that the number of the 
 magic bullets gave special offence to the logical natures 
 of the Frenchmen. Why — they said — seven bullets ? 
 Why this unheard-of luxury ? Were not three eno\i^ ? 
 three is a number that can be easily looked after and 
 used, under all circumstances. How is it possible to 
 bring about the sensible employment of seven bullets 
 in one short act ? there ought to be at least five entire 
 acts, to give the proper opportunity for solving this 
 problem correctly, — and even then one would encoun- 
 ter the diflSculty of disposing of several bullets in one 
 act. For in truth it is no joke — that appeared evident 
 — to have to do with such magic bullets ; and how op- 
 posed it is to all common sense, to imagine that two 
 hunters could so thoughtlessly and without reason 
 mould six such bullets on some fine morning — know- 
 ing, too, as they must have done, that there was some- 
 thing uncanny about the seventh ! 
 
 A similar opinion was expressed, with undisguised 
 dissatisfaction, about the catastrophe of the piece. 
 " How was it possible," they said " that a shot aimed 
 
126 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 at a dove could apparently kill a maiden and really put 
 to death a worthless hunter ? We grant that there is 
 a possibility of a shot's missing a dove and killing a 
 human being, — such accidents unfortunately occasion- 
 ally occur;— but how a bride and all those who are 
 present could imagine for five full minutes that they 
 too were hit — that surpasses all belief! Besides, this 
 shot is wanting in all dramatic probability. How 
 much more logical it would be if the young hunter, in 
 despair at missing his shot, should shoot himself 
 through the head with the last bullet ! the bride 
 rushes toward him and tries to seize the pistol from 
 his hand — it goes off during the struggle, the bullet 
 flies past the hunter — thanks to the efforts of the bride 
 — and shoots down the godless comrade, placed in a 
 direct range behind him ! There would be some logic 
 in that!" 
 
 My brain whirled ; I had not thought of this kind of 
 constructed truths, and had accepted the Freischiitz 
 with all its lack of logic — just as it was. Thus it may 
 be seen what extraordinary brains these Frenchmen 
 have ! They see the Freischiitz but once, and are at 
 once in a position to prove that we Germans have 
 labored under a frightful error with regard to its logi- 
 calness for five-and-twenty years ! Unhappy people 
 that we are — who have always believed that a shot 
 fired at seven o'clock at a mountain eagle, can bring it 
 about that the picture of one's great grandfather can 
 fall from the wall in a hunting castle a mile and a half 
 away ! * 
 
 Logic is the consuming passion of the French, and 
 they pass their judgment in accordance with it. No 
 one of the newspaper critics, be he ever so opposed to 
 another, fails at this opportunity to place himself upon 
 the most logical basis, no matter how difficult the 
 
 * A popular superstition illustrated in many German legends of forest 
 life. — Translator. 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 127 
 
 proof of his opinion must oftentimes be — when, for 
 example, one journal expresses the opinion that the 
 Freischiitz is gray — another, that it is undeniably 
 green. M. Berlioz arranged it best in the Jour^idl des 
 D^bats ; in his article on Der Freischiitz, he did not 
 neglect to say a few favorable words of Weber and his 
 masterpiece, which received not a little admiration 
 from the fact that he also spoke in the same favorable 
 terms of the performance. This was natural, for we 
 know that the critic himself had arranged the musical 
 tnise en seine ; and he was on that account bound to 
 pay a compliment to those performers who had taken 
 the pains, under his leadership, to study an opera so 
 disagreeable to them. But M. Berlioz showed his 
 true modesty by not saying a word in his article of 
 the value of his recitative. And everyone was touched 
 when, in the next number of the same journal, M. 
 Berlioz's colleague, M. Jules Janin, undertook the 
 friendly task of also speaking of the Freischiitz, — but 
 found an opportunity while doing so to say only a de- 
 cisive word of praise with reference to the recitative of 
 his friend and companion-journalist. There was no 
 one who did not find this arrangement of the two col- 
 leagues a very sensible one, in accordance with all the 
 rules of Parisian logic. 
 
 Other journals took other courses, according to 
 their specific logical laws ; those which are in opposi- 
 tion to the management of the grand opera naturally 
 could not refrain from giving a candid opinion of 
 the unsuccessful performance, which they sought to 
 strengthen by not leaving a single good trait in our 
 Freischiitz. 
 
 But most logically of all was their opinion expressed 
 by the Charivari in its article : — the author of the ar- 
 ticle heartily congratulated the management of the 
 grand opera upon having offered an asylum to the 
 masterpiece of German art, after it had received no 
 
128 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 recognition from the composer's own countrymen, and 
 had been banished from its native soil ! 
 
 And when I come to this passage, my patience is 
 at last exhausted. Till now I have laughed, — and I 
 have even reason to do the same at the article in the 
 Charivari ; but there are points at which laughter 
 ceases, however much material for it may remain. 
 Shall I tell you, my German countrymen, what has 
 decided me not to laugh at the above-mentioned 
 article ? You must know, then, that it is anger at the 
 impossibility, in this great capital of this amazingly 
 free France, of finding acceptance in a single journal 
 for a powerful reply to that stupid insult — as well as 
 for any representation whatever of the failures of the 
 Paris Freischiitz. 
 
 The French only allow attacks and denials between 
 Parties; in such cases they have no conscience as to 
 denying each other the last spark of honor or sense. 
 But the quietest and most sensible statement or ex- 
 planation, as soon as it is directed at all parties alike, 
 must never be allowed to reach their eyes. They lie 
 to each other in such cases as to what they know and 
 what they don't know, make use of their absurd logic, 
 and are proud of the fact that they know nothing in 
 the world but what they want to know. 
 
 This is the true state of the case. These spirituel 
 Frenchmen are wanting not only in the capacity but 
 also in the desire — though it be only out of curiosity — 
 to go beyond the limits of their traditional beliefs about 
 the good and the beautiful. I am saying nothing new 
 in saying this, of course — for there isn't anything new 
 to say about them, since they never, in spite of their 
 annual changes of fashion, can become new. But I 
 must again call to mind what has been said so often, 
 because the idea has recently obtained among us that 
 there was a growing resemblance between Germans and 
 Frenchmen in artistic taste. This impression has un- 
 doubtedly been caused by our learning that the French 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 129 
 
 translated Goethe, and played Beethoven's s)'mphonies 
 with masterly skill. Both have been done, and are 
 done, it is true. But I have also announced to you 
 to-day that they have performed the Freischiitz. As 
 much as this has done to a growing rapport between 
 the two nations, Goethe and Beethoven have also 
 done ; — but not more ; and this is less than a little ; 
 for the Freischiitz especially has contributed of late 
 to alienate the French from the Germans. 
 
 We must not nourish any illusions on this point ; in 
 many ways the French will always remain strangers to 
 us, even though they wear dress-coats and cravats 
 similar to our own. 
 
 If we should desire to approach nearer to them, for 
 a thousand reasons that we might have for doing 
 so, we should have to reject a good portion of our 
 best property ; — we cannot deceive the French, and 
 make them believe by pretences that — for example — 
 we compose French music, unless the whole inner na- 
 ture of it is modelled after what they call their Logic. 
 This would be a difficult piece of work, and any one 
 who speaks from experience can give assurance that 
 a double dose of national feeling and patriotism is nec- 
 essary to keep one's heart from being fairly eaten out 
 by all the French demands. But for this very reason 
 there can be no greater pleasure than when one suc- 
 ceeds in getting the advantage of Frenchmen in spite 
 of their extraordinary logic ; it is not easy to do, how- 
 ever, for they are as watchful as possible, and their 
 custom-houses are ordered to forbid foreign importa- 
 tions with all possible severity, — or at least the duties 
 on imports are very high and it costs a great deal to 
 raise them. 
 
 We Germans, on the contrary, — how over-honest 
 and amiable we are, to seek with such industrious 
 complacency after tasteful bits in the masterpieces 
 of neighboring nations ! Yes — even to accept the 
 most tasteless parts of them as something wonder- 
 
I30 
 
 DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 ful and foreign, and carry them to our chemists to 
 make remedies of with which to cure those portions 
 of our own frames that have been injured by too much 
 sedentary life ! You ought to know that these reme- 
 dies are only valuable as protections against vermin ; 
 and that the Parisian knows his own wares so well that 
 he does not even attribute this virtue to them — for 
 which reason it is, by the way, that so many vermin 
 flourish in the glorious French capital. 
 
 Ah ! how kindly and complacent you are toward all 
 those meannesses that disgust even the French them- 
 selves ! Do you know that on account of this very 
 angelic virtue you make yourselves still more a subject 
 of jest for this laughter-loving people ? They tell how 
 one of them visited the theatre of Berlin or Vienna in 
 April or May, this year, and that " Fra Diavolo" or 
 ' ' Zampa " was being performed there. Every French- 
 man that hears this decides (by his logic) that you are 
 the most ridiculous people on the face of the earth ; 
 and he forthwith proceeds to die of laughing. 
 
 I heard such a burst of laughter a while ago : and 
 because I had been laughing at something else, I did 
 not join in it this time, but doubled my fists, and 
 swore. Whoever cares to know what it was that I 
 swore, shall know it some time ; if I were more than I 
 am — if I were: one of those happy beings of whom 
 Schiller sings in his hexameters — you should know at 
 once what I swore to myself, when I heard the French- 
 men laughing at our devotion to "Zampa" and "Fra 
 Diavolo"! 
 
 What ! Are we, the gifted nation among whom God 
 permitted a Mozart and a Beethoven to arise, — are we 
 made to be the sport of Paris salons ? We serve them 
 now as such ; and we deserve to ; the shallowest pate 
 on the Boulevard des Italiens has the right to laugh at 
 us, — for we act so as to merit it. I do not consider it 
 matter of blame to us that we are capable of recogniz- 
 ing the merits of French art, — for it is only this trait 
 
DER FREISCHUTZ IN PARIS. 
 
 131 
 
 that raises us by a heaven's-height above the French 
 themselves ; we are to be congratulated that we are 
 able to estimate at its full value all that foreign coun- 
 tries offer us ; it is a remarkable gift that benevolent 
 Heaven has conferred upon us Germans ; for without it 
 no universal genius, like Mozart, could have been 
 created among us, — and by its means we are capable 
 of forgiving every one that makes sport of us. 
 
 But with all that, it is in the nature of things that 
 there should be times of war as well as times of peace ; 
 and if you desire some time in such a period of strife to 
 avenge yourselves upon the French, you cannot pun- 
 ish them more keenly than by sending back to them 
 by extra post, some fine day, these emissaries of their 
 holy spirit — " Fra Diavolo " — "Zampa" — "The 
 Faithful Shepherd" — and the rest, whatever christian 
 names they have. 
 
 Be sure, that if the French are forced to listen again 
 to the preachings of these gifted teachers, they will 
 die of ennui ; — for the French are above all things a 
 spirited people, and hate nothing with such ardent 
 bitterness as this same entiui. 
 
 This, my German countrymen, would be an excel- 
 lent and well-deserved punishment for the abuses that 
 our dear, dear Freischutz has suffered here. If you 
 have really banished it from your soil, as the Chari- 
 vari assures us with such perfect confidence, hasten to 
 let it come back again ; for you have many worthless 
 wares to exchange, in return for which the French 
 will gladly give you back your Freischlitz. 
 
772^^ MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 A LETTER TO A FRENCH FRIEND, FRANfOIS VIL- 
 LOT; USED AS A PREFACE TO A PROSE TRANS- 
 LATION OF WAGNER'S LIBRETTI. 
 
 MY HONORED FRIEND : 
 You desired to receive from me personally, 
 some clear definition of those ideas which I published 
 some years ago in Germany in a series of art essays, and 
 which excited enough attention, as well as opposition, 
 to prepare for me a curious and expectant reception 
 in France also. You considered this to be important 
 for my own interest as well, as you kindly believed 
 that you might assume that much error and prejudice 
 would be dispelled by a well-considered explanation 
 of my ideas, and that many perplexed critics would 
 feel themselves in a better situation, on the intended 
 production of one of my musical dramas in Paris, to 
 criticise only the work of art itself, and not at the same 
 time to give their judgment on an apparently questiona- 
 ble theory. 
 
 I confess that it would have been extremely difficult 
 for me to have complied with your kindly meant re- 
 quest, if you had not at the same time pointed out to 
 me the only way in which I believed I could do so, 
 by your expressed wish to lay before the public a 
 translation of my operatic poems. For it would have 
 seemed impossible to me to again wander through the 
 labyrinth of theoretical speculation in purely abstract 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 133 
 
 fashion ; and I can recognize, from the dislike that 
 now keeps me from even reading over again my 
 theoretical writings, the fact that at the time I wrote 
 those works I was in a thoroughly abnormal state, 
 such as may be experienced once in the life of an 
 artist, but cannot well be repeated. 
 
 Allow me first of all to describe this state to you in 
 its principal characteristic features, as far as I can at 
 present recognize them. If you will grant me some 
 space for this purpose, I can then hope, proceeding 
 from the description of a subjective mood, to place be- 
 fore you the concrete contents of artistic theories 
 which it would now be impossible for me to repeat in 
 a purely abstract form, — while this latter would also 
 be a hindrance to the object of my communication. 
 
 If we may regard all nature, looked at as a whole, 
 as a process of development from the unconscious to 
 consciousness, and if this process appears most con- 
 spicuously in the human individual, the observation 
 of it in the life of the artist is certainly one of the most 
 interesting, because in him and his creations the world 
 represents itself and comes to conscious existence. - 
 But in the artist, too, the presenting force is in its 
 very nature unconscious — instinctive ; and even where'' 
 he requires thought in order to form the outline of his 
 intuition, by the aid of the technical ability with which 
 he is endowed, into an objective work of art, it is not 
 exactly reflection that decides for him the choice of his 
 means of expression, but rather an instinctive impulse, 
 which constitutes, indeed, the character of his peculiar 
 talent. The necessity for continued reflection will 
 only come to him, when he meets with some great 
 obstacle to the application of the means necessary for 
 his expression — that is, where the means for the pre- 
 sentation of his artistic purpose are continually ren- 
 dered difficult or are even forbidden to him. 
 
 That artist will find himself much the most fre- 
 quently in the latter position, who requires for repre- 
 
134 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 sentation of his object not only lifeless tools, but a 
 union of living artistic forces. Such a union, in the 
 most extended sense, is a necessity to the dramatic 
 poet, in order to give to his poem the most intelligible 
 expression. And for this he has to go to the stage, 
 which, as the exponent or representative, forms of itself, 
 with the laws peculiar to it, a special art-department. 
 The dramatic poet goes to this stage as to a com- 
 pleted ■ art-element ; he must mingle himself with it 
 and its peculiar nature, in order to see his artistic pur- 
 pose realized. If his tendencies are fully in accord 
 with those of the stage, there can be no talk of such 
 a conflict as I have mentioned ; and only the character 
 of this accord needs to be mentioned, to determine the 
 worth of the work of art called into being by it. If, on 
 the contrary, those tendencies are entirely divergent, 
 it is easy to understand the sore need of the artist who 
 sees himself forced to employ for the expression of his 
 artistic purpose an art-instrument which in its nature 
 belongs to another purpose than his own. 
 
 The consciousness that was forced upon me, that I 
 found myself \n such a situation, compelled me during 
 a certain period of my life to confine myself to the 
 more or less unconscious methods of artistic produc- 
 tion, in order to gain by persistent reflection some 
 knowledge of this problematic situation by the inves- 
 tigation of its reasons. I may assume, that the prob- 
 lem here presented had never pressed so hard -upon 
 an artist as precisely upon me, because the artistic 
 elements that entered into the matter had certainly 
 never before stood in such manifold and peculiar rela- 
 tions to one another as here, where poetry and music on 
 the one hand, and the modern lyric scene on the other, 
 should unite in the most untrustworthy and equivocal 
 institution of our time — the operatic stage. And 
 here let me at once point out to you the difference — 
 very important in my eyes — which exists between the 
 relation of operatic composers to the operatic stage 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 135 
 
 in France and Italy, and that which prevails in Ger- 
 many. It is so considerable that you will easily per- 
 ceive, from the characteristics of this difference, how 
 it is that the problem I have described could so visibly 
 present itself only to a German author. 
 '' In Italy, where the opera was first elaborated, no 
 other task has ever been set before the musician than 
 to write a number of airs for special singers, in whom 
 dramatic talent was entirely a secondary considera- 
 tion ; — ^airs that should give these virtuosi an opportu- 
 nity to bring into play their several specific vocal 
 powers. All that poetry and scenery contributed to 
 this exhibition of the performer's art, was an excuse 
 for time and space for it ; with the singer alternated 
 the dancer, who danced precisely the same that the 
 other sang ; and the composer had no other task than 
 to contribute variations on a certain selected type of 
 tune. Hera, therefore, there was complete agreement 
 in purpose, down to the smallest detail, because, while 
 the composer composed for certain fixed voices and 
 their individual characteristics, these, in turn, showed 
 him the character of the variations he must make. In 
 this way the Italian became an art-genre by itself, 
 which, while it had nothing to do with the true drama, 
 had also nothing to do with true music ; for, for him 
 who understands art, the decline of Italian music dates 
 from the rise of the opera in Italy — an opinion that will 
 be readily comprehended by anyone who has gained a 
 true conception of the dignity, the richness, and the 
 unspeakably expressive depth of the Italian church 
 niusic of the earlier centuries ; and who, after hearing 
 for example the Stabat Mater of Palestrina, can hardly 
 believe it to be possible that the Italian opera is the 
 legitimate daughter of so wonderful a mother. This I 
 only mention in passing ; let us, as far as our present 
 object is concerned, bear chiefly in mind the fact that 
 in Italy, even down to our own day, the most perfect 
 
136 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 harmony exists between the purposes of the operatic 
 stage and those of the composer. 
 
 In France, also, this relation has not changed, — 
 though here the task is increased as well for the sing- 
 ers as for the composer ; for the dramatic poet enters 
 into the matter to a far more important degree here 
 than in Italy. Conformably to the national character, 
 and to the important development of dramatic poetry 
 and action that had gone before, this branch of art 
 made demands upon the opera as well. In the estab- 
 lishment of the grand opera, a strict style was gradu- 
 ally formed, borrowed in its main features from the 
 rules of the Thdatre Fran9ais, which included in itself 
 all the arrangements and requirements of a dramatic 
 representation. Without characterizing it more par- 
 ticularly at this moment, let us bear in mind the one 
 fact that there existed here a theatre that served as a 
 model, in which this style was developed, equally de- 
 termining the course of both performer and author; 
 that the author found the exactly-defined frame 
 all ready prepared, which he was to fill with action 
 and music ; that he had known and trained singers 
 and impersonators in mind, with whom he was in per- 
 fect accord as to his purpose. 
 
 The opera reached Germany, however, as an en- 
 tirely completed foreign product, — foreign, in its very 
 nature, to the whole character of the nation. First of 
 all, German princes brought Italian opera troupes to 
 their courts ; German composers had to visit Italy to 
 perfect themselves there in the art of operatic compo- 
 sition. At a later period the theatres themselves took 
 it up, especially the public production of translations 
 of French operas. Attempts at German opera con- 
 sisted in nothing but the recitation of foreign operas 
 in the German language. No central theatre, to serve 
 as a model for this purpose, was ever established. 
 All remained in the greatest anarchy — Italian and 
 French styles and German imitations side by side. 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 137 
 
 Endeavors to make from the original, undeveloped, 
 German musical drama, an independent and popular 
 genre, were almost always repressed by the influence 
 of formal elaboration, as it came from foreign countries. 
 
 A more conspicuous evil which arose among these 
 distracting influences, was the entire absence of style 
 in operatic representations. In cities whose small 
 population only offered a small and seldom varied 
 audience, French, Italian, and German operas imitated 
 from both or derived from the lowest forms of Vaude- 
 ville, tragic or comic, all sung by precisely the same 
 singers, were performed in the most rapid succession, 
 in order to make the repertoire attractive by variety. 
 What had been arranged for the best Italian singers, 
 with special regard to their individual capabilities, was 
 sung by singers without instruction, without vocal 
 flexibility, in a language entirely the opposite of the 
 Italian in character, — and generally sung with laugh- 
 able distortions. — French operas, dependent upon the 
 pathetic declamation of pointed rhetorical phrases, 
 were produced in translations which had been made 
 by literary penny-a-liners at the lowest price, gener- 
 ally without regard to the connection between the 
 declamation and the music, and with mistakes in 
 prosody that were calculated to make one's hair stand 
 on end ; a circumstance which put an effectual end to 
 the development of a healthful style in the perform- 
 ances, and made both singers and audience indifferent 
 to the text of the operas. Awkwardness on all sides 
 arose from this ; there was nowhere an operatic 
 theatre to serve as an example and to give the tone ; 
 the education of even the obtainable voices was faulty 
 or entirely wanting ; everywhere artistic anarchy pre- 
 vailed. 
 
 You perceive that there was practically no operatic 
 theatre in existence for the true and earnest musician. 
 If his inclination or education inclined him toward the 
 theatre, he was forced to betake himself to writing in 
 
138 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 Italy for the Italian, or in France for the French 
 opera ; and while Mozart and Gluck wrote Italian and 
 French works, the really national music of Germany 
 grew up upon an entirely different basis from that of 
 the opera. Turning away from the opera altogether, 
 and in that very branch of composition from which 
 the Italians had diverged with the first appearance of 
 the opera, a truly characteristic music developed in 
 Germany, from Bach to Beethoven, up to the climax 
 of its marvellous richness, — a school that has led Ger- 
 man music to its universally recognized importance. 
 
 For the German musician who looked out from his 
 own field of choral and instrumental music upon that 
 of dramatic music, there existed no complete and at- 
 tractive form in the line of opera, which, by its relative 
 perfection, coald serve him as an example in such a 
 way as he could be served in those classes of music 
 which were more in his own school. While a noble, 
 completed form of composition lay before him in the 
 oratorio, and especially in the symphony, the opera 
 merely offered him a disconnected chaos of trifling 
 and undeveloped methods, upon which there rested 
 the burden of a conventionality incomprehensible to 
 him, and subversive of all efforts towards free de- 
 velopment. 
 
 In order to clearly understand what I mean, com- 
 pare the broad, rich form of a symphony of Beet- 
 hoven with the music of his opera of " Fidelio " ; you 
 will feel at once how the master found himself tram- 
 melled and confined in this latter field, and how he 
 could hardly ever reach the true development of his 
 proper powers ; for which reason, in order to pour 
 himself out for once in all his fulness, he threw himself 
 with the force of desperation, as it were, upon his 
 overture, — and produced a musical creation of a 
 breadth and importance such as had been before un- 
 known. He withdrew disheartened from this one 
 attempt at an opera ; without, however, giving up the 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 139 
 
 wish that he might be able to find a poem that would 
 render possible the full exercise of his musical power. 
 It was the Ideal that hovered before him. 
 
 And in fact there mitst of necessity arise in the Ger- 
 man musician some ideal aim in regard to the opera— 
 that form of artistic production that is for him so 
 problematical, that continually attracts and as con- 
 stantly repels him, — that so entirely fails to satisfy 
 him in the way in which it is actually brought before 
 him : — and in this fact lies the peculiar significance of 
 German efforts in art, not only in this but in almost 
 every artistic field. Permit me to point out the 
 characteristics of this significance a little more closely. 
 ^ The Latin nations of Europe indisputably attained, 
 at an early period, to one great point of advantage 
 over the Germanic — namely, in the development of 
 Form. While Italy, Spain, and France made for them- 
 selves that pleasing and appropriate form which soon 
 gained a general and proper adoption for all outward 
 expression in life and art, Germany remained in this 
 respect in a state of undeniable anarchy, which could 
 not be concealed, but was rather increased, by the fact 
 that it sought to make use of the already perfect form 
 employed by foreigners. The obvious disadvantage 
 under which the German nation labored on this ac- 
 count in all which concerned outward form (and how 
 much this includes !), retarded the development of 
 German art and literature so long, that it has only 
 been since the latter half of the last century that such 
 a movement showed itself in Germany, as the Latin 
 nations had experienced over since the beginning of 
 the period of the Renaissance. 
 
 This German movement could at first assume little 
 character but that of a reaction against the foreign, 
 distorted, and therefore distorting Latinized forms ; 
 yet as this could not act favorably to a German form 
 that had not been repressed, but had in reality never 
 existed, the movement tended strongly toward the 
 
I40 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 discovery of some method of expression of a purely 
 ideal human nature, — not to one that should belong 
 to this one nation alone. The influence of the two 
 leading German poets, Goethe and Schiller, peculiar, 
 new, and unprecedented as it was in art-history, shows 
 itself in this, — that now for the first time this problem 
 of an ideal, purely human art-form in its fullest mean- 
 ing became the object of investigation ; and the search 
 for this form was almost the most important element 
 of their labors. ♦ Rebelling against the force of that 
 method of expression that still passed for a law among 
 the Latin nations, they succeeded in looking upon this 
 method objectively, in comprehending its disadvan- 
 tages as well as its advantages, in going back from it 
 to the origin of all European art-form — the Greek ; 
 and finally, grasping the antique form with the req- 
 uisite freedom, to proceed from it to an ideal art- 
 expression which, as one purely human and freed 
 from narrow national customs, could develop these 
 customs into a form that should be human in the 
 truest sense, and only obey eternal laws. 
 
 The disadvantage under which the German had thus 
 far labored as opposed to the Latin, was thus con- 
 verted into an advantage. For while the Frenchman, 
 for example, contented himself with an entirely de- 
 veloped, congruous form, and, willingly subjecting 
 himself to its apparently unalterable laws, devoted 
 himself only to continual reproductions of it, and thus 
 felt himself committed to what was, in a higher sense, 
 a stagnation of his productiveness, — the German, with 
 a full recognition of the advantageous elements of such 
 a position, nevertheless saw its disadvantageous ele- 
 ments as well. The lack of freedom in it did not 
 escape him, and the prospect opened to him of an 
 ideal art-form in which what was always valuable in 
 every method of expression should have representa- 
 tion, freed from the fetters of the purely fortuitous and 
 the false. The immeasurable importance of such a 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 141 
 
 form must consist in this, that, putting aside the lim- 
 iting factorof narrow national influence, it should be 
 one universally intelligible and open to every people. 
 
 If, in the matter of literature, the differences of the 
 European languages would act as an obstacle to this, 
 it must be in music, that language intelligible to all 
 men, that the great equalizing power is to be found, 
 which, converting the language of ideas into the 
 language of the feelings, would bring the deepest 
 secrets of the artistic conception to general comprehen- 
 sion, especially if this comprehension can be made dis- 
 tinct through the plastic expression of dramatic repre- 
 sentation, — can be given such a distinctness a;i up to 
 this time painting alone has been able to claim as its 
 peculiar influence. 
 
 You see here, hastily sketched, the plan of that work 
 of art which always presented itself to me as the ideal 
 one, and which I at one time felt impelled to describe 
 in its theoretic features. It was at a period when a 
 gradually increasing distaste for that school of art 
 ■which, when compared with the ideal I had conceived, 
 had only the repulsive resemblance to it that an ape 
 has to a man, — it was at a time when distaste for this 
 had so gained possession of me that I longed to flee 
 before it and hide myself in the most complete retire- 
 ment. 
 
 That I may make this period of my life intelligible 
 to you, permit me, without wearying you with bio- 
 graphical details, to describe to you the peculiar con- 
 flict in the midst of which a German musician found 
 himself placed, who, with Beethoven's symphonies in 
 his heart, saw himself forced into, relations with the 
 modern opera, as I have described it as existing in 
 Germany. 
 
 In spite of a serious and scientific education, I had 
 been from my earliest youth in constant and intimate 
 association with the theatre. This early youth of 
 mine was passed during the last years of the life of 
 
142 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 Karl Maria von Weber, who periodically brought out 
 his operas in the city where I lived — Dresden. I re- 
 ceived my earliest impressions of music from this 
 master, whose melodies filled me with dreamy serious- 
 ness, and whose personality fascinated me even to 
 enthusiasm. His death in a foreign land filled my 
 childish heart with dismay. I first learned of Beet- 
 hoven when I was told of his death also, which oc- 
 curred ftot long after Weber's ; and I learned his 
 music, too, attracted to it, as it were, by the enigmati- 
 cal news that he was dead. Excited by such sad im- 
 pressions, a love for music developed more and more 
 strongly within me. But it was only later, and es- 
 pecially after my other studies had introduced me to 
 the knowledge of classical antiquity and had aroused 
 in me the impulse to poetic efforts, that I attained to 
 the deepest musical study. I proposed to compose 
 the music for a tragedy that I had written. 
 
 It is said that Rossini once asked his teacher if it 
 was necessary to learn counterpoint in order to com- 
 pose an opera? And as the latter, having in mind the 
 modern Italian opera, replied that it was not, his pupil 
 gladly abandoned it. — After my teacher had taught 
 me the most difficult portions of counterpoint, he said 
 to me, " Probably you will never have occasion to 
 write a fugue ; but the fact that you can write one will 
 give you technical independence and make everything 
 else easy to you." With this schooling I entered upon 
 the practical career of a theatrical musical director, 
 and began to compose after libretti written by myself. 
 
 Let this brief biographical sketch suffice you. After 
 what I have told you of the situation of the opera in 
 Germany, you will the more easily conceive the course 
 of my development. The peculiar, gnawing feeling 
 that oppressed me in conducting our ordinary operas, 
 was often interrupted by an indescribable, enthusiastic 
 feeling of happiness, when here and there, in the per- 
 formance of nobler works, I became thoroughly con- 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 143 
 
 scious, in the midst of the representation, of the in- 
 comparable influence of dramatic-musical combina- 
 tions ; — an influence of such depth, fervor, and life as 
 no other art is capable of producing. 
 
 That such impressions, which, with the rapidity of 
 lightning, made clear to me undreamed-of possibili- 
 ties, could constantly renew themselves for me, — this 
 was the thing which bound me to the theatre, much as 
 the typical spirit of our operatic performances filled 
 me with disgust. Among especially strong impres- 
 sions of this character, I remember the hearing of an 
 opera by Spontini in Berlin, under that master's own 
 direction ; and I felt myself, too, thoroughly elevated 
 and ennobled for a time, when I was teaching a small 
 opera company Mi^hul's noble "Joseph." And 
 when, twenty years ago, I spent some time in Paris, 
 the performances at the grand opera could not fail, by 
 the perfection of their musical and dramatic mise en 
 seine, to exercise a most dazzling and exciting in- 
 fluence upon me. But greatest of all was the effect 
 produced upon me in early youth by the artistic 
 efforts of a dramatic singer of (in my eyes) entirely un- 
 surpassed merit — Schroder-Devrient. Paris, and per- 
 haps you yourself, made, in her time, the acquaint- 
 ance of that great artiste. The incomparable dra- 
 matic talent of this woman, the inimitable harmony 
 and strong individuality of her representations, which 
 I studied with eyes and ears, filled me with a fascina- 
 tion that had a decisive influence on my whole artistic 
 career. The possibilities of such a performance were 
 revealed to me, and with her in view, there grew up 
 in my mind a legitimate demand, not for musical-dra- 
 matic representation alone, but for Xht^ poetic-musical 
 conception of a work of art to which I could hardly 
 continue to give the name of " opera." 
 
 I was pained to see such an artiste compelled, in or- 
 der to gain material for her dramatic talent, to take up 
 the most insignificant productions in the field of oper- 
 
144 ^''^ MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 atic composition ; and when I was repeatedly amazed 
 to see what fervor and what transporting beauty she 
 put into her delineation of Romeo in Bellini's feeble 
 work, I said to myself what an incomparable work of 
 art that would need to be, that should be fully worthy 
 in all its parts of the dramatic talent of such an artiste, 
 and of a company of artists equal to her ! 
 
 The higher my idea of what could be accomplished 
 in the line of opera aspired, and the more this idea 
 seemed to me possible to realize by turning the whole 
 full stream to which Beethoven swelled German mu- 
 sic, into the channel of musical drama, so much the 
 more discouraging and repulsive became for me the 
 daily intercourse with the kind of opera that actually 
 existed, that lay so far from the ideal that I inwardly 
 recognized. Spare me the description of the inward 
 discontent that at last grew to be unbearable, which 
 filled the soul of an artist who, while he saw with ever 
 increasing distinctness the possibility of realizing an 
 incomparably perfect art-work, at the same time found 
 himself associated, in a circle of daily duties from 
 which there was no escape, with a class of art which, 
 in its ordinary mechanical execution, showed him the 
 precise contrary of the ideal with which he was him- 
 self filled. All my efforts to work toward a reform in 
 the operatic institution itself, — my propositions to 
 give this institution, by assuming in it a decided 
 course, an impulse toward the fulfilment of my ideal 
 wishes, through the adoption of that degree of excel- 
 lence that was now rare as the future standard of all 
 performances, — all these endeavors were of no avail. 
 At last I was compelled to see distinctly what was 
 really designed in the culture of the modern theatre, 
 and especially of the opera ; and this unendurable re- 
 cognition of its true purpose so filled me with detesta- 
 tion and despair, that, giving up every effort at re- 
 form, I withdrew entirely from my connection with 
 the unworthy institution. 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 145 
 
 I had time to meditate upon this position of the 
 stage toward the public, and to take into account 
 those social relations which would determine the the- 
 atre that I had in mind, as surely as this latter pro- 
 ceeded from our modern social status. And as I had 
 found a certain, real ground for the character of my 
 dramatic and musical ideal in what artists of genius 
 rarely and in isolated cases accomplished, so history 
 furnished me with a typical model for the ideal relation 
 I had conceived between the stage and the public. 
 I found this in the theatre of ancient Athens ; — there, 
 where the theatre only opened its doors on special and 
 hallowed festivals ; where there was united with the 
 enjoyment of art a religious celebration, in which the 
 most distinguished men of the state took part as poets 
 and actors, appearing, like priests, before the assem- 
 bled populace of the city and country, which was so 
 imbued with high anticipations of the dignity of the 
 work to be performed, that an .iEschylus and a 
 Sophocles could bring the most sublime of all poetic 
 creations before the people, certain of their full under- 
 standing of it. 
 
 The reasons for the decline of this incomparable 
 work of art, into which I sorrowfully saw myself 
 forced to inquire, appeared to me at once. The social 
 causes of this decline first attracted my attention, and 
 I thought that I saw in these at the same time the 
 reasons of the decline of the ancient state itself. Con- 
 sequently I sought to fix upon the social basis of such 
 a political arrangement of the human race, as, while 
 it improved upon the errors of the ancient state, could 
 bring about a state of affairs in which the relation of 
 art to public concerns, as it once subsisted in Athens, 
 could be restored in a fashion if possible even nobler 
 — at all events more lasting. 
 
 I published my ideas bearing upon this point in a 
 paper entitled " Art and Revolution." I abandoned 
 my original wish to publish this among a series of 
 7 
 
146 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 articles in a French political journal, when I was as- 
 sured that that particular period (it was in the year 
 1848) was not suitable for gaining the attention of the 
 Parisians for such a subject. At present I think it 
 would be an exceedingly great digression, if I should 
 acquaint you more in detail with the contents of that 
 publication ; and you will certainly thank me for sparing 
 you any attempt to do so. It is enough that I should 
 point out to you, in what I have said above, the ap- 
 parently divergent thoughts in which I was absorbed, 
 to gain for my artistic ideal some ground in a reality, 
 
 -.even if it should be, so to speak, merely an ideal one. 
 
 ;'' But the investigation into the character of the 
 lamentable destruction of the great Greek art-work at- 
 tracted me still more strongly. Here I was first struck 
 by the remarkable phenomenon of the division and 
 separation of those individual branches of art which 
 had formerly been united in the perfect and complete 
 drama. The special art-ingredients detached themselves 
 from that omnipotent union in which they, working for 
 a single object, had rendered it possible to mak^ intelli- 
 gible to the whole people the noblest and deepest pur- 
 poses of humanity, — detached themselves from it to 
 become no longer the inspired teachers of the public, 
 but the consoling pastime of special art-lovers ; so 
 that while gladiatorial combats and battles of wild 
 beasts were exhibited to the populace, the educated 
 man occupied himself in solitude with literature and 
 painting. It was important for me, above all things, 
 that I thought myself forced to recognize that the 
 special, separately developed branches of art, how- 
 ever much their capabilities of expression might finally 
 be brought out and heightened by great geniuses, 
 nevertheless, without falling into unnaturalness and 
 decided error, could never aim to supply in any way 
 the place of that all-powerful work of art which was 
 only possible through a union of their forces. 
 
 Having at hand the opinions of the greatest critics, 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 147 
 
 — the investigations, for instance, of a Lessing into the 
 limits of painting and poetry, — I believed that I might 
 form the theory that every individual branch of art 
 follows out a development of its powers that finally 
 leads it to their limits ; and that it cannot pass these 
 limits without the danger of losing itself in the unin- 
 telligible and absolutely fantastic — even in the absurd. 
 I thought that I saw in this point the necessity for it 
 to join companionship at this stage with another class 
 of art, related to it, and the only one capable of go- 
 ing on from this position. And as I was of necessity 
 keenly interested (having regard to my own ideal) in 
 following out this tendency in each special kind of art, 
 I finally believed that I could recognize it most dis- 
 tinctly in the relation of poetry to music, — especially 
 considering the remarkable importance modern music 
 has assumed. And as I thus endeavored to imagine that 
 work of art in which all branches of art could unite in 
 their highest perfection, I came as a matter of course to 
 the conscious contemplation of that ideal which had 
 unconscioushi gradually formed within me, and had 
 hovered before the seeking artist. As I could not, 
 especially when I remembered the entirely erroneous 
 position of the theatre toward the public, which I 
 had recognized, — as I could not bring about the pos- 
 sibility of a complete appearance of this ideal art-work 
 in the present, I called my ideal the " Art-work of 
 the Future " i^Kunstwerk der Ztikunft). Under this 
 title I published a more detailed essay, in which I de- 
 scribed more closely the ideas just indicated ; and 
 it is to this title that we owe, by the bye, the invention 
 of a spectre of a " Music of the Future," which plays- 
 its pranks in such a popular fashion even in French 
 art publications, and in relation to which you will now 
 easily guess from what misunderstanding it arose, and 
 with what object it was invented. 
 
 I spare you also, my honored friend, the repetition 
 of the details of this essay. I myself attach no other 
 
148 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 value to it than what it may have for those to whom it 
 does not appear uninteresting, to know how and through 
 what methods of expression a creative artist took pains 
 to find for himself solutions to problems that gener- 
 ally only occupy the professional critic, but that can 
 hardly press upon him in the same peculiar way in 
 which they present themselves to the other. 
 
 And I will give you also only a general sketch of a 
 third and more elaborate work, which I published soon 
 after the one last mentioned, under the title " Opera 
 and Drama"; for I cannot but believe that the ex- 
 tremely detailed presentation of my chief theories to 
 be found therein, has more interest for myself than it 
 either has now or will have in the future for others. 
 They were personal reflections which I published, and 
 sometimes brought forward in a somewhat polemic 
 manner, urged on by an unusually ardent interest in 
 the subject of them. This subject was a closer inves- 
 tigation of the relations of poetry and music to one 
 another, — and this time with special regard to dra- 
 matic art. 
 
 Here I thought it necessary, first of all, to combat 
 the erroneous opinion of those who saw in the opera 
 as it existed, if not a perfected ideal, at least the im- 
 mediate preparation for one. In Italy, and still more 
 in France and Germany, this problem had occupied the 
 leading minds in literature. The conflict between the 
 adherents of Gluck and those of Piccini, in Paris, was 
 nothing but a controversy (from its vary nature inde- 
 cisive) on the question whether the ideal of the drama 
 was attainable through the opera. Those who believed 
 they could sustain successfully the affirmative side of 
 this question were, in spite of their apparent victories, 
 held in serious check by their opponents as soon as 
 these latter treated music as predominating in opera 
 to such an extent that the result was to be attributed 
 to it, and not to poetry. Voltaire, who in the ab- 
 stract inclined to the affirmative opinion, saw him- 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 149 
 
 self forced, as far as the concrete state of the case was 
 concerned, to the condemnatory remark " Ce qui est 
 trop sot pour itre dit — on le chant e." 
 
 In Germany, where the same problem, first raised by 
 Lessing, was discussed by Goethe and Schiller, and 
 ■.vith a decided tendency toward the anticipation of 
 favorable results from the opera — Goethe confirmed 
 involuntarily, in most striking opposition to his theo- 
 retical belief, the saying of Voltaire. He himself was 
 the author of several opera libi-etti, and, in order to 
 place himself upon the level of this class of work, he 
 thought it necessary to be as trivial as possible in con- 
 ception as well as execution — so much so that we only 
 see with regret these very shallow pieces placed among 
 the number of his poetical works. 
 
 This favorable opinion of brilliant minds, that has 
 been so often accepted, but could never be fulfilled, 
 showed me on the one hand how seemingly near 
 the possibility lay of attaining the highest results 
 through a complete union of poetry and music in the 
 drama, — but on the other hand the fundamentally 
 erroneous nature of the existing type of opera, — a 
 faultiness of which the musician could not be the first 
 to be conscious, and which might also escape the 
 knowledge of the literary poet. The poet, not him- 
 self a musician, found in the opera a securely con- 
 structed scaffolding of musical forms, which gave him 
 from the very beginning fixed laws for the conception 
 and execution of the dramatic lining that he must fur- 
 nish. He could not change anything in these forms — 
 it was only the musician who could do so. Of whatever 
 kind their contents might be, the poet, called in to aid, 
 could only cover it, without wish on his part, in such 
 a way that he saw himself compelled, in the conception 
 of the subject and in the versification, to a noticeable 
 lowering of his poetic powers, — even to the open trivi- 
 ality so castigated by Voltaire. In fact there is no need 
 
I50 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 ness — even the laughable character of the class of 
 opera libretti ; even in France the best attempts of 
 this character consist rather in the effort to conceal 
 this evil than to do away with it. The. structure of the 
 opera, therefore, remained for the poet an untouched, 
 foreign matter from which he kept himself aloof, but to 
 which he was obedient ; and for this reason real poets, 
 with rare and unfortunate exceptions, have never had 
 to do with the opera at all. 
 
 The question is now only how it could have been 
 possible for the musician to give to the opera its ideal 
 importance, if the poet, in his practical relations to it, 
 could not even fulfil the demand which we make in re- 
 gard to every sensible play ? For the musician, who, 
 constantly absorbed in the development of precisely 
 those purely musical forms, saw nothing before him 
 but a field for the practice of his specific musical talent? 
 
 I consider that I explained successfully in the first 
 part of my last-mentioned work " Opera and Drama," 
 what is contradictory and erroneous in what is here ex- 
 pected from the musician. While expressing my high- 
 est admiration of the beautiful and ennobling work 
 accomplished by great masters in this field, I was under 
 no necessity of diminishing their acknowledged rep- 
 utation in pointing out the weaknesses of their crea- 
 tions, because I could at once refer the cause of these 
 weaknesses to the erroneous nature of the school of 
 art. But what was incumbent upon me after this cer- 
 tainly discouraging representation, was to give some 
 proof that the ideal perfecting of the opera that had 
 hovered before many brilliant minds, could only be 
 conditional upon an entire change in the character of 
 the poet's part in this art-product. 
 
 In order to gain a proper conception of this part to 
 be taken by the poet — a part so important for the in- 
 fluence of the whole ; in order to conceive of it as a 
 voluntary one, and as wished for by the poet himself, 
 I considered first of all those repeated and earnestly 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 151 
 
 expressed hopes and wishes of great poets, such as I 
 have already mentioned, to see in the opera an ideal 
 branch of art. I sought to explain to myself the 
 motive of this wish, and thought I found it in that nat- 
 ural desire of the poet, which decides him, in concep- 
 tion as well as in form, to use language, the material- 
 ization of abstract ideas, in such a way as to work 
 immediately upon the feelings themselves. As this 
 tendency is a controlling one even in the invention of 
 the poetic subject, and only that life-picture of human- 
 ity is called poetic "in which all motives attributable 
 to abstract reason disappear in favor of the representa- 
 tion of motives of pure human feeling, so it is also the 
 only criterion for the/(7r;« and expression of the poetic 
 recital. The poet seeks, in his language, to make the 
 abstract, conventional meaning of words subordinate 
 to their original, sensible one ; and to secure, by 
 rhythmic order, as well as by the almost musical dress- 
 ing of words in versification, an effect for his phrase- 
 ology which shall gain possession of and influence the 
 feelings as though by enchantment. 
 
 In this course of the poet, so necessary to his 
 very nature, we see him finally come to the limits of 
 his branch of art, where it already seems to touch 
 music ; and thus the most successful work of the poet 
 must be, for us, that which should be, in its perfection, 
 entirely musical. 
 
 I considered that the mythos, or myth, must be 
 looked upon as the ideal subject for the poet ; — that 
 originally nameless poem of the people, that we find in 
 all ages treated in ever new methods by the poets of 
 periods of finished culture. For in it the conventional 
 disappears, and such forms of human relations as are 
 only explicable to the abstract reason vanish almost en- 
 tirely, — and there appears instead only the always in- 
 telligible, the purely human, but in that inimitable con- 
 crete form which gives to every genuine myth the in- 
 dividual features that are so easily recognizable. I de- 
 
152 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 voted the second part of my book to the investigations 
 connected with this subject, and carried my presenta- 
 tion of it as far as the question, which must be the 
 most perfect form for the presentation of this ideal 
 poetic matter. 
 
 In the third part I absorbed myself in the investiga- 
 tion of the technical possibilities in the matter of form, 
 here alluded to ; and I gained as the result of this re- 
 search, the belief that only the wonderfully rich develop- 
 ment (unknown to earlier centuries) to which music 
 has attained in our time, could bring about the realiza- 
 tion of these possibilities. 
 > I feel the importance of this opinion too much not 
 to regret that I cannot consider this the place in which 
 I can be permitted a more comprehensive proof of my 
 thesis. I considered that in the third part mentioned 
 above, I established such a proof, sufficiently at least 
 to convince myself; and if I undertake here to give 
 you my views of the matter in a few of its features, I 
 beg of you to take my word for it, that what may seem 
 paradoxical to you was at least ejcplained with more 
 completeness in that paper. 
 
 It is undeniable, that since the renaissance of the fine 
 arts among the Christian people of Europe, two species 
 of art have received a new development, and one far 
 more complete than they enjoyed in classical antiquity ; 
 — I refer to painting and music. The wonderful and 
 ideal importance which painting gained in the first 
 century of the Renaissance is so entirely beyond doubt, 
 and it has been so well proved what were the character- 
 istics of this art influence, that we will here refer only 
 to the novelty of this phenomenon in the general field 
 of art-history, and to the fact that it belongs entirely 
 to modern art ; and we may affirm the same in a still 
 higher and (I believe) more important degree, of mod- 
 ern music. Harmony, utterly unknown to antiquity, 
 and its endlessly rich development and employment 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 153 
 
 j in polyplionism, are the discoveries and tlie peculiar 
 work of recent centuries. 
 
 Among the Greeks we only know music as accom- 
 panying the dance. The movements of the dance 
 gave to it, as to the poems which the singer sang to a 
 dancing measure, the rules of rhythm, which so entirely 
 regulated verse and melody that the Greek music 
 (with which the poetry was almost always understood 
 as included) can only be looked upon as the dance ex- 
 pressing itself in tones and words. It was these dancing 
 tunes, maintained among the people and originally be 
 longing to the worship of the heathen gods, which 
 (as they originally constituted the chiefpartof all antique 
 music) were also used by the earliest Christian congrega- 
 tions in the celebration of their gradually developing 
 worship. But this serious celebration, which entirely 
 excluded the dance as worldly and godless, of course 
 abandoned also the chief part of the ancient melody, 
 the very lively and varied rhythm ; and through this 
 means the melody took on the entirely unaccented 
 character of the choral that is still used in our churches 
 to-day. 
 
 But it is plain that with the withdrawal of the rhyth- 
 mic movement of this melody, it was robbed of the 
 motive of expression which was peculiar to it ; and 
 even to-day, we should have an opportunity to con- 
 vince ourselves of the wonderfully limited expression 
 of ancient melody after this dress of rhythm was re- 
 moved, — if we could only imagine how it would be 
 without the harmony that has been made its basis. 
 But to increase the expressive power of melody in ac- 
 cordance with its inmost meaning, the Christian spirit 
 discovered many-voiced harmony on the basis of the 
 four-voiced accord, which, by its characteristic changes, 
 from this time gave a motive to the expression of 
 the melody, such as had been before decided by the 
 rhythm. We see to what wonderfully fervent expres- 
 sion, hitherto unknown, the melodic phrase attained 
 7* 
 
154 
 
 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 through this means, — we see it with ever new con- 
 viction, from the perfectly incomparable masterpieces 
 of Italian church music. The different voices, origi- 
 nally only intended to bring the harmonic chord form- 
 ing the basis to the ear at the s.ame time with the 
 note of the melody, finally themselves received a free, 
 expressive, and progressive development, so that with 
 the help of the so-called art of counterpoint each one 
 of these voices, while subject to the melody (the canto 
 fermo), moved with independent expression. By this 
 means, in the works of the greatest masters, such a 
 church choral produced by its performance an effect so 
 wonderful, so arousing the heart to its very depths, 
 that no similar influence of any other art can be com- 
 pared with it. 
 
 The decline of this art in Italy, and the simultane- 
 ous introduction ofthedevelopmentof operatic melody 
 among the Italians, I can only term a lapse into pagan- 
 ism. When, with the decline of the church, the 
 demand for the secular employment of music began 
 to gain the upper hand among the Italians, the easiest 
 method of procedure was found to be this — to give 
 back to melody its original rhythmic feature, and 
 employ it for song just as it had once been employed 
 for the dance. The striking incongruity between 
 modern verse (which had its development in unison 
 with the Christian melody) and the dancing melody 
 thus imposed upon it, I need not here point out ; and 
 I would only call your attention to the fact that the 
 melody became entirely indifferent to the verse, and 
 that finally its varying movements were left entirely to 
 the direction of the singer. 
 
 What especially induces us, however, to speak of 
 the development of this melody as a retrograde and 
 not as a progressive movement, is, that it undeniably 
 did not understand the employment of that wonderfully 
 important invention of christian music, — harmony, and 
 the polyphonism which embodies it. Upon a basis 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 155 
 
 of harmony of such barrenness that it can suitably dis- 
 pense witii accompaniment altogether, Italian oper- 
 atic melody, so far as any fitness or connection of its 
 parts is concerned, has been content to erect such a 
 mirerable, temporary structure that the cultured musi- 
 cian of to-day stands in sorrowful amazement before 
 this petty and almost childish art-form, the narrow 
 boundaries of which must condemn even the greatest 
 genius among composers to a perfectly formal conven- 
 tionality, if ever he has any relations with it. 
 
 On the other hand, the same impulse toward the 
 secular employment of the Christian church music, 
 took on a peculiarly novel signification in Germany. 
 German masters, too, went back to the original rhyth- 
 mic melody, as it had been sustained, with the church- 
 music, uninterruptedly among the people. But 
 instead of neglecting the rich harmony of the Christian 
 church-music, these masters sought rather to elaborate 
 this harmony anew, in unison with the bright move- 
 ment of rhythmic melody, in such fashion that rhythm 
 and harmony should join in the expression of the 
 melody. In conjunction with this the independent 
 polyphonism was not only retained, but was developed 
 to such an extent that each one of the voices, by means 
 of the science of counterpoint, took an independent 
 part in the performance -of the rhythmic melody, so 
 that this latter was no longer confined to the original 
 canto fermo, but appeared in each of the accompany- 
 ing voices. How it was possible, in this way, to 
 attain even in the church choral an effect unprecedented 
 in variety, only possible to music, and of the most 
 transporting, power, — how it was possible to attain 
 this, may be readily conceived by any one who has 
 had the privilege of listening to a fine performance of 
 Bach's vocal compositions ; and I instance here espe- 
 cially a motette of Sebastian Bach's for eight voices — 
 " Sing unto the Lord a new song" — in which the 
 
156 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 lyric swing of the rhythmic melody rushes, as it were, 
 through a sea of waves of harmony. 
 
 But the elaboration of this rhythmic melody, on the 
 basis of Christian choral harmony, was to gain a still 
 freer development, carried to the finest and most 
 varied points of expression, by means of instrumental 
 music. Without considering at this moment the ex- 
 treme importance of the orchestra, I take the liberty 
 of first directing your attention, in this connection, only 
 to the amplification of the original dancing air in point 
 of form. By means of the formation of quartettes of 
 stringed instruments, the polyphonic method was ena- 
 bled to gain the independent control of the different 
 parts of the orchestra also, as it had done of the vocal 
 parts in church music ; and thus freed the orchestra 
 from the subordinate place in which it had hitherto 
 been employed (as it is to-day in the Italian opera), 
 only for the purpose of rhythmic and harmonic accom- 
 paniment. It is extremely interesting, and the only 
 thing fairly explanatory of the nature of all musical 
 form, to observe how all the efforts of German masters 
 were directed toward giving to the simple dance-air, 
 performed independently by instruments, a gradually 
 richer and broader development. This air consisted 
 originally only of a short movement, necessarily of 
 four bars, which were doubled or quadrupled ; it 
 seems to have been the fundamental plan of our mas- 
 ters to give to this a greater amplification, and thus to 
 attain to a broader form in which harmony should also 
 be more richly developed. 
 
 The peculiar form of the fugue, applied to the 
 dance-melody, gave an opportunity also for extend- 
 ing its duration, by making it possible to present this 
 melody in all the parts in turn, sometimes abbrevi- 
 ated, sometimes in paraphrase, exhibited in various 
 lights by harmonic modulation, and kept in interest- 
 ing movement by contrapuntal secondary themes. 
 
 A second step in this process consisted in the com- 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 157 
 
 bination of several dance-airs, in arranging them so as 
 to alternate according to the character of their expres- 
 sion, and in establishing a connection between them 
 by modulations, in which the science of counterpoint 
 proved especially useful. 
 
 Upon this simple basis was gradually developed 
 that remarkable art-product, the symphony. Haydn 
 was the brilliant master who first developed this form 
 in its broader sense ; and gave to it a deep and ex- 
 pressive meaning, by inexhaustible variety in his 
 motifs, and in their connection and elaboration. 
 While the Italian operatic air had kept to its scanty 
 and conventional structure, as far as form was con- 
 cerned, it had nevertheless attained, in the mouths of 
 the most talented and appreciative singers, and borne 
 upon the breath of the noblest musical organ, to a 
 sensuous brilliancy which had hitherto been unknown 
 to the German composers, and the sweet melody of 
 which was wanting in their instrumental airs. 
 
 It was Mozart who first comprehended the nature 
 of this fascination, and while he added to the Italian 
 opera the richer developments of German instru- 
 mental composition, gave in turn to orchestral mel- 
 ody the full, melodious beauty of the Italian vocal 
 method. 
 
 Beethoven received the rich and promising heritage 
 of both these masters. He developed the symphonic 
 form to such a comprehensive breadth, and filled it 
 with contents of such unprecedentedly various and 
 ravishing melody, that we stand to-day before the 
 symphony of Beethoven as before the stone that 
 marks the boundary of an entirely new period in the 
 general history of art ; for in it there came into the 
 world a phenomenon, nothing even approaching 
 which is to be found in the art of any age or any 
 nation. 
 
 For in this symphony there is spoken by musical 
 instruments a language of which no one in any pre- 
 
158 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 ceding age had any knowledge, inasmuch as the pure 
 musical expression in it enchains the hearer with a 
 lasting effect hitherto unknown, in the most incon- 
 ceivably varied shades of tone, and moves his in- 
 most nature with a strength unattainable by any other 
 art ; revealing to him in its variety so free and auda- 
 cious a regularity, that it must seem to us more pow- 
 erful than all logical sequence, yet without in the least 
 containing in itself the laws of logic. Indeed, that 
 purely logical mental process which followed the guid- 
 ance of cause and effect, finds nothing here to cling 
 to. The symphony must needs appear to us a revela- 
 tion from another world ; and in very truth it does 
 discover to us a connection between the phenomena 
 of existence, which differs entirely from the ordinary 
 logical nexus, and in regard to which one thing is un- 
 deniable — that it forces itself upon us in the most 
 overwhelmingly convincing manner, and takes pos- 
 session of our feelings with such positiveness that the 
 reasoning faculty is entirely confused and disarmed by 
 it. 
 
 The metaphysical necessity for the discovery of this 
 entirely new power of language precisely in our own 
 age, seems to me to lie in the increasingly conven- 
 tional development of modern tongues. If we look 
 more closely at the development of these languages, 
 we shall find in the so-called roots of words an ori- 
 gin which shows us distinctly how in its first begin- 
 ning the formation of the idea from the thing, was 
 almost entirely coincident with the subjective concep- 
 tion with regard to the latter ; and the assumption 
 that the first language of mankind must have had a 
 great resemblance to singing, need not perhaps ap- 
 pear ridiculous. 
 
 Human speech certainly developed from a purely 
 sensuous, subjectively-felt signification of words, into 
 a more abstract sense, in such a way that at length 
 these words had only a conventional meaning left, 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 159 
 
 which deprived the feelings of all part in the under- 
 standing of them, and made their very connection and 
 construction entirely dependent on certain rules that 
 could be learned. Conventionality developed in lan- 
 guage, in necessary accord with the moral develop- 
 ment of the race ; a conventionality whose laws were 
 no longer comprehensible to the purely natural feel- 
 ings, but were incorporated in rules of education 
 intelligible only to the reflective povvers. And since 
 the modern European languages, further divided into 
 different classes, began to follow their purely conven- 
 tional development with an increasingly obvious ten- 
 dency, music has developed, on the other hand, into 
 a hitherto unknown capability of expression. 
 
 It seems as though purely human feeling, grown 
 stronger by its very repression on the side of conven- 
 tional civilization, had sought out a means of bringing 
 into use some laws of language peculiar to itself, by 
 means of which it could express itself intelligibly, freed 
 from the trammels of logical rules of thought. The 
 extraordinary popularity of music in our age, the ever- | 
 increasing participation (extending through all classes 
 of society) in the production of music of the deepest 
 character, the growing desire to make of musical 
 culture a necessary part of every education, — all these 
 things which are certainly obvious and undeniable, 
 distinctly prove the justice of the assumption that a 
 deeply-rooted and earnest need of humanity finds ex- 
 pression in modern musical development ; and that 
 music, unintelligible as its language is when tried by 
 the laws of logic, must bear within it a more convinc- 
 ing means of making itself understood, than even those 
 laws contain. 
 
 In the light of this unavoidable acknowledgment, 
 there remain but two ways of development open to 
 poetry. Either it must entirely pass over into the field 
 of pure abstraction — of combinations of meanings, and 
 the representation of things by the explanation of the 
 
l6o THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 logical laws of thought ; — and this is what, in its guise 
 diS philosophy, it already does. Or it must become in- 
 timately bound up with music, and with such music as 
 that whose endless power is revealed to us by the sym- 
 phony of Beethoven. 
 
 Poetry will easily find its way to this, and will recog- 
 nize its strongest, inmost longing in its final culmina- 
 tion in music, so soon as it appreciates a want in it, 
 which only poetry in its turn can supply. To explain 
 this want, let us first establish that ineradicable quality 
 of the human perceptive process, which impelled man 
 to the discovery of the laws of causality, and because of 
 which he involuntarily asks himself, in the presence of 
 every impressive phenomenon — " Why is this? " 
 
 The hearing of a symphonic musical composition 
 does not, it is true, entirely silence this question ; but 
 rather, since it cannot answer it, it produces a confu- 
 sion in the capability of logical presentation, which 
 may not only disturb it, but can even be the cause of 
 an entirely erroneous judgment. To answer this dis- 
 turbing yet unavoidable question in such a way as to 
 elude it, in a certain sense, by appeasing it at the be- 
 ginning — this is something that can only be the work 
 of the pod. But only that poet can succeed in it, who 
 fully appreciates the tendency of music, and its inex- 
 haustible power of expression, and therefore so com- 
 poses his poem that it can penetrate into the finest 
 fibres of musical texture, and completely dissolve the 
 spoken idea in feeling. * Obviously, therefore, no poetic 
 form is fitted for his use but that in which the poet no 
 longer describes, but brings his subject into actual rep- 
 resentation, that is convincing to the senses ; — and this 
 form is nothing but— the drama. 
 
 The drama, at the moment of its realistic, scenic 
 presentation, awakens in the spectator real participa- 
 tion in the action presented to him ; and this is so 
 faithfully imitated from real life (or at least from the 
 possibiUties of it), that the sympathetic human feeling 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. i6i 
 
 passes through such participation into a state of ecstasy 
 which forgets that momentous question "Why?" 
 and willingly yields itself up to the guidance of those 
 new laws through which music makes itself so strangely 
 intelligible, and at the same time — in the deepest sense 
 — gives the only correct answer to that very " Why ? " 
 In the third division of the work I have mentioned, 
 I endeavored finally to present the technical laws in 
 accordance with which this intimate mingling of music 
 with poetry in the drama is to be accomplished. You 
 will certainly not request of me any attempt to repro- 
 duce that presentation here, for I must already have 
 tired you — not less than myself — with the principles 
 that preceded it ; and I perceive from my own fatigue 
 that I am quite involuntarily approaching that condi- 
 tion which enthralled me when I wrote those theoretical 
 essays years ago, and which oppressed my brain so 
 strangely and morbidly that I have already called it an 
 abnormal state — one which I have a horror of falling 
 into again. I call that condition an abnormal one, be- 
 cause I felt myself compelled to treat what had be- 
 come certain and indubitable to me in my own artistic 
 observation and production, as a theoretical problem, 
 in order to make it entirely clear to my reflective con- 
 sciousness. And to treat it thus, I required abstract 
 meditation ; while nothing can be more foreign or more 
 painful to the artistic nature than such a mental pro- 
 cess, utterly opposed as it is to his customary method. 
 The artist undertakes it, therefore, not with the cool 
 calmness that belongs to the professional reasoner ; but 
 a passionate impatience urges him, that prevents him 
 from giving the necessary time to the careful manage- 
 ment of his style ; he seeks to give in its entirety, in 
 every sentence, that view of his own which always in- 
 cludes the whole figure of his subject ; doubt as to his 
 ability to do this, urges him to constant repetition of 
 the endeavor ; and this finally fills him with a vehe- 
 mence and excitement that should be quite foreign to 
 
1 62 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 the philosopher. He perceives all these evils and mis- 
 takes, too ; and, disturbed anew by his consciousness 
 of them, he hurriedly closes his work with a sigh — only 
 to be understood by those who share with him the 
 same artistic point of view. 
 
 My condition, then, resembled a kind of spasm 
 (Krampf) ; in it I sought to express theoretically 
 that which the unfavorable relations I have already 
 described to you as existing between my own artistic 
 tendencies and the tendencies of our public art exhib- 
 itions (especially the operatic theatre), seemed to pre- 
 vent me from expressing in an infallibly convincing way 
 through direct artistic production. It was urgently 
 necessary for me to return from this wretched state to 
 the normal use of my artistic abilities. I planned and 
 carried out a dramatic scheme of such considerable di- 
 mensions, that, in merely following the demands of my 
 subject, I purposely removed myself in this work 
 from every possibility of incorporating it with our 
 operatic repertoire as it exists at present. Only under 
 the most unusual circumstances could this musical 
 drama, embracing, as it did, an entirely completed 
 trilogy, be brought to a public performance. 
 
 The ideal possibility thus placed before me, and in 
 consideration of which I kept myself entirely removed 
 from the modern opera, flattered my fancy, and raised 
 the tone of my spirits to such a height that — dispelling 
 all theoretic caprices by an artistic production hence- 
 forth uninterrupted, — I could bring myself back to my 
 normal and natural condition. The work of which I 
 speak, and which I have already in great part carried 
 out in actual musical composition, is called " the Ring 
 of the Nibelungen." If the present endeavor to lay be- 
 fore you others of my operatic poems in a prose trans- 
 lation, does not discourage you, you might perhaps 
 find me ready to have a similar course pursued with re- 
 gard to this trilogy also. 
 
 While I, entirely resigned to the loss of all further 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 163 
 
 artistic association with the public, thus refreshed my- 
 self by the execution of new art-schemes, after the 
 pains of my wearisome excursion into the domain of 
 speculative theory ; — and while no inducement, — not 
 even the ludicrous misconceptions which were gener- 
 ally applied to my theoretical writings, — could have 
 persuaded me to return to that field, — I experienced, 
 on the other hand, a change in my relations to the 
 public, on which I had not counted in the least. 
 
 My operas, — one of which (Lohengrin) I had not 
 yet produced, while the remainder had only been per- 
 formed at that theatre with which I was personally 
 engaged, — spread with growing success through a 
 constantly increasing number of the German theatres, 
 and finally to nearly all ; and attained in them a last- 
 ing, undeniable popularity. With this phenomenon, 
 which in truth surprised me greatly, I renewed such 
 observations as I had often made in my earlier prac- 
 tical career ; — observations which, if the operatic 
 stage in one of its aspects repelled me, constantly 
 attracted me to it in another, by showing me excep- 
 tions, and revealing to me, through occasional works 
 of unusual merit and their influences, such possibilities 
 as led me, as I mentioned to you above, to lay out 
 various ideal schemes. 
 
 I was not present at any of all these performances 
 of my operas, and could therefore only decide as to 
 their nature from the reports of intelligent friends, or 
 from the peculiar effect of the works among the pub- 
 lic. The picture which I draw from the reports of my 
 friends is not of such a kind as to give me, generally 
 speaking, a more favorable view of the spirit of these 
 performances, than I should have gathered from the 
 nature of most of our operatic representations. 
 
 While thus on the whole confirmed in my pessimis- 
 tic views, I nevertheless enjoyed the advantage of the 
 pessimist — that of taking all the more pleasure in the 
 good, the even excellent things, that spring up here 
 
1 64 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 and there, because I had not thought myself justified 
 in expecting or demanding them ; while in my earlier 
 days, as an optimist, I had sternly demanded good 
 and excellent results from everything, — because they 
 were possible ; — and this had led me into intolerance 
 and ingratitude. The occasional excellent perform- 
 ances, therefore, of which I thus unexpectedly heard, 
 filled me with new zeal as well as with the most ear- 
 nest gratitude. And whereas I had hitherto only 
 seen the possibility of completely developed artistic 
 accomplishment in a general and fully recognized con- 
 dition appropriate thereto, this possibility now pre- 
 sented itself as exceptionally attainable. 
 
 But what was almost more encouraging for me, was 
 to perceive the unusually strong impression that my 
 operas, even at very questionable and often at most 
 unjust representations of them, produced upon the 
 pubUc. When I think how unfavorably and bitterly 
 the critics expressed themselves with regard to these 
 operas, especially at the beginning — those critics to 
 whom my previously published works had been a 
 horror, and who persisted in taking for granted that 
 my operas, though written at an earlier period, were 
 constructed purposely according to those theories, — 
 when I think of this, I can only see in the expressed 
 pleasure taken by the public in works of precisely my 
 own tendency, a very important and encouraging in- 
 dication. 
 
 Such approval, uninfluenced by criticism on the 
 part of the public at large, was easily comprehensible 
 when the critics said to them, as once happened in 
 Germany, " Turn away from the seductive, siren songs 
 of Rossini; close your ears to his frivolous, melodious 
 trifling ! " — and yet the people continued to take 
 delight in hearing these airs. But here was a case 
 in which the critics persistently warned the public not 
 to spend their money for things which could give 
 them no pleasure ; — for that what they sought in an 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 165 
 
 opera — melodies, melodies^-did not exist at all in 
 my operas, but that there was nothing in them but 
 the most tedious recitative and the most unintelligible 
 musical hodge-podge ; in short, " music of the 
 future ! " 
 
 Imagine, then, what an impression it must have 
 made upon me, to receive not only the most irrefuta- 
 ble evidence of the really popular success of my 
 operas among the whole German people, but personal 
 information of a complete reversal, of the previous 
 judgment, and of the opinions of such persons as until 
 that time had only found pleasure in the most sensual 
 parts of the opera and ballet, and had repelled with 
 contempt and disgust all persuasion to turn their 
 attention to a more serious direction in dramatic- 
 musical art. Such things frequently happened ; and 
 I take the liberty of briefly explaining to you here, 
 what encouraging and thoroughly consolatory conclu- 
 sions I thought myself justified in forming from them. 
 
 It was plain that the greater or less capability of my 
 own talent had nothing to do with the question here, 
 since even those critics most hostile to me did not 
 pronounce against t/tts, but against the direction that 
 I was following ; and they sought to .explain my final 
 success by saying that my talent was better than my 
 tendencies. I had, therefore, unaffected by the per- 
 haps personally flattering recognition of my abilities, 
 only to take pleasure in the fact that I had proceeded 
 from a correct impulse when I had thought it possible 
 to construct, by the equal and mutual mingling of 
 poetry and music, such a work of art as must produce 
 an irresistibly forcible impression in its scenic produc- 
 tion, — and should produce it in such a way that volun- 
 tary reflection should disappear before it, passing into 
 purely human emotion. That I saw this result attained, 
 in spite of the great weak points of the performance, 
 on the entire correctness of which so much depended, 
 — this impelled me to still bolder views of the omnipo- 
 
1 66 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 tent influence of music, — opinions concerning which I 
 will, in closing, endeaVor to make myself more com- 
 pletely intelligible to you. 
 
 I can only hope to express myself clearly on this 
 difficult but most important point, if I take nothing but 
 form into our consideration. I had endeavored in my 
 theoretical works to indicate matter as well as form ; 
 but as this, in theoretical writing, could only be done in 
 a purely abstract and not by a concrete presentation of 
 it, I necessarily laid myself open here to the danger of 
 great obscurity of expression, and even to the danger 
 of being misunderstood. For this reason, as I said 
 above, I should not be willing at any price to again 
 undertake such a method of procedure, even in this 
 communication to you. Yet I acknowledge the diffi- 
 culty of speaking of a. form, without indicating its sub- 
 stance in any way. As I confessed to you in the be- 
 ginning, it was for this reason that your request that I 
 would submit to you a translation of my operatic 
 poems was the only thing which could have induced 
 me to make the attempt to give you any thorough ex- 
 planation of my theoretical process, as far as it is clear 
 to myself. Permit me, therefore, to tell you a little 
 of these poems j I hope this will make it possible for 
 me to speak afterward only of their musical form, to 
 which so much importance is to be attached in this 
 connection, and concerning which so many erroneous 
 ideas have been spread abroad. 
 
 First of all I must ask your indulgence because I 
 cannot lay these poems before you in any other than 
 a prose translation. The endless difficulties which the 
 metrical translation of " Tannhauser " (which is soon 
 to be introduced to the Parisian public in a complete 
 scenic performance) cost us in its preparation, showed 
 me that works of that kind require a time for their ex- 
 ecution, which cannot now be devoted to the transla- 
 tion of my other writings. I must, therefore, put out 
 of sight the fact that these poems might make some 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 167, 
 
 impression upon you through the influefice of their 
 poetic form, and content myself with only showing 
 you the character of the subjects, their dramatic ar- 
 rangement, and their tendencies, in order to call your 
 attention to the part which the spirit of music had in 
 their conception and execution. I trust that the trans- 
 lation will be sufficient for this ; it makes no further 
 claim than that of rendering the original text as liter- 
 ally as possible. 
 
 The first three of these poems — " The Flying 
 Dutchman," " Tannhauser," and "Lohengrin" — were 
 written by me, their music composed, and all (with 
 the exception of " Lohengrin ") performed upon the 
 stage before the composition of my theoretical writ- 
 ings. I might therefore show you in them (if it were 
 entirely possible from the nature of the subject), the 
 course of development of my artistic production up to 
 that point where I saw myself called upon to account 
 to myself theoretically for my method of procedure. 
 But I only mention this to call your attention to the 
 error that has been committed in believing, with re- 
 gard to these three works, that they were purposely 
 composed according to the abstract rules I had laid 
 down. Let me tell you rather that my boldest con- 
 clusions concerning the possible form of the musical 
 drama were forced upon me by the fact that I was, at 
 the very time I made them, carrying in my brain the 
 plan of my great drama of the Nibelungen, for a great 
 part of which I had even written the poetry ; and I 
 had so developed it that my theory was little else than 
 an abstract expression of the productive process that 
 had formulated itself within me. My own peculiar 
 system, if you choose to call it so, was only employed 
 to a very limited extent in those first three poems. 
 
 It was' otherwise, however, with the latest of the 
 poetic compositions which I submit to you — the 
 "Tristan and Isolde." I projected and executed this 
 after I had entirely composed the music for the 
 
1 68 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 greater part of my Nibelungen drama. The most 
 urgent inducement to thus break in upon that impor- 
 tant work, was the wish to produce a composition that 
 should be Hghter and easier to present, in its scenic 
 necessities and in its less ambitious extent ; a wish to 
 the fulfilment of which I was urged partly by the need 
 of once more hearing something of my own composing ; 
 while, on the other hand, the encouraging and con- 
 solatory experience, which, as I mentioned to you, I 
 had had in the production of my earlier works in Ger- 
 many, showed me that my wish was not unattainable. 
 
 I am willing that the severest demands, based upon 
 my theoretical opinions, should be made upon this 
 work : not because I had formed it according to my 
 system, for I had forgotten all theory in its composi- 
 tion ; but because, in this case, I at length moved with 
 complete freedom and entire disregard of all theoretic 
 scruples, in such a way that I myself perceived, at the 
 performance, that I had passed far beyond my system. 
 Believe me, there is no greater delight than the com- 
 pletely ««critical frame of mind of the artist while 
 creating — such as I felt it in the execution of my 
 " Tristan." It was rendered possible to me, perhaps, 
 from the fact that a temporary season of reflection had 
 strengthened me, something in the same fashion in 
 which my teacher once believed he had strengthened 
 me by making me learn the most difficult points of 
 thorough-bass, — not for the writing of fugues, but for 
 the sake of that which can only be gained for one by 
 severe discipline — self-reliance, certainty I 
 
 Let me briefly allude to an opera which preceded 
 " The Flying Dutchman " — to " Rienzi," a work full 
 of youthful ardor, which secured for me my first suc- 
 cess in Germany ; and this not only at the theatre 
 where I first produced it, in Dresden, but constantly, 
 since then, in many other theatres, and given with my 
 other compositions. I lay no special stress to-day 
 upon this work, which had my early impressions of 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. jQg 
 
 the heroic operas of Spontini (eminently calculated to 
 arouse the desire of imitation), and the brilliant class 
 of great operas by Auber, Meyerbeer and Halevy 
 (having their origin in Paris), to thank for its concep- 
 tion and form, — I lay no special stress upon it, I say, 
 at this time and in speaking of it to you, because no 
 essential feature of my later views of art was included 
 in it, and because there is no call here to present my- 
 self to you as a successful operatic composer, but 
 rather to give you an explanation concerning a prob- 
 lematic tendency of my ideas. 
 
 " Rienzi " was completed during my first residence 
 in Paris ; I had the brilliant Grand Opera in view ; 
 and I was foolish enough to flatter myself that I 
 should see my work produced there. If this youthful 
 wish should yet be fulfilled, you would have to think 
 with me that it was an extraordinary fate that permit- 
 ted so long a time and such utterly different ex- 
 periences to intervene between the desire and its ful- 
 filment. 
 
 This five-act opera, arranged upon the largest scale,^ 
 was immediately followed by " The Flying Dutch- 
 man," which I originally intended to have performed 
 in ofie act only. You see that the splendors of my 
 Parisian ideal had paled for me, and that I began to 
 draw the rules for the form of my conception from 
 another source than from the broad sea of current 
 publicity. The nature of my mood has been explained 
 to you ; it is clearly expressed in my poem. I do 
 not know what poetic value may be attributed to it ; 
 but I know that even in writing the poetic libretto I 
 felt differently than during the composition of my 
 libretto to " Rienzi," where I had nothing in mind but 
 an operatic text which should enable me to fill as 
 richly as possible all the traditional and customary 
 forms peculiar to the Grand Opera, — introductions, 
 finales, choruses, airs, duets, trios, etc. 
 
 In this and all succeeding plans I turned, for the 
 8 
 
170 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 selection of my material, once for all from the domain 
 of history to that of legend. I will refrain here from 
 describing to you the mental process which directed 
 me to this decision, and will instead only call attention 
 to this point : — the influence which this choice has ex- 
 ercised on the structure of poetic and especially of 
 musical form. 
 
 All the details necessary for the description and 
 presentation of the conventionally historic, which a 
 fixed and limited historical epoch demands in order 
 to make the action clearly intelligible, — and which are 
 therefore carried out so circumstantially by the histori- 
 cal novelists and dramatists of to-day, — could be here 
 omitted. And by this means the poetry and es- 
 pecially the music were freed from the necessity of a 
 method of treatment entirely foreign to them, and 
 particularly impossible as far as music was concerned. 
 The legend, in whatever nation or age it may be 
 placed, has the advantage that it comprehends only 
 the purely human portion of this age and nation, and 
 presents this portion in a form peculiar to it, thor- 
 oughly concentrated, and therefore easily intelligible. 
 A ballad, a refrain in the fashion of the people, is suf- 
 ficient to show us this character with the greatest dis- 
 tinctness. This mythical coloring, in which purely 
 human action is presented to us, has also the special 
 merit of greatly facilitating the task which I attributed 
 above to the poet — that of satisfactorily setting at rest 
 that question as to the " Why ? " 
 
 The spirit is carried by the legendary coloring, just 
 as by the characteristic scene, into that dreamy condi- 
 tion in which it soon attains to complete clearness of 
 vision, in which it sees a new connection between the 
 phenomena of the world, — and such a one as it could 
 not see with the ordinary eyes of the waking state ; 
 and it was for this reason that in that state it was con- 
 tinually asking '^Why?" as though to overcome its 
 fear of the mysteries of that world which now becomes 
 
THE MUSIC OF TffE FUTURE. 171 
 
 SO clear and comprehensible. You will easily under- 
 stand how music may carry to its fullest completeness 
 this sight-clearing enchantment. 
 
 This legendary character gives a great advantage to 
 the poetic arrangement of the subject for the reason 
 already mentioned, that, while the simple process of 
 the action — easily comprehensible as far as its outward 
 relations are concerned, — renders unnecessary any 
 pains-taking for the purpose of explanation of the 
 course of the story, — the greatest possible portion of 
 the poem can be devoted to the portrayal of the inner 
 motives of the action ; — those inmost motives of the 
 soul which, indeed, the action points out to us as nec- 
 essary, through the fact that we ourselves feel in our 
 hearts a sympathy with them. 
 
 You will readily perceive, in looking over the poems 
 submitted to you, that I only gradually became con- 
 scious of the advantage here indicated, and only grad- 
 ually learned to make use of it. Even their outward 
 volume, increasing with every poem, shows you this. 
 You will soon observe that the hesitation I manifested 
 at first in giving a broader development to my poetry, 
 resulted especially from the fact that I then had too 
 much in view the traditional form of operatic music, 
 which had hitherto made any poem impossible that 
 did not permit the frequent repetition of words. In 
 the "Flying Dutchman" I first really turned my at- 
 tention to keeping the action to its simplest features, 
 to leaving out all useless details such as the intrigues 
 of everyday life ; and, on the other hand to bringing 
 out those features more broadly, which, seeming to 
 me coincident with the peculiarities of the motives in- 
 volved, placed the characteristic coloring of the legen- 
 dary subject in the right light, in such a way that this 
 coloring itself became action. 
 
 You will perhaps find the action of ' 'TannhSuser " 
 far more strongly developed from inner motives. In 
 this the decisive catastrophe proceeds, without being 
 
172 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 in the least forced, from a poetical contest, in which no 
 other influence than that of the most hidden mental 
 mood gives the impulse to the decisive crisis, and in 
 such a way that even the form of this crisis belongs to 
 the purely lyric element. 
 
 The whole interest of "Lohengrin" rests upon a 
 process in the heart of Elsa, that touches all the se- 
 crets of her soul ; the formation of a strangely blissful 
 enchantment, that fills all about her with convincing 
 reality, depends entirely upon her refraining from ask- 
 ing — whence he came? And finally this question 
 forces itself like a cry from the deepest need of her 
 woman's heart, and — the enchantment is gone. You 
 notice how peculiarly this fatal " whence ?" coincides 
 with the theoretical " why ? " to which I have before 
 alluded ? 
 
 I too, as I have told you, felt myself forced to this 
 " whence ? " and " why? " — and in view of these the 
 enchantments of my art long disappeared for me. Yet 
 my period of penance taught me to overcome the 
 questions. Every doubt had passed away, when I 
 finally gave myself up to my " Tristan." I now ab- 
 sorbed myself with complete confidence in the depths 
 of the inmost processes of the soul, and fearlessly drew 
 from this inmost centre of the world their outward 
 forms. A glance at the extent of this poem will show 
 you at once that I now permitted myself to employ, 
 with regard to inner motives, the same detailed accur- 
 acy which must be employed by the poet in a historical 
 subject for the explanation of the outward course of 
 events, and which he uses to the disadvantage of the 
 clear explanation of those very motives with which 
 alone I occupied myself In this case life and death, — 
 the very significance and existence of the outer world 
 — depend upon th? inner emotions of the soul alone. 
 The whole effective action is produced by the fact that 
 the inmost soul demands it ; and it comes before the 
 observer Just" as it has been inwardly developed. ,^ 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 173 
 
 Perhaps you will find, in the execution of this poem, 
 much that has been carried too far into the smallest 
 detail, and, though you may acknowledge that this 
 course is permissible to the poet, you may still not un- 
 derstand how he could venture to submit all these 
 delicate details to the musician to be carried out by 
 him. The same timfdity would then seize upon you, 
 that decided me, in the conception of the " Flying 
 Dutchman," to give only very general outlines, which 
 . should contribute to an entirely musical execution of 
 nay plan. But let me here make one reply to your 
 feeling upon this subject ; — ^that, though the versifica- 
 tion was there intended (by constant repetitions 
 of phrases and words, and acting as a basis for the 
 operatic melody), to be extended to the neces^ry 
 length for this latter, — there is, on the contrary, no 
 repetition of words in the musical performance of 
 ''Tristan," but, on the contrary, the whole extent of 
 the melody is indicated beforehand in the arrangement 
 of the words and verses, — that is, the whole melody is 
 composed poetically. 
 
 If my method di'ould succeed in every case, you 
 might bear me witness on this ground alone that a far 
 more intimate commingling of poetry and music can 
 be brought about through tibis means than through that 
 formerly employed ; and if I may venture to hope at 
 the same time that you will attribute more value to the 
 poetic execution itself of the " Tristan," than was pos- 
 sible in the case of my earlier works, you would decide 
 from this circumstance that a musi«^ form, alrea<ly 
 thoroughly defined in the poem, was for the advantage 
 of the poetic part of the work ^t least. But if, accord- 
 ing to this, the complete preparation for musical form 
 could give the poem itself an especial value, and do it 
 according to the poet's own wishes, the only question 
 remaining would be whether the musical form of the 
 melody itself might not lose by giving up its freedom 
 for the sake of movement and development ? 
 
174 ' ^^^ MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 On this point let the musician answer you, and ex- 
 press to you , with the most earnest assurance of its 
 correctness, the opinion that in following this method 
 a richness and inexhaustibleness are added to melody 
 and its form, of which, without this method, one can 
 form no idea. 
 
 I believe that I may best conclude my communica-: 
 tion by giving the theoretical proof of this opinion. I 
 will endeavor to do this ; taking into consideration 
 only the musical form^ — melody. 
 
 I find in the frequent and shrill demands of our 
 superficial musical dilettanti for " Melody, melody J " 
 a confirmation of the belief that they derive their idea 
 of melody from musical works in which, besides the 
 melbdy, complete lack of melody occurs, — which makes 
 what they think melodious appear so precious. In 
 Italy, an audience assembled at the opera, which oc- 
 cupied its evening with amusement. To this entertain- 
 ment there belonged music, sung upon .the stage, — 
 music which was listened to from time to time during 
 the pauses of the conversation ; — during the conversa- 
 tion and the constant exchange 6f visits between the 
 boxes. the music continued, fulfilling the same func- 
 tion for which music is introduced at great dinners, — 
 that is, to encourage by its noise the otherwise timid 
 chat to become louder and more lively. Such music 
 as is played foi- this purpose fills out the great bulk of 
 Italian opera ; whereas that which is really listened to 
 makes up perhaps a twelfth part of it. An Italian 
 opera must have at least one air that people like to 
 listen to ; if it is to succeed, there must be something 
 to interrupt the conversjition and be heard with inter- 
 est at least six times ; and the composer thait can draw 
 tj^e attention of the audience a full dozen times to his 
 music is celebrated as an inexhaustible musical genius. 
 And what shall we think would beeome of such an 
 Audience, if, suddenly finding itself in the presence of 
 a work which demands a like attention through its 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. x-jt, 
 
 whole duration and for all its parts, it should see itself 
 torn from all its ordinary customs at musical perform- 
 ances ? And if it could not possibly identify with its 
 beloved " melo'dy," that which in its most successful 
 presentation could only pass for an improvement of 
 that musical noise, which, in its simpler application 
 only made agreeable conversation easier, while it now 
 forces itself forward with the pretension that it really 
 must be listened to ? Such an audience would call for 
 its six or twelve melodies again, that it might gain 
 opportunity and protection, in the intervals, for its 
 conversation — which is after all the chief object of an 
 operft-evening. 
 
 In truth, what from a singular narrowness is looked 
 upon as richness, must needs appear to the more cul- 
 tured mind as very poverty. The loud demands that 
 are based upon this error may be pardoned in the 
 public at large, but not in the art-critic. Let us en- 
 deavor, then, to inform ourselves as far as possible, 
 concerning the reason of thiis mistaken view. 
 
 Let us establish first of all the fact that the one true 
 form of music is melody ; that without melody music ' 
 is inconceivable, and that music and melody are insep- 
 arable. That a piece of music has no melody, can 
 therefore only mean that the musician has not attained 
 to the real formation of an effective form, that can 
 have a decisive influence upon the feelings ; which 
 simply shows the absence of talent in the composer, — 
 his want of originality, compelling him to make up his 
 piece from hackneyed melodic phrases to which the 
 ear is utterly indifferent. But, in the mouth of the 
 uncultured frequenter of the opera, and when used 
 with regard to real music, the expression of this opin- 
 ion betrays the fact that only a fixed and narrow form 
 of melody is meant, such as (as we have already seen) 
 belongs to a very childish stage of musical art ; and 
 for this reason an exclusive liking for such a form must 
 also seem childish to us. In this case we have less to 
 
176 TBE MVSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 do with melody than with the primitive and narrow 
 form of it.^the dance form ( 'ianzforni).* 
 
 And I do not mean to have expressed myself con- 
 temptuously with regard to this first ofigin of melody. 
 Indeed, I believe that I have proved that it was the 
 basis of the completed artistic form of the Beethoven 
 symphohy^-^which certainly gives us a wonderful deal 
 to thank it for. But one thing must be considered : 
 that this simple form, which is preserved in its entirely 
 undeveloped state in the Itcilian opera, has received ad 
 elaboration in the symphony, which gives it something 
 such a relation to the original as a full-flowering plant 
 may be supposed to bear to the shoot . from wMch it 
 was raised. I fully accept the importance of the prim- 
 itive melodic form in the dance-form ; and, following 
 the rule tliat every form, however highly developedj 
 must bear its origin in some recognizable shape within 
 it if it is at all intelligible, I am prepared to find this 
 dance-melody in the symphony 9f Beethoven, — yes, 
 even to consider that symphony, as a melodious com- 
 plexity, as nothing else but the idealized dance-form 
 itself.* 
 
 But let us first consider that this form extends 
 through all the parts of the sjnnphony, and in this is 
 the very opposite of the Italian opera, in so far as in 
 that the melody stands entirely alone, and the spaces 
 between the passages of melody are filled out by an 
 employment of music which we must set down as 
 absolutely »«melodious, because in it music doeis not 
 separate itself from the character of mere noise. Even 
 among the predecessors of Beethoven we find these 
 doubtful gaps stretching even in sjrmphonies between 
 the leading melodic passages. If Haydn, it is true, 
 could generally give these intervals an interesting sig- 
 nificance, Mozart, on the other hand, who, in this re- 
 
 * The translator makes every apolo^ for the awkward phrase " dance- 
 form," but finds it the only way of avoiding a long and obscure periphrs' 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 177 
 
 spect approached far nearer to the Italian idea of me- 
 lodious forni, often — indeed almost habitually — fell 
 back upon that frivolous phrase-making that often ex- 
 hibits his symphonic passages in the aspect of the so- 
 called table music — that is, a music which, between 
 the presentation of attractive melodies, also presents an 
 attractive noise for purposes of conversation. To me 
 at least, the regularly repeated and noisily diffused 
 modulations of Mozart's symphonies appear as though 
 1 heard the noise of setting and clearing away a royal 
 banquet, set to music. The original and thoroughly 
 brilliant method of Beethoven, on the contrary, tended 
 ■ toward the complete disappearance of these interval 
 passages, and toward giving the connections between 
 the principal melodies themselves the character of 
 melody. 
 
 To explain this method more in detail, though it 
 would be unusually interesting, would occupy too 
 much space at present. Yet I cannot refrain from 
 directing your attention especially to the construction 
 of the opening passages of the Beethoven symphony; 
 Here we observe the original dancing air, dissected 
 into its smallest component parts, each one of which, 
 often consisting of only two notes, seems interesting 
 and expressive now through its rhythmic, now its 
 harmonic significance. These parts unite again in 
 ever renewed groupings, now growing greater, like a 
 stream, in logical succession, — now parting as though 
 in a whirl, — ^but alvvay sfascinating by such elastic 
 movements that the listener cannot for an instant free 
 himself from their influence, but must rather, roused 
 into keenest sympathy, give to each harmonious tone, 
 even to each rhythmic pause, its own melodious mean- 
 ing. The entirely new result of this method was 
 therefore the development of melody by the most per- 
 fect elaboration of all the motives contained in it, with 
 a great and lasting musical- work which was, in fine, 
 nothing else but one single closeily connected melody. 
 8* 
 
1^8 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 It is noticeable that this method, adopted in the do- 
 main of instrumental music, was similarly employed 
 by German masters in mingled orchestral and choral 
 music, — but has never hitherto been applied com- 
 pletely to the opera. Beethoven, in his grand mass, 
 used his choir and orchestra almost according to the 
 same method he had employed in the symphony ; and 
 this symphonic method was possible for him, because 
 a form, like the dance-melody itself, was presented to 
 him in the words of the' ecclesiastical text, — universally 
 known, and almost entirely symbolic as they were, — 
 a form which he could djssect and unite again by sep- 
 arations, repetitions, sequences, etc., much as he could' 
 the other. But it would be impossible for a thought- 
 ful musician to proceed in this way with the words of 
 a dramatic poem, because this does not contain a sym- 
 bolic signification only, but a definite logical conclu- 
 sion. This, however, was only to be understood of 
 those words which, on the other hand, were calculated 
 only for the traditional forms of the opera ; while it 
 always must remain possible to find in dramatic poetry 
 a poetic counterpiart of the symphonic form — and one 
 Vhich, in thoroughly fulfilling this form, should at the 
 ^me time comply with the deepest laws of dramatic 
 .^ructure. 
 
 i I believe that I can express myself most clearly con- 
 deming the problem here encountered — a most difficult 
 one to handle theoretically — by making use of a met- 
 aphor. 
 
 I have called the symphony the attained ideal of the 
 dance-form of melody. But in reality the Beethoven 
 symphony contains, in the part denominated " Min- 
 uetto " or " Scherzo," a genuine, primitive dancing- 
 music, to which it would be quite practicable to actu- 
 ally dance. It seems as though an instinctive neces- 
 sity had impelled the composer to really touch, once 
 in the course of his work, the very basis of it, as though 
 to feel under his feet the ground that was supporting 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 179 
 
 him. In the other passages he gets farther and farther 
 away from the possibility of one's actually dancing to 
 his melody, — or if one could, it must needs be such 
 an ideal dance as would hold the same relation to the 
 primitive one that the symphony holds to the origi- 
 nal dancing-tune. 
 
 And for this reason there is a certain hesitation on 
 the part of the composer in this direction also — a fear 
 to overstep certain limits of musical expression, and 
 especially to push too far the emotional, tragic tend- 
 ency ; because effects and anticipations would be thus 
 aroused, which awaken in the hearer that disquieting 
 question " why?" which the musician cannot answer 
 to his satisfaction. 
 
 The dance which would fully conform to his music 
 — this ideal form of dance — is in resXity dramatic action. 
 This really stands in the same relation to the primi- 
 tive dance that the symphony holds toward the primi- 
 tive dancing tune. Even the original popular dance 
 expresses an action — generally the mutual wooing of 
 a couple ; and this simple act (having to do with the 
 most purely sensuous relations), when carried out in its 
 fullest development, to the presentation of the inmost 
 motives of the soul, is nothing else than dramatic action. 
 I trust you will spare me the necessity of showing in 
 more detail that this is not sufficiently accomplished by 
 oar ballet. The ballet is the brother of the opera ; of 
 precisely equal birth, proceeding from the same erro- 
 nous basis ; and it is for this reason that we like to see 
 them going hand in hand, as though to conceal their 
 mutual defects. 
 
 No method, therefore, which rather awakens than 
 soothes the obstructive question " why ? " can ex- 
 press the meaning of the symphony ; — but only dra- 
 matic action, with its scenic accompaniments. 
 
 In regard to this opinion, which I have already 
 justified, I have only to add in reference to the melodic 
 form, what an enlivening and broadening influence a 
 
l8o THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 really appropriate poem can have upon it. The poet, 
 who fully appreciates the inexhaustible capabilities of 
 expression of symphonic melody, will find himself im- 
 pelled to draw near from his own domain, to the finest 
 and most delicate shades of this melody, which can • 
 change its expression so effectually with a single har- 
 monic variation. The former narrow form of operatic 
 melody that was held up to him as a model, will no 
 longer make him anxious to give nothing but an 
 empty, dry scheme. On the other hand, he will reveal 
 to the musicians the secret . heretofore concealed from 
 even him, that this form of melody is capable of incal- 
 culably richer development than has appeared possible 
 to him, even in the symphony ; and, himself foresee- 
 ing this development, he will make his poetic concep- 
 tion with untrainmelled freedom. 
 
 Where even the symphonist timidly grasped back- 
 ward at the primitive dance-form, and never dared, 
 even for the sake of gaining in expression, to en- 
 tirely leave the boundaries which kept him in 
 connection with this form, there the poet will say to 
 him : — " dash in boldly into the full waves of the sea of 
 music ; hand-in-hand with me, you can never lose 
 connection with that which is fully intelligible to every 
 man ; for, through me, you stand forever on the basis of 
 dramatic action ; and this action, at the moment of its 
 scenic presentation, is the most directly intelligible of 
 all poems. Extend melody fearlessly, so that it 
 may flow through your whole work like an uninter- 
 rupted stream. Do you speak that upon which I keep 
 silence ; for you alone can say it ; and I, though 
 silent, will yet say it all, — for I lead you by the hand." 
 
 And indeed the greatness of the poet may be best 
 measured by that concerning which he is silent, in or- 
 der to let the unspeakable itself speak to us silently. 
 It is only the musician who can bring this that is silent 
 into clear expression ; and the unerring form of his 
 loud-resounding silence is endless melody ! 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. i8i 
 
 The symphonist necessarily cannot construct this 
 melody without his own peculiar instrument ; and this 
 instrument is the orchestra. I do not need to tell you 
 that he will use this instrument in an utterly difiFerent 
 fashion from that of the Italian operatic composer, in 
 whose hands the orchestra was nothing else but a 
 monstrous guitar on which to accompany the air. 
 
 It will enter into the drama that I have conceived of, 
 much in the same relation that the tragic chorus of the 
 Greeks bore to the dramatic action. It was always 
 present ; before its eyes the motives of action were 
 displayed ; it sought to account for them, and to form 
 from them a judgment of the action itself But this 
 participation of the chorus was always of a reflective 
 sort and it itself remained isolated from both ac- 
 tion and motives ; the orchestra of the modern sym- 
 phonist, on the contrary, will enter into such close 
 sympathy with the motives, that while it on the one 
 hand, as incorporated harmony, makes it possible to 
 give the proper expression to the melody, — on the 
 other hand it keeps the melody itself in the necessary 
 uninterrupted fluency, and thus imparts the motive to 
 the feelings of the hearer with the most impressive 
 distinctness. If we must regard that artistic form as 
 the highest which can be comprehended entirely with- 
 out reflection, and by which the conception of the ar- 
 tist is most clearly communicated to the emotions, 
 then, if we desire to find this form in the musical 
 drama (with the provisions already pointed out), the 
 orchestra of the symphonist is the marvellous instru- 
 ment that alone can make a presentation of this form 
 possible. It is plain that the chorus, which has already 
 mounted the stage in the opera, loses entirely, as op- 
 posed to the orchestra and its importance, the signifi- 
 cation of the ancient Greek chorus ; it can now be re- 
 garded only as one of the persons concerned in the 
 action ; and wherever it is not required as such, it must 
 seem in future inappropriate and superfluous, inas- 
 
1 82 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE^ 
 
 much as its ideal participation in the action has alto- 
 gether passed to the orchestra, and is shown by the 
 latter in a way that is always obvious, but never dis- 
 turbing. 
 
 I again take to metaphor, in order to explain to 
 you, in conclusion, the characteristics of the great 
 melody that I have in mind — a melody that shall em- 
 brace the whole composition ; and here I confine my- 
 self to the impression that must be produced by it. 
 The endlessly varied detail in it must reveal itself not 
 only to the connoisseur, but to the simplest layman, 
 so soon as he has attained to the requisite mood. It 
 should produce an effect upon his spirits like that 
 which a beautiful forest produces, in a summer even- 
 ing, upon a lonely wanderer who has but just left the 
 town. The peculiarity of this impression, which I 
 leave to the experienced reader to trace out in all its 
 effects upon the soul, is — the appreciation of a silence 
 that grows more and more eloquent with every mo- 
 ment. It is enough for the objects of a work of art, 
 generally speaking, if it has produced this fundamen- 
 tal impression, and can by its means sway the listener 
 and bring him still further into a mood of higher pur- 
 pose ; unconsciously he begins to share its elevating 
 tendency. But the wanderer in the wood, when, 
 overcome by the general impression, he is fairly es- 
 tablished in the lasting mood that follows it, develops 
 his mental powers into new capabilities of percep- 
 tion, listens ever more keenly as one who hears with 
 new senses, and becomes with every moment more 
 distinctly conscious of endlessly varied voices that are 
 abroad in the forest. New and various ones con- 
 stantly join, — such as he never remembers to have 
 heard before ; and as they multiply in numbers they 
 increase in mysterious power. They grow louder and 
 louder, and so many are the voices, the separate tunes 
 he hears, that the whole strong, clear-swelling music 
 seems to him again only the great forest melody that 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 183 
 
 enchained him with awe in the beginning ; just as the 
 deep blue heaven at night had riveted his gaze, which, 
 the longer it remained absorbed in the spectacle, saw 
 more distinctly, clearly, and brightly its countless hosts 
 of stars. This melody will forever echo within him, 
 — yet he cannot hum it over to himself; and to hear it 
 again he must go again into the woods on a summer 
 evening as before. How foolish would he be if he 
 sought to catch one of these bright forest songsters, to 
 carry it home with him that it might whistle for him 
 some little part of that great forest melody ! What 
 else would he hear if he did so, but simply — a bit of 
 melody, after all ! You can easily see what an endless 
 number of technical details I have left unnoticed in the 
 presentation just given, — a hasty sketch, and yet per- 
 haps a too minute one ; you will see this especially 
 when you consider that the number of these details 
 from their very nature is positively inexhaustible in 
 any theoretic presentation of them. In order to make 
 clear my views concerning all the details of melodic 
 structure, to show how I wish them to be understood, 
 their relations to the actual operatic air, and the possi- 
 bilities of their development, as well for their periodic 
 structure as in the matter of harmony, — in order to 
 show all this, I should have to relapse at once into my 
 former fruitless endeavor. I refrain , therefore from 
 laying before the willing reader anything more than 
 the most general outlines, and indeed even in this 
 paper we are drawing near to that point where noth- 
 ing but the complete art product itself can give us a 
 conclusive solution. 
 
 You would be mistaken if you should imagine that 
 I intended in this last remark to refer to the approach- 
 ing performance of my Tannhauser. You know the 
 score of my Tristan, and though it does not occur to 
 me to desire that this shall be considered a model of 
 my ideal, you will nevertheless grant me that I have 
 made a far longer stride from the Tannhauser to the 
 
1 84 "^^^ MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 Tristan than I made from my first standpoint, that of 
 the modern opera, to the Tannhauser. And whoever 
 should consider this communication to you as nothing 
 but a preparation for the performance of Tannhauser, 
 would therefore cherish expectations which would be 
 in a great degree erroneous. 
 
 If I should have the pleasure of seeing my Tann- 
 hauser favorably received by the Paris pubUc, I am cer- 
 tain that I should have the easily recognizable connec- 
 tion of this opera with those of my predecessors (among 
 whom I especially refer you to Weber) chiefly to 
 thank for its success. But you will permit me to 
 briefly point out to you what it is that nevertheless 
 distinguishes this work in some degree from the work 
 of those who have preceded me. It is evident that 
 everything which I have here described to you as the 
 logical consequence of an ideal process, must also 
 have been always an intimate characteristic of our 
 great masters. These inferences as to the possibility 
 of an ideal work of art by no means came to me from 
 purely abstract reflection, but on the contrary, it was 
 my observations on the works of our own masters that 
 brought me to these conclusions. Although there ex- 
 isted for the great Gluck only the narrowness and stiff- 
 ness of the traditional operatic forms (which he did lit- 
 tle to materially develop, and which still stand almost 
 unimproved), yet his successors understood how to 
 elaborate these forms step by step, in such a way that 
 they already sufficed for their highest purpose, espe- 
 cially if a dramatic situation of real significance gave 
 them proper opportunity. No one is more willing 
 than I to delightedly acknowledge the greatness, 
 power, and beauty of dramatic-musical conception, 
 which we find in many works of esteemed masters, 
 and of which it seems to me unnecessary to cite nu- 
 merous examples here ; for I do not disguise from my- 
 self that I have come upon particular effects in the 
 feebler works of even insignificant composers, which 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 185 
 
 fairly astounded me, and which taught me still more 
 of that incomparable power of music of which I have 
 already spoken to you. It is a power which, by the 
 firm accuracy of its melodious expression, raises even 
 the least talented singer so high above the level of his 
 personal abilities, that he produces a dramatic effect 
 which must be impossible to even the most skilful art- 
 ist in the merely spoken drama. 
 
 But what always discouraged me, especially in this 
 connection, was that I never found all these inimitable 
 advantages of dramatic music developed in the opera 
 into a style which should embrace all parts of the work 
 alike, and yet be pure. Even in the greatest works, 
 I found by the very side of the most perfect and no- 
 blest elements much that was inexplicably foolish, 
 expressionless, conventional, and even silly. 
 
 Though we have almost universally retained the 
 awkward alternation (so fatal to any attempt at a fin- 
 ished style) of the pure recitative with the simple air, 
 and thus find the flow of the music (which is itself 
 based upon an erronepusly conceived poem) constantly 
 interrupted and checked, — yet we often find, in the 
 best scenes of our great masters, that this evil has 
 been completely overcome. In these cases some 
 rhythmic and melodious significance is given to the 
 recitative, and it joins unnoticed with the greater 
 flexibility of the actual melody. And when we have 
 fully perceived the effectiveness of this method, how 
 disagreeably we must be affected when suddenly, and 
 entirely without preparation the chord comes in, giv- 
 ing us notice that now the dry recitative is to begin 
 again. And then again, just as suddenly, the full or- 
 chestra breaks in with the customary ritournelle that 
 announces the air, — the same ritournelle that has else- 
 where been so appropriately and significantly em- 
 ployed by the same composer, in connecting passages 
 or in passing from one to another, that we found in 
 the ritournelle itself a significant beauty, which gave 
 
1 86 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 us the most interesting explanation of the meaning of 
 the situation. But what if a piece calculated only to 
 flatter the lowest taste, follows immediately upon 
 such a really artistic production ? Or if a strikingly 
 beautiful and noble musical phrase suddenly termin- 
 ates in the regulation cadence with the two customary 
 runs and the forced final note, with which the singer 
 unexpectedly abandons his position toward the person 
 to whom that phrase was addressed, in order to turn 
 directly to the claque and give it the signal for ap- 
 plause ? 
 
 It is true that these last-mentioned inconsistencies 
 do not occur in the works of our really great masters, 
 but among those composers with regard to whom we 
 are only forced to wonder how they could possibly 
 make themselves masters of such conspicuous beauties 
 of style. But what seems so extraordinary in this 
 phenomenon really consists in the fact, that after all 
 the noble and perfect results which the great masters 
 have succeeded in achieving, and by which they 
 brought the opera so nearly to the perfection of a pure 
 style, — these lapses could continue to occur, and their 
 monstrosities appear more conspicuously than ever. 
 
 The humiliating regard paid to the character of the 
 ordinary operatic audience (which is always the decis- 
 ive element in weak artistic natures), is unquestion- 
 ably the chief reason for this. I have heard from 
 Weber, even, — from even this pure, noble, and 
 thoughtful soul, — that sometimes when he was himself 
 terrified at the results of his own nobly-conceived pro- 
 cesses of composition, he would give his wife what he 
 called the " right of the gallery" {Rccht der Gallerie), 
 and would let her make objections, just as the gallery 
 would be likely to do, to certain of his conceptions ; 
 objections which should determine him, now and then, 
 not to be too severe in his style, but to make occa- 
 sional prudent concessions. 
 
 I believe, however (I think I may take this much 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 187 
 
 credit to myself), that you will find none of these 
 " concessions" — such as even my first beloved model, 
 Weber, believed himself compelled to make to the 
 operatic audience — in my " Tannhauser ; " and, in so 
 far as the structure of my work goes, this is perhaps 
 the very point that distinguishes my opera from those 
 of my predecessors. I needed no special courage to 
 achieve this ; for from my own observations of what 
 had been most successful in its effects upon the public 
 in the opera of previous periods, I had derived an 
 opinion of that public which had led me to take decid- 
 edly optimistic views. The artist who directs his 
 work not toward the abstract but toward the intuitive 
 perception, does not produce his work for the benefit 
 of the art connoisseuf, but purposely submits it to the 
 public itself. The artist only has reason to fear, in so 
 far as the public has absorbed the critical spirit, and 
 has lost the purely human fashion of looking at things. 
 I consider the kind of opera that has hitherto obtained 
 as precisely calculated, by the very "concessions" 
 which it contained, and which left the audience in un- 
 certainty as to its purpose, to so mislead that audience 
 as to force upon it the necessity of an unsuitable and 
 false mental process, and to expose it to the danger of 
 having its confusion heightened to the last degree by 
 the chatter of those in its midst who affect to speak as 
 connoisseurs. 
 
 If we observe, on the contrary, with how much 
 greater decision the public expresses itself with regard 
 to a merely spoken drama, and how nothing in the 
 world can induce it, in this case, to consider a ridicu- 
 lous plot sensible, an inappropriate speech appropriate, 
 or incorrect accent correct, — we gain from this fact a 
 decided ground for placing the opera also in a safe re- 
 lation to its audience, and in one which cannot fail to 
 be favorable to its comprehension. 
 
 As a second point in which my "Tannhauser " may 
 differ from the ordinary opera, I would suggest to you 
 
1 88 THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 he dramatic poem that forms its basis. Without in 
 he least desiring to ascribe any great value to this as 
 a purely poetic product, I believe myself justified in 
 affirming that, although based upon the legendary and 
 marvellous, it contains a really logical dramatic devel- 
 opment, in the conception and execution of which no 
 sort of" concession" was made to the senseless de- 
 mands of an opera-libretto. My object has been to 
 first enchain the attention of the audience by the 
 dramatic action, by the fact that it is never compelled 
 for a moment to lose sight of this, but that on the con- 
 trary the musical dress at first seems only a method 
 used for the better display of it. And it was this do- 
 ing away with all "concession" in the matter of the 
 subject, which made it possible fcfr me to also do away 
 with it in the musical execution ; and in these things, 
 taken together, you will perhaps find the best example 
 of what my " innovation " really consists in ; you cer- 
 tainly will not find it in a purely musical fancy which 
 many have thought themselves justified in foisting 
 upon me as a striving after a " Aiusic of the future." 
 
 Let me say to you in conclusion, that in spite of the 
 great difficulties in the way of a perfectly just poetical 
 translation of my " Tannhauser," I lay my work before 
 the Parisian public with confidence. And to that 
 which a few years ago I should only have undertaken 
 with the greatest hesitation, I now come with all the 
 confidence of one who has in view not so much a spec- 
 ulation as a matter in which his heart is interested. 
 For this change in my feelings I have to thank, first of 
 all, some acquaintances that it has been my privilege 
 to form since my last visit to Paris. There was one 
 among these that speedily filled me with glad surprise ; 
 for you, my honored friend, permitted me to approach 
 you as one to" whom I was already known and with whom 
 I already stood in confidential relations. Without hav- 
 ing attended a performance of my operas in Germany, 
 you had already, as you assured me, made yourself ac- 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 189 
 
 quainted with my scores by careful reading. The 
 knowledge thus gained of my works had aroused in 
 you the desire to see them produced here ; and had 
 even brought you to the opinion that by such produc- 
 tion a favorable and not unimportant effect might be 
 produced upon the susceptibilities of the Parisian pub- 
 lic. 
 
 Since you, then, contributed especially to inspire me 
 with confidence for my undertaking, may you not 
 think ill of me for rewarding you by wearying you 
 with this perhaps too detailed communication ! May 
 you rather attribute my perhaps over-zealous desire to 
 comply with your wish, to my earnest longing to sim- 
 ultaneously give the friends of my art here a somewhat 
 clearer view of those ideas which I will not expect 
 any one to search out for himself from among my ear- 
 lier art-writings. 
 
 Pakis, Septembtr, i860. 
 
AN 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE PRODUCTION 
 
 OF " TANNHAUSER" IN PARIS. 
 
 Fakis, March 27, 1861. 
 
 I PROMISED you to give you a precise account of 
 my whole experience in the Tannhauser matter in 
 Paris ; and now that it has taken such a decided 
 direction, and that I can look back over it all, it is a 
 matter of justice to myself to come to some conclu- 
 sion about it, by means of a quiet presentation of the 
 whole affair — such a presentation as I should wish for 
 my own benefit. You can only understand the subject 
 in its true relations, if I refer at the very beginning to 
 what really decided me to go to Paris at all. Let me 
 begin, therefore, at that point. 
 
 After almost ten years' separation from every 
 possibility of refreshing myself, if only at intervals, 
 by taking part in really good performances of my 
 dramatic compositions, I at last fairly felt myself com- 
 pelled to take into consideration the project of emi- 
 grating to some place which could in time make it 
 possible for me to have these necessary /«ot'«^ relations 
 with my art. I hoped that I might find such a place 
 in some modest corner of Germany. I earnestly en- 
 deavored in the summer of 1859 to persuade the 
 Grand Duke of Baden (who had already, with touching 
 condescension, permitted me to produce my latest 
 work at Carlsruhe under my personal superintendence) 
 to manage for me, instead of the prospective tempo- 
 rary sojourn, a lasting residence in his country ; for 
 otherwise, I had no resource but to go to Paris ; to 
 make my permanent domicile there. But the fulfil- 
 ment of my request was — impossible. 
 
PRODUCTION OF " TANNHAUSER" IN PARIS. 
 
 191 
 
 When, in the autumn of the same year, I finally did 
 go to Paris, I still kept in view the production of my 
 "Tristan," for which I hoped to be summoned to 
 Carlsruhe on the third of December. I believed that 
 when the work had once been produced under my 
 direction, I could safely leave it to the other theatres 
 of Germany ; and the prospect of being able to pur- 
 sue the same course in future with my other works 
 contented me. Paris retained, when I adopted this 
 view, but one point of interest for me — the possibility 
 of hearing there, from time to time, an excellent 
 quartette, or a thoroughly good orchestra, and so of 
 keeping myself in refreshing communication at least 
 with the living organs of my art. 
 
 All this was suddenly changed, when I received news 
 from Carlsruhe that the production of my Tristan there 
 had proved impossible. But my difficult position at 
 once suggested to me the idea of inviting some promi- 
 nent German singers of my acquaintance to Paris for 
 the following spring, in order by their aid to bring 
 about the desired specimen performance of my 
 new work in the salon of the Italian Opera. To this 
 performance I also wished to invite the directors and 
 managers of such German theatres as were friendly to 
 me, in order to attain by it the same object which I had 
 first had in view in the Carlsruhe performance. But, 
 as the execution of my plan was impossible without a 
 considerable participation on the part of the Parisian 
 public, I had to endeavor first of all to induce them to 
 take some interest in my music ; and for this object I 
 undertook the well-known three concerts given at Les 
 Italiens. The success of these concerts, though great, 
 so far as applause and interest were concerned, could 
 unfortunately have no effect on the chief undertaking 
 I had in view, for the very difficulty of such an under- 
 taking was revealed to me through them ; and on the 
 other hand, the impossibility of bringing together at 
 one and the same time in Paris, all the German singers 
 
192 PRODUCTION OF '<■ TANNHAUSER" IN PARIS. 
 
 whom I had selected, compelled me to abandon the 
 design. 
 
 While, hemmed in on every side, I now turned my 
 anxious glance again toward Germany, I learned, to 
 my extreme surprise, that my situation had become 
 the subject of zealous discussion and partisanship at 
 the Tuilleries. The very friendly interest, till then 
 unknown to me, which was felt in me by several 
 members of the German embassy here, was the cause 
 of this favorable movement. It extended so far that 
 the Emperor, when a German Princess, whom he held 
 in particular esteem, gave him a very favorable opinion 
 of the best known of my works, Tannhauser, at once 
 gave orders for the production of that opera in the 
 Grand Opera House. 
 
 I do not deny that, although at first much rejoiced 
 by this entirely unexpected evidence of the success of 
 my works in social circles from which I was so far re- 
 moved, I nevertheless could only look forward with 
 great anxiety to a performance of Tannhauser at this par- 
 ticular theatre. For to whom could it be more evident 
 than to me, that this great operatic theatre had long en- 
 tirely alienated itself from every earnest artistic effort ; 
 that far other demands obtained in it than those of 
 true dramatic music ; and the opera itself had become 
 in it only an excuse for the ballet? Indeed, when I 
 had received, during the last few years, repeated en- 
 couragement to look forward to the production of one of 
 my works in Paris, I had never had the grand opera 
 in view, but rather — as far as the experiment was con- 
 cerned, at least — the modest TliMtre Lyrique ; and 
 this for two special reasons, — first, because it takes its 
 tone from no particular class of the public ; and 
 secondly, because — thanks to the poverty of its re- 
 sources — the ballet has not developed here into the 
 central point of the whole performance. But the di- 
 rector of this theatre was compelled to give up a per- 
 formance of the Tannhauser, after having repeatedly 
 
PRODUCTION OF " TANNHAUSER" IN PARTS. 
 
 193 
 
 entertained the idea, more especially for the reason 
 that he could find no tenor capable of undertaking the 
 difficult leading role. 
 
 Indoed, it became evident during my first interview 
 with the director of the Grand Opera, that the introduc- 
 tion of a ballet (and this in the second act) was to be 
 regarded as the most indispensable requisite for the 
 success of a performance of Tannhauser. I was only 
 to discover the full meaning of this demand, however, 
 when I declared that I could not possibly interrupt 
 the progress of the second act by a ballet, which must 
 appear senseless from every point of view if introduced 
 in this place ; but that, on the other hand, I saw in the 
 first z.ct, at the luxurious court of Venus, a most perfect 
 opportunity for a choregraphic scene of some real mean- 
 ing — in a passage, indeed, where in my first conception 
 of it I had myself thought I could not get on without 
 the dance I was even delighted with the task of thus 
 remedying a weakness of my earlier score, and I drew 
 up an elaborate scheme, according to which the scene 
 on the hill of Venus should be raised to a position of 
 great importance. 
 
 But the director refused this plan decidedly, and 
 frankly informed me that it was not the mere introduc- 
 tion-ol a ballet that was important in the performance 
 of an opera, but, more especially, that this ballet 
 should be danced in the middle of the evening ; for it 
 was only then that those subscribers to whom the 
 ballet almost exclusively belonged entered their boxes, 
 since they ordinarily dined very late. A ballet per- 
 formed at the beginning, therefore, would not satisfy 
 these people, because they never were present at the 
 first act. These and similar explanations were after- 
 ward repeated to me by the Minister of Statte ; and 
 every possibility of a favorable result was shown to be 
 so entirely dependent upon the fulfilment of the con- 
 ditions therein contained, that I began to believe I 
 must give up the whole undertaking. 
 
194 P'RODUCTION OF " TANNffAUSER" IN PARIS. 
 
 While I thought more earnestly than ever of return- 
 ing to Germany, and anxiously looked about for some 
 point which might be offered to me as a basis for the 
 prodliction of my new works, I was suddenly to 
 appreciate the full meaning of the imperial decree, that 
 put the whole establishment of the Grand Opera, with 
 every engagement that I might find necessary, entirely 
 and unconditionally at my disposal. Every requisition 
 I desired to make was at once carried out without the 
 least regard to cost ; and such care as I had never 
 before conceived of was exercised in regard to the 
 scenic setting of the work. 
 
 Under circumstances to which I was so entirely un- 
 accustomed, the idea that I saw before me, the possi- 
 bility of a thoroughly complete and even ideal per- 
 formance, soon increased its hold upon my mind. 
 The conception of such a performance, no matter of 
 which one of my works, had long seriously occupied my 
 thoughts, — ever since my retirement from our own 
 operatic stage. What had never stood at my dispo- 
 sition before was now unexpectedly offered me in 
 Paris, and at a time when no endeavors would have 
 sufficed to procure for me on German soil a favor 
 bearing any similiarity whatever to this. I frankly 
 confess that this thought filled me with a warmth long 
 unknown to me — which was perhaps only inL-reased 
 by a certain bitterness that mingled with it. I soon 
 had nothing in mind but the pos.sibility of a completely 
 beautiful performance ; and, in the lasting and earnest 
 anxiety to realize this possibility, I let every scruple 
 be powerless to affect me. If I succeed — I said to 
 myself — in attaining that which I believe to be possible, 
 what does the Jockey Club and its ballet concern me ? 
 
 From this time forth I knew no feeling but anxiety 
 with regard to the performance. The director in- 
 formed me that there was no French tenor for the role 
 of Tannhauser. Being informed of the brilliant talent 
 of the young singer, Niemann, I designated him 
 
PRODUCTION OF " TANNI/AUSER" I.V PARIS. 
 
 195 
 
 (though I had never heard him myself), for the lead- 
 ing part ; and especially as he had a good French ac- 
 cent, his engagement, for which there had been careful 
 preparations, was decided upon at a great sacrifice. 
 Several other artists, especially the baritone, Morelli, 
 were indebted for their engagements to my desire to 
 have them for my work. For the rest, I selected 
 young people of talent, in preference to some of the 
 singers already prominent here, because the too settled 
 manner of the latter disturbed me, and I could more 
 easily hope to form the former according to my own 
 style. The care, quite unknown among us, with which 
 vocal rehearsals with piano-forte accompaniment are 
 conducted here, was surprising to me ; and I soon saw 
 our studies attaining a rare perfection under the intelli- 
 gence and refined leadership of the chef du chant, 
 Vauthrot. I was especially rejoiced when the young 
 French singers gradually attained to a comprehension 
 of the matter in hand, and acquired a pleasure in, and 
 love for, their task. 
 
 I had myself gained renewed pleasure in this, my 
 earlier work, and I went through the score again with 
 the greatest care, wrote the Venus scene entirely new, 
 as well as the ballet that preceded it, and especially 
 endeavored to bring the music of the whole into the 
 most exact accord with the translated text. 
 
 Though I had directed my whole attention to the 
 performance, and in doing so had laid all other con- 
 siderations aside, my troubles began at last, with the 
 perception that after all, this performance could not 
 maintain itself at the height which I had anticipated. 
 It is difficult to accurately point out to you in what 
 points I was finally compelled to see that I had been 
 deceived. The worst of them was certainly this ; — 
 that the singer of the leading role, as a result of his 
 necessary intercourse with the critics, who were con- 
 stantly prophesying to him the failure of my opera, 
 fell into an increasing mood of discouragement. The 
 
igg PRODUCTION OF " TANNHAUS£R" IN PARTS. 
 
 favorable hopes that I had nourished during the piano- 
 forte rehearsals, sank deeper and deeper the more we 
 came into relations with the stage and the orchestra. 
 I saw that we were again falling to the level of an or- 
 dinary operatic representation, and that all expecta- 
 tions that looked for anything much higher, must re- 
 main unfulfilled. In this view of the matter, which I 
 naturally did not at first permit myself to hold, the 
 very point was wanting which alone can serve such an 
 operatic performance as a special distinction ; — that is., 
 some really important singer of talent who is already 
 a favorite with the public ; — whereas I was to appear 
 almost entirely with novices. Finally, it especially 
 troubled me that I was not able to take out of the 
 hands of the regularly appointed conductor the leader- 
 ship of the orchestra, with which I might still have 
 exercised great influence upon the spirit of the perfor- 
 mance ; — and that I had to consent with saddened res- 
 ignation to a spiritless and forceless production of my 
 work (for my desired withdrawal of the score was not 
 permitted) is still a source of deep regret to me. 
 
 Under such circumstances, it was almost entirely a 
 matter of indifference to me what the reception of my 
 opera might be on the part of the public. The most 
 brilhant one could not have persuaded me to be pres- 
 ent at an extended series of performances, for I should 
 have received from them far too little satisfaction. But 
 it seems to me that you have thus far been intention- 
 ally left in the dark with regard to the character of 
 this reception ; and you would be very wrong if you 
 should derive from it an opinion of the Parisian pub- 
 lic, which, though it might be very flattering to the 
 German, would be in reality incorrect. I continue, 
 on the contrary, to attribute to the Parisian public very 
 agreeable characteristics, especially a very lively re- 
 ceptiveness, and a really magnanimous sense of justice. 
 I say the public ; for to see a whole audience to whom 
 I am personally entirely a stranger, who have daily 
 
PRODUCTION OF " TANNHAUSER" IN PARIS. 
 
 197 
 
 heard the most ridiculous things about me through 
 newspapers and idle chatterers, and who have been in- 
 fluenced against me with an almost unprecedented 
 pains-taking care, — to see such an audience declare 
 itself in my favor and against a clique, by repeated 
 earnest demonstrations of applause, a whole quarter of 
 an hour long — would of necessity, even though I were 
 the most indifferent of men, have filled me with warmth. 
 But on this evening there was assembled in the Grand 
 Opera house, by the amazing efforts of those who had 
 rendered it next to impossible for me even to give 
 away the seats on the day of the first performance, 
 and to have fny few personal friends present, — there 
 was assembled, I say, by their efforts, an audience 
 which any cool observer would at once have seen to 
 be intensely prejudiced against my work. Add to 
 this the representatives of the Paris press, who are 
 officially invited on such occasions, and of whose hos- 
 tile course regarding me you can judge from their re- 
 ports, — and you can well believe that I believe myself 
 justified in speaking of a great triumph, when I tell 
 you truly, that the by no means enchanting perfor- 
 mance of my opera was greeted with stronger and 
 more unanimous applause than I had ever personally 
 experienced in Germany. The real leaders of the op- 
 position, and several — yes, all — of the musical critics 
 here, who had up to this time done their best to dis- 
 tract the attention of the audience from the represen- 
 tation, evidently began, toward the conclusion of the 
 second act, to fear that they would be forced to wit- 
 ness a complete and brilliant success for my "Tann- 
 hauser," and began to break out with rude bursts of 
 laughter at certain catchwords, which they had agreed 
 upon at the rehearsals, by which means they brought 
 about at the end of the act a sufficiently distracting 
 disturbance to sensibly weaken the manifestation of 
 applause at the falling of the curtain. These gentle- 
 men had unquestionably observed, at the grand re- 
 
198 PRODUCTION OF "-TAArNffAUSER" IN PARIS. 
 
 hearsals, from wliich I had never succeeded in exclud- 
 ing them, that the real effect of the opera must be in 
 the performance of the third act. A capitally painted 
 scene by M. Desplechin, representing the valley be- 
 fore the Wartburg in the gloaming of an Autumn even- 
 ing, had, even during the rehearsal, produced an effect 
 upon the spectators, by which the frame of mind nec- 
 essary for the proper comprehension of the succeed- 
 ing scenes was brought about in spite of themselves ; 
 from the standpoint of the performers, these scenes 
 were the most brilliant point of the whole performance ; 
 the Pilgrim's Chorus was admirably sung and sceni- 
 cally presented ; Elizabeth's prayer, given entire and 
 with striking expression by Mile. Sax; the phautasia 
 to the evening star, produced with perfect and pathetic 
 delicacy by Morelli ; — these so successfully introduced 
 the best portion of Niemann's performance, — the ac- 
 count of the pilgrimage, which always secured the 
 heartiest recognition of that artist's powers — that a 
 very exceptional success seemed secured for this third 
 act at least, even with the most hostile opponent of 
 my work. 
 
 But precisely this act was now attacked by the lead- 
 ers above referred to, and they sought to hinder the 
 production of the necessary absorbed spirit among the 
 audience by loud bursts of laughter, which must have 
 found their childish provocation in the most trifling 
 opportunities. Undisturbed by these hostile demon- 
 strations, my singers did not suffer themselves to be 
 in the least confused, nor did the audience permit itself 
 to be kept from giving its appreciative attention to 
 their brave endeavors, which were often rewarded by 
 hearty applause ; and at the end of the act the opposi- 
 tion was completely defeated, when the performers 
 were tumultuously called before the curtain. 
 
 The behavior of the audience on the evening of the 
 second performance, proved to me that I had not been 
 mistaken in considering the result of this first evening 
 
PRODUCTION OF " TANNHAUSEH" IN PARIS. 
 
 199 
 
 to be a complete success ; for by this it was decided 
 with what opposition I was to have to deal in future, 
 — namely, with that of the Paris Jockey Club, which I 
 am certainly authorized to name thus plainly, since the 
 audience itself openly pointed out my opponents by 
 the cry " a la porte les jockeys." The members of 
 this club, whose right to consider themselves lords of 
 the Grand Opera, I need not now^ explain to you 
 more fully, and who felt themselves deeply injured at 
 the absence of the customary ballet at the time of their 
 entrance to the theatre (about the middle of the per- 
 formance), perceived with disgust that "Tannhauser" 
 had }wt failed at its first reception, after all, but had 
 really won a triumph. From this time forth it became 
 their business to prevent this balletless opera from be- 
 ing presented to them evening after evening ; and for 
 this purpose they had provided themselves, on the 
 way from their dinner to the opera, with a quantity of 
 hunting-whistles and similar instruments, with which 
 they began, immediately upon their-entrance, to oper- 
 ate against the "Tannhauser" in the most shameless 
 manner. Until that time (that is, during the first and 
 up to nearly the middle of the second act) not a trace 
 of opposition had made itself felt ; and continued ap- 
 plause had accompanied unhindered those passages 
 of my opera that had most quickly become favorites. 
 But from this point no further demonstrations of ap- 
 plause assisted me ; in vain did the Emperor and Em- 
 press themselves a second time demonstrate their ap- 
 preciation of my work. The irrevocable condemna- 
 ■tion of the "Tannhauser" had been spoken by those 
 who regarded themselves as masters of the theatre, 
 and who all belonged to the highest aristocracy of 
 France. Up to the very end of the piece, whistles and 
 pipes accompanied every attempt at applause on the 
 part of the audience. 
 
 Knowing the perfect powerlessness of the manage- 
 ment against this club, and seeing the fear even of 
 
joo PRODUCTION OF " TANNHAUSER" IN PARIS. 
 
 he Minister of State himself of making the members of 
 t seriously hostile to him, I saw that I could not ex- 
 ject the stage-artists, who had stood by me so faith- 
 iilly, to expose themselves long and repeatedly to the 
 shameful disturbances to which they were ruthlessly 
 subjected, naturally with the design of altogether 
 brcing them from the stage. I gave directions to the 
 nanagement to withdraw my opera, and only con- 
 sented to a third performance on the condition that it 
 should take place on a Sunday, — a day excluded from 
 he regular subscription, — and thus under circumstan- 
 ;es which could not irritate subscribers, while they 
 vould open the theatre freely to the real public. My 
 lesire to designate this performance on the play-bill 
 is " the last " was not considered advisable, and there 
 emained no way for me to do but to privately an- 
 lounce to my own acquaintances that it was so. This 
 jrecaution, however, did not suffice to still the fears 
 )f the Jockey Club ; on the other hand they imagined 
 hey saw in a Sunday performance a bold and danger- 
 )us demonstration against their interest, after which, 
 he opera having once been brought forward with 
 mdisturbed success, the hated work might easily be 
 breed upon them against theii^will. No one would 
 jelieve in the sincerity of my promise that in case it 
 eally did attain such a success I would withdraw it 
 ill the more quiekly. 
 
 And so these gentlemen gave up their other amuse- 
 nents for this particular evening, and came back 
 igain to the opera fully equipped, and renewed the 
 icenes of iiae second performance. This time the 
 vrath of the audience, which was entirely prevented 
 rom hearing the performance, rose to an unpreceden- 
 ed pitch (so I was assured), and only the apparently 
 lacred social position of messieurs the disturbers of 
 he peace prevented them from being roughly han- 
 lled. Let me say briefly, that astounded as I was at 
 he unbridled conduct of these gentlemen, I was still 
 
PRODUCTION OF " TANNffAUSER" IN PARIS. 2OI 
 
 more impressed and touched by the heroic efforts of 
 the true audience to secure justice to me, and that 
 nothing can be further from my purpose than to lose 
 confidence in the Paris public, whenever it is upon an 
 impartial ground that truly belongs to it. 
 
 The withdrawal of my score, which I have now 
 officially announced, has placed the management of 
 the opera in a situation of really great perplexity. 
 They declare loudly and' openly that they consider 
 the case of my opera one of the greatest of successes, 
 — for they cannot remember to have ever seen the 
 audience so enthusiastically take the part of an as- 
 sailed work. Large pecuniary gains appear secured 
 to them by the " Tannhauser," for the seats in the 
 theatre have been taken over and over again, in ad- 
 vance, for its performances. They are informed of an 
 increasing bitterness of feeling among the public, 
 which sees itself deprived, by a comparatively small 
 number of persons, of its right to hear quietly and 
 without molestation, and to properly estimate, a new 
 and much-talked-of work. I hear that the Emperor 
 is still entirely in favor of the matter, and that the 
 Empress will willingly become the guardian of my 
 opera, and will insist upon guarantees against any 
 further disturbances. At this moment a protest, to 
 be sent to the Minister of State, is in circulation 
 among the musicians, painters, artists, and authors of 
 Paris, — a protest against the undignified proceedings 
 at the opera-house ; and I am assured that it is re- 
 ceiving numerous signatures. Under such circum- 
 stances it might seem an easy matter for me to be 
 encouraged to take up my opera again. But an 
 important artistic consideration keeps me from doing 
 so. Up to this time no quiet and collected presenta- 
 tion of my work had taken place ; the true character- 
 istic of such a performance, which lies in a compulsion 
 inherent in the work itself, and forcing the audience 
 into a mood foreign to the ordinary audience at an 
 
202 PRODUCTION OF " TANNHAUSER" IN PARIS. 
 
 opera, and capable of taking in the spirit of the whole, 
 — such a mood has never yet been impressed upon 
 my hearers. On the contrary, they seize upon only 
 the brilliant and easily appreciated outward character- 
 istics, that serve me only as a scaffolding, — they take 
 note of these, and can appreciate them with true 
 sympathy, as they have already done. 
 
 If a quiet and thoughtful hearing should now be 
 secured for my opera, I fear, after all that I have told 
 you of the character of the performance here, that 
 the inner weakne.ss and spiritlessness of that represen- 
 tation (which have been no secret to those who have 
 become more closely acquainted with the work, and 
 which it has been impossible for my personal inter- 
 ference to prevent), must be gradually revealed — so 
 that I could not hope for a true and not merely 
 outward success for my opera on this occasion. 
 
 May all the unsatisfactory portions of the present 
 presentation, therefore, remain mercifully buried under 
 those three evenings of defeat ! And may many a 
 one who bitterly disappointed the hopes I had founded 
 upon him, content himself for this time with the be- 
 lief that he fell in a good cause ! 
 
 Soj then, let the Paris "Tannhauser" pass for this 
 time. Should the wish of earnest friends of my art 
 be fulfilled, — should a project be carried out which is 
 just now pressed upon me from a very intelligent 
 source, and which has for its object nothing less than 
 the speedy founding of a new operatic theatre for the 
 realization of those reforms which I have urged here, 
 — then you may perhaps hear of " Tannhauser " again 
 — even from Paris. 
 
 As far as regards my work in Paris at this time, 
 be assured that you have heard the full truth about 
 it. This may be your security for the fact — that it is 
 impossible for me to content myself with a mere ap- 
 pearance, if my inmost wishes remain unsatisfied by it ; 
 and these are only to be satisfied by the knowledge 
 that I have produced a really intelligent impression. 
 
THE 
 PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 A WELL-INTENDED complaint on the part oi 
 some earnest friends of the theatre, attributes the 
 decline of that institution to the opera. It is based 
 upon the undeniable lessening of interest in the spoken 
 drama, as well as on the injury to general theatrical 
 performances which the influence of the opera has 
 brought about. 
 
 The justice of this accusation must appeaf plain. It 
 would only seem to- be needful, to investigate how it 
 came about, that ever since the first beginnings of the 
 modern theatre, the development of the opera has con- 
 stantly been undertaken ; and that the capabilities of 
 that branch of dramatic art, through the one-sided de- 
 velopment of which theatrical performance has as- 
 sumed the guise of the present form of opera, have 
 repeatedly received the serious consideration of the 
 most brilliant thinkers. 
 
 Through such an investigation we might well be led 
 to a point of view which would show us our greatest 
 poets as in a certain sense the preparers of the opera. 
 And if this view must be adopted with great caution, 
 the result of the productions of our great German 
 poets for the theatre, and their influence upon the 
 spirit of our dramatic representations, must at least 
 lead us to the earnest consideration of the question 
 how precisely this influence — that is, the influence of 
 those great poetical works upon the character of our 
 dramatic performances, could be so powerfully assi.sted 
 by the opera, with so overwhelming a shaping of pop- 
 ular theatrical taste. We may arrive at a distinct in- 
 
204 "^^^ PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 sight into this question, if we keep in mind, before all 
 things in this investigation, the actual result which 
 shows itself in the theatrical representation of the true 
 drama, as it has been brought about by the influence 
 of Goethe's and Schiller's plays upon the spirit of the 
 performances of our actors. 
 
 We recognize the effect of this influence at once, as 
 the product of a disproportion between the capabili- 
 ties of the actors themselves, and the task that is set 
 them. A full explanation of this disproportion belongs 
 to the history of German dramatic art, and has already 
 been undertaken in that branch of criticism, in several 
 noteworthy essays. Inasmuch as we here consider 
 this point as one part of our discussion, and reserve 
 the deeper aesthetic problem, which lies at the basis 
 of the whole evil, for the later progress of our investi- 
 gation, it is only important, for the first matter, to 
 point out that the ideal purpose of our poets is forced 
 to choose a form for its dramatic representation, in 
 which the nature and education of our actors cannot 
 properly fit. It would need the rarest gifts of genius 
 on their parts — such gifts as those of a Sophie Schroder 
 — to completely fulfill a task which has been placed 
 upon far too high a plane for our actors (accustomed 
 as they have hitherto been only to the everyday, com- 
 monplace elements of German life), — too high for 
 them not to fall into the direst confusion in the bold 
 attempt to carry out their part. The much maligned 
 " false pathos " owes its origin and development to the 
 unfitness here pointed out. This was preceded; in the 
 earlier days of German dramatic art, by that grotesque 
 affectation peculiar to the so-called "English come- 
 dians," which was employed by them in the crude 
 presentation of rudely prepared old English and even 
 Shakespearean plays, and which we find^ even now, 
 upon the dying English stage. This tendency was 
 opposed by the healthful reaction toward so-called 
 "faithfulness to nature," which found its fitting ex- 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 205 
 
 pression in the presentation of the ordinary social 
 drama (des " bu7'gerliche7i" Dramas). And it must 
 be remarked that even though Lessing, and even 
 Goethe (in his youth) contributed to this biirgerlichcs 
 Drama, it derived its chief support from pieces which 
 were written by the best actors of the period them- 
 selves. The narrow sphere and slight poetical value of 
 these products now challenged our great poets to the 
 broadening and elevation of their dramatic style ; and 
 if a desire for the continued preservation of the " faith- 
 fulness to nature" yet ruled, an ideal stamp was still 
 impressed upon them, which found its expression in 
 what could be called /o^^zV pathos. 
 
 Whoever is at all acquainted with this branch of our 
 art-history, knows how our great poets were disturbed 
 in their endeavors to impress this new manner upon 
 the actors ; but whether they would have been finally 
 successful in their attempts even if there had been no 
 disturbing influences, is much to be doubted, inasmuch 
 as they had hitherto had to content themselves with 
 only the artificial appearance of this result — which was 
 nothing but a development of the old "/rt/.r^' pathos." 
 And this remained (significant of the small degree of 
 talent possessed by Germans for the drama), as far as 
 the character of theatrical performances of dramas of 
 ideal tendency was concerned, the only gain that had 
 been derived — and a very doubtful one it was too — 
 from that influence of our poets which had in other 
 ways been so important. 
 
 What had found its expression in this " false pathos " 
 now became again the tendency of the dramatic con- 
 ceptions emanating from our minor theatrical poets, 
 the whole contents of which was from beginning to end 
 as workless as that pathos itself; — we need only recall 
 the productions of a Milliner, a Houwald, and the 
 whole series of similar pathetically-inclined writers 
 down to the present day. The only thing that could 
 be called a reaction against this tendency would seem 
 
2o6 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 to be the constantly renewed and nourished domestic 
 prose-drama or comedy of our own time, — if indeed 
 the French sensational play had not gained such over- 
 whelming influence among us in this direction, as to 
 determine and rule everything else. By this, every 
 recognizable purit)r of type in our theatre has been 
 obscured, and what we have preserved in our modern 
 play even from Goethe's and Schiller's dramas, is only 
 the revealed secret of the application of " false pathos " 
 — the " sensation." 
 
 If all that is written for and played upon the stag? 
 is inspired only by this tendency toward " sensation," 
 so that all that does not possess this characteristic will 
 go for naught, we need not be surprised if this is the 
 only thing retained in the presentation of even Goethe's 
 and Schiller's pieces ; for in a certain sense there lies 
 concealed in these also an example in this direction, 
 arising from precisely the disproportion we have 
 pointed out. The necessity for poetic pathos inspired 
 our poets with a poetical, rhetorical diction pur- 
 "^osely designed to work upon the feelings, which, as 
 its ideal object was neither understood nor carried out 
 by our unpoetic actors, led to that in itself senseless, 
 but nevertheless melodramatically powerful delivery, 
 the practical result of which was precisely this same 
 " sensational" effectT— that is, the startling of the lis- 
 tener's sensuous emotions.-^as is practically proved by 
 the " storm of applause." 
 
 This " applause," and the " exit-passage" which is 
 designed to call it forth, have become the soul of all 
 endeavors in our modern theatre. The " brilliant 
 exits " in the rules of our classic dramas are all 
 counted over, and the worth of the piece estimated en- 
 tirely by their number — like the worth of a part in 
 Italian Opera ; and indeed one cannot take it ill in our 
 priests of Thalia and Melpomene, thirsty for applause 
 as they are, if they look with envy and covetousness 
 upon the opera, in which these "exits" are by far 
 
THE PURPOSE of THE OPERA. 
 
 207 
 
 more numerous, and the " storms of applause " 
 conferred with far more certainty than in even the 
 most effective dramas ; and again, as our dramatic 
 poets get their living, in turn, from the effectiveness 
 of the roles of our actors, it is easily explicable that 
 the operatic composer, who can produce all this so easily 
 by the arrangement of an appropriate shriek at the 
 end of any vocal phrase he chooses, should seem to 
 them a rival to be greatly hated. 
 
 But seriously, the outward reason for the complaint 
 with the consideration of which we began, as well as 
 the characteristic most easily hit upon in our investiga- 
 tion of it, appears to be this and nothing else. 1 have 
 already sufficiently pointed out that I am far from 
 believing that I have in this touched the deeper reason 
 for the complaint ; but if we desire to discover this 
 more clearly, it seems to me advisable to get at the 
 core of the matter by investigating the outward indi- 
 cations that lie open to universal experience. 
 
 Let us assume, then, that in the character of all theat- 
 rical representations there is a tendency which manifests 
 itself in its worst shape as a striving after so-called ef- 
 fect ; and that this, however much it nriay belong to the 
 spoken drama, can nevertheless satisfy itself most com- 
 pletely in the opera. The complaint made against the 
 opera, on the part oYthe drama, is based upon the lowest 
 motives, — upon annoyance at the latter's greater wealth 
 of sensational methods. The serious annoyance of the 
 actor, on the other hand, has a much greater appear- 
 ance of justice, since it results from contrasting the 
 visible lightness and frivolity of these effective methods 
 with the always difficult endeavor which he has to make 
 to attain any proper representation of the character 
 he has to set forth. The drama, considered even in its 
 outward effect upon the audience, can always claim the 
 advantage that the action represented in it, as well as 
 the plot that connects it and the motives that explain it, 
 must be made intelligible in order to secure the sym- 
 
208 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA: 
 
 pathy of the spectator ; and that a piece composed of 
 mere declamatory rhetorical effects, without a basis of 
 action which expresses itself intelligibly and thus fixes 
 the interest, could not be thought of for a moment. On 
 the contrary, the accusation may be brought against 
 the opera, that in it a mere succession of effects, de- 
 signed to work upon pur^y sensuous emotions, suf- 
 fices, if there be only an agreeable variety of contrasts 
 presented, to successfully conceal the absence of any 
 intelligible or sensible action. 
 
 It is plain that this point of complaint is founded 
 upon a very serious consideration. And yet, with 
 closer investigation, doubts may arise concerning this 
 also. Composers have always, but especially in recent 
 years, felt so strongly that the so-called text of an 
 opera should be interesting, that it has been one of 
 their most earnest endeavors to procure a good libretto. 
 It has been necessary, especially in our own day, that 
 an opera, if it was to have much effect, should be 
 based upon a plot at least suitable to its character, or 
 even upon an interesting one ; so that it would be 
 difficult to entirely deny a dramatic character to the 
 loose arrangement of even an operatic text. We see, 
 in fact, that it was not possible to pursue a wholly 
 irresponsible course in this matter, from the circum- 
 stance that there is hardly any piece of Shakespeare, 
 and almost none of Schiller and Goethe, which has not 
 appeared to the opera just the thing to be adapted to 
 its purposes. But again, precisely this abuse in turn 
 might with considerable justice irritate our actors and 
 dramatic poets ; they might properly exclaim — " Why 
 should we trouble ourselves further to correctly render 
 our dramatic labors, if the public deserts us to flock to 
 where the same work is applied, with a frivolous abuse 
 of its nature, to the multiplication of mere vulgar 
 effects?" It is true that they might be met by the 
 question, how it would be possible to bring M. 
 Gounod's opera of " Faust " before the German pub- 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 209 
 
 lie, if our dramatic stage had succeeded in making 
 Goethe's Faust intelligible to ' them ? Wo can see 
 clear'ly that the public turned away from the singular 
 efforts of our actors to mal<e something out of the 
 monologue of our Faust, and turned to M. Gounod's 
 air, with the joys of youth fot its theme, and ap- 
 plauded it, while in the former case nothing resulted 
 from it. 
 
 No example could show more clearly than this, to 
 what point our stage has fallen. But even now it 
 does not seem entirely right to us, that this undeniable 
 decline should all be laid to the fault of the opera's in- 
 creasing prosperity ; on the other hand, we should see 
 in this latter as well the weakness of our theatre, as 
 the impossibility of finding in its present limits and 
 the means now at its command, the ideal province of 
 the drama. Precisely here (in the opera), where the 
 highest ideal is associated with its own greatest abuse, 
 — as in the example cited, — the phenomenon must 
 seem most terrifying to us, and a deeper insight into 
 the nature of the problem we have to solve must force 
 itself upon us. We might still keep from us the neces- 
 sity for seeing this, if we were only admitting a great 
 decline in the public taste in art, and were seeking 
 to find the causes of it in the broader field of our 
 social state. But since for us, coming upon the start- 
 ling fact from this very standpoint, it is impossible to 
 proceed from the assumption of a regeneration of the 
 public taste to the indirect supposition of a favorable 
 influence from this quarter upon the preference of the 
 people in art matters, there ought rather to commend 
 itself to us the attempt to attain by direct investigation 
 of this at first sight purely aesthetic problem, to a solu- 
 tion which may lead us to believe in the possibility of 
 an influence from this other side, upon the whole spirit 
 of the public. 
 
 To definitely fix this object in view, let us lay down 
 a thesis, with the following out of which we may 
 
2 JO THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 chiefly concern ourselves. It may be put in this way : 
 We grant that the opera has evidently shown the 
 clcclinc of the drama; if it appears doubtfu'l that it has 
 actually /;-^(/«C(?(^ this decline, it is nevertheless clearly 
 to be seen from the present superior influence of the 
 opera, that it alone can be looked to, to again elcvatc\}i\c 
 drama ; but that it can only truly succeed in this res- 
 toration, if it at the same time leads the drama to the 
 attainment of that for which its ideal scope is so pecu- 
 liarly fitted ; that the German stage has suffered far 
 more from the hitherto unsuitable and insufficient de- 
 velopment of these ideal functions, than the French 
 theatre, which did not possess such functions, and 
 which could therefore, in its narrower sphere, more 
 easily attain to real correctness. 
 
 A properly traced history of dramatic- pathos would 
 make it clear to us, what has always been aimed at in 
 the ideal direction in the modern theatre. And it 
 would be instructive to notice here, how the Italians, 
 who, as far as their artistic tendencies are concerned, 
 derived all their instruction from the antique, left the 
 recited drama. almost entirely undeveloped, and con- 
 stantly endeavored, on the other hand, to reconstruct 
 the antique drama on the basis of the musical lyric, 
 and thus, pursuing this course with constant digres- 
 sion more and more into a single path, produced the 
 opera. In the meantime, while this was happening 
 in Italy, by means of the all-powerful influence there 
 of the finely-cultured artistic spirit in the higher social 
 circles of the nation, the modern drama was developed 
 among the Spanish and English, from the very spirit 
 of the people ; for here the tendency of the more 
 learned poets toward the antique had proved power- 
 less as far as any living influence upon the country 
 was concerned. 
 
 Calderon was the first to lead the Spanish drama 
 from that realistic sphere in which Lope de Vega had 
 proved so presumptuously productive, to the idealistic 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 2 1 I 
 
 manner, in which he approached the Italians so closely 
 that we may find in many of his pieces a decidedly 
 operatic character. Perhaps the English drama would 
 also have taken this direction, if the wonderful genius 
 of a Shakespeare had not succeeded in presenting, in 
 the field of realistic drama, the noblest figures of his- 
 tory and fable with such semblance of nature, that he 
 was exempted from all comparison with a standard 
 which had hitherto been erroneously derived from the 
 antique. Amazement at the incomprehensible and 
 inimitable power of Shakespeare contributed not less 
 than the recognition of the true meaning of the antique 
 and its forms, to determine our great poets in their 
 creations for the draftia. They took into'account also 
 the great capabilities of the opera ; but were necessa- 
 rily met by the inexplicable nature of the question, 
 how the opera was to be approached from their point 
 of view ? Schiller could not be directed to the discov- 
 ery of a method of cooperation with the opera, even 
 by the transporting influence which Gluck's " Iphige- 
 nia in Tauris" made upon him ; and Goethe seemed to 
 clearly comprehend that this matter must be reserved 
 for the musical genius alone, when he saw himself 
 forced to regard those remarkable hopes for the mu- 
 sically-conceived drama which were raised in him by 
 " Don Juan," as extinguished by the news of Mozart's 
 death. 
 
 Through this attitude of Goethe and Schiller we gain 
 a deep insight into the purely poetic nature. If on the 
 one hand Shakespeare and his method must have been 
 to them incomprehensible, while on the other hand 
 they must leave to the musician, with an equal lack of 
 understanding of his method, the task which he alone 
 can carry out, of giving to the figures of the drama an 
 ideal life, the question arises, in what relation they, as 
 poets, really stood to the true drama, and whether, as 
 poets alone, they could feel themselves capable of, and 
 fitted for, dramatic composition. If we endeavor to 
 
212 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. . 
 
 penetrate into the nature of this doubt, we might come 
 to acknowledge a certain insufficiency in the poetic 
 power, — which power, in its purity, is only to be com- 
 prehended as an abstraction, and only becomes a con- 
 crete fact through the material element of its creations. 
 If neither a sculptor nor a musician is supposable 
 without the poetic element, the question occurs to us 
 — how that power which, in these two, works as a lat- 
 ent force in the production of a work of art, might be 
 made in the case of the pure poet, and acting as a 
 conscious creative faculty, to lead to the same result ? 
 
 Without going deeper into the investigation of the ^ 
 secret here touched upon, we must nevertheless bear 
 in mind that which distinguishes the poet of modern 
 culture from the natural poet of the ancient world. 
 The latter was, before all things, the.^ inventor of 
 myths ; then the relator of them in the recited epic, 
 and finally their direct representer in the living 
 drama. Plato was the first to gain a mastery of the 
 power of this threefold poet, in his so dramatically 
 vivid dialogue — scenes filled with mythic creation, 
 which may be looked upon first as the origin, and 
 then (especially in the splendid "Banquet" of the 
 poetic philosopher) as the unequalled model of real 
 literary poetry, approaching the didactic in form. 
 Here the forms of simple poetry are only used as yet 
 for the explanation of philosophic theses, in an ab- 
 stractly popular sense, and their consciously effective 
 design takes the place of the influence of a directly 
 presented living picture. To apply this didactic de- 
 sign to the drama actually performed by living beings, 
 of necessity appeared to our great culture-poets {Kul- 
 tiirdichteni) to be the most valuable method for enno- 
 bling the popular drama as they found it ; and they 
 might well be led to this belief by the consideration of 
 certain special peculiarities of the ancient drama. 
 
 As this latter had developed its tragic power from a 
 compromise between the Apollonian and the Diony- 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 213 
 
 sian elements, so, on the basis of a lyric that has be- 
 come almost incomprehensible to us, the old Hellenic, 
 didactic hymn of the priests could unite with the later 
 JDionysian dithyrambus to produce that marvellous 
 effect so peculiar to the tragic works of art of the 
 Greeks. The fact that it was especially the Apollo- 
 nian elements which entered into this combination, 
 which gave to Greek tragedy, as a literary monument, 
 a special importance for all time — and particularly to 
 that part appealing to philosophers and teachers — 
 could easily mislead our modern poets (who saw in 
 these tragedies only literary products) to the opinion 
 that the real dignity of the ancient drama lay in this 
 didactic tendency, and consequently that the popular 
 drama, as they themselves found it, was only to be 
 elevated to an ideal meaning by infusing into it the 
 same element. 
 
 The true art. spirit inherent in them prevented their 
 sacrificing the living drama itself to this bare tendency ; 
 but the only thing which could fill the drama with 
 spirit, arid at the same time raise it to the elevation of 
 ideality, seemed to them to be this higher motive ; 
 and this the more, since the only material at their dis- 
 posal, the means by which they could make ideas in- 
 telligible — a language of words — made it only possible 
 or advisable for them to exercise an ennobling and ele- 
 vating influence in this one direction. 
 
 The poetically expressed sentence could only con- 
 vey the high motive, and the influence to be exorcised 
 upon the purely sensuous receptive power, always 
 ■Strongly affected by the drama", must be left to the 
 so-called poetic diction. But it is precisely this latter, 
 which, in the performance of their pieces, led to 
 just that false pathos the recognition of which must 
 have set our great poets to thinking gravely, when 
 tlic)' felt themselves, on the other hand, so moved by 
 the effect of Gluck's " Iphigenia " and jMozart's " Don 
 Juan." 
 
214 "^^^ PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 What must have impressed them so strangely here, 
 was that they saw the drama at once raised into the 
 sphere of the ideal, by the influence of music ; and that 
 from this the simplest feature of the action appeared- 
 to them in a clearer light ; — effect and motive, min- 
 gled in one direct expression, spoke to them with the 
 noblest power. Every desire to seize upon 2,ovnt. pur- 
 pose was stilled ; for the idea itself was realized before 
 them, as an irresistible appeal to the highest sympa- 
 thy. " Man errs in all his striving," or, " Life is not 
 the highest good," no longer needed X.ohQsaid, for the 
 inmost secret of the wise t sentence presented itself to 
 them without disguise, in distinct melodious form. If 
 the sentence said "It signifies" — the other said "It 
 IS." Here the highest pathos had become the soul of 
 the drama ; and a picture of life appeared to us with 
 appealing truthfulness, as though from some happy 
 world of dreams. 
 
 But how enigmatical this work of art must have ap- 
 peared to our poets; for where in it could the poet's 
 element be found ? Certainly not in that very trait in 
 which their own strength lay — in the thought and the 
 poetic diction ; for in both of these the operatic texts 
 werCj entirely deficient. If it could not be the poet, 
 then it must be the musician, to whom alone the art- 
 product seemed to belong. But, tried by their stand- 
 ard, as artists, it was hard for them to allow to the 
 musician an importance proportionate to the immense 
 influence which appeared to emanate from him. Mu- 
 sic appeared to them a senseless art — a half-wild, half- 
 ridiculous element, not to be approached by any true 
 art-culture. Besides, the opera seemed such an insig- 
 nificant, disconnected agglomeration of forms, without 
 that intelligible, artistic unity whose arbitrarily com- 
 bined parts might strive to attain to anything sooner 
 than the consistency of a dramatic plan. If it were truly 
 a dramatic basis which had united, in Gluck's " Iphi- 
 genia," that scattered chaos of forms {Formengcwirr) 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 215 
 
 to SO powerful a whole, the question arose, who could 
 take the place of this operatic poet, and write the sin- 
 gularly thin text even for the arias of a Gluck, unless 
 •he were willing to give up at once his title of ' ' poet " ? 
 The incomprehensible part of it lay in an effect of high 
 ideality, whose artistic factors could not be discovered 
 by the analogy of any other art. This incompre- 
 hensible element increased, when this particular piece 
 of Gluck's (which, by its subject, taken entirely from 
 the antique, and of the truest tragedy, was so elevated 
 and full of thought) was left out of sight,-- ^and even 
 then it must be admitted that the opera in general, no 
 matter of how nonsensical or trivial plot it might be, 
 had under certain circumstances an unequalled effect, 
 even in the highest ideal sense of the word. 
 
 These circumstances were at once brought into play 
 whenever a great dramatic genius mastered the rules 
 of such an opera. Think, for example, of that pres- 
 entation of " Romeo " in Bellini's opera — a presentation 
 never to be forgotten by many still living spectators 
 — which was once given us by Schroder-Devrient. 
 Every feeling of a musician must rebel against ac- 
 knowledging that the utterly poor and insignificant 
 music of the piece had any artistic value ; and besides, 
 it was in this case fitted to an operatic poem of ridicu- 
 lous poverty of thought. And yet, ask any one who 
 saw it what impression Schroder-Devrient's Romeo 
 made upon him, as compared with our best dramatic 
 actor's Romeo, even in the great Englishman's own 
 play ? 
 
 In this case, however, it must be confessed that this 
 effect did not lie i-n mere skill in singing, as it does in 
 the similar successes of our ordinary prime donne ; 
 but rather while this quality was here only slight and 
 unsustained by any luxuriant vocal capacities, it lay 
 solely in the dramatic performance. Yet this again 
 could not possibly have secured the success of even 
 one like SchrOder-Devrient in the most perfect of 
 
2i6 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 spoken dramas ; and therefore it could only be sue-' 
 cessful through the one element of music, — lending an 
 ideal atmosphere, even when in this petty form. 
 
 Just such an experience as that just mentioned, . 
 ought to put us upon the right path toward forming 
 an opinion, and discovering the real factor in the pro- 
 duction of a dramatic work of art. 
 
 As the participation of the poet in this production 
 was so small, Goethe thought that the creation of the 
 opera was to be entirely attributed to the musician ; 
 and in how far this has serious sense in it, should 
 be clear to us, if we investigate more closely the 
 second element in the drama that was incomprehensible 
 to our great poets — the peculiarities of Shakespeare 
 and his artistic method, — and seek for a correct con- 
 clusion in this matter also. 
 
 Even now Shakespeare seems to the French — repre- 
 sentatives of modern civilization — to be a monstrosity. 
 Until a very recent period he has been for the Ger- 
 mans, too, a subject for continually renewed investiga- 
 tion, whose results have attained so little definiteness 
 that the most widely different views and opinions still 
 continue to strive for general adoption. Thus within 
 a short time the most consistent aims of the didactic 
 poet have been attributed to this enigmatical dramatist, 
 who but a short time before had come to be looked 
 upon as an entirely irresponsible, wild genius, without 
 any art-culture whatever. Goethe, who introduces 
 him in " Wilhelm Meister " as a " masterly writer," 
 found in constantly repeated consideration of the prob- 
 lem a resting-place for his more and more cautious judg- 
 ments, in the fact that he discovered the higher ten- 
 dency not in the poet, but embodied as character in 
 the persons represented by him in full action before 
 us. But the more he looked at these creations the 
 more enigmatically the process of the artist hid itself 
 from the eye of the investigator. If the main plan of 
 a piece were clearly perceivable, and a consistently-de- 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 217 
 
 veloped action not to be ignored (such an action, in- 
 deed, generally being contained in the material chosen 
 for the play) — the extraordinary " incidental bits," in 
 the carrying out of the plot as well as in the action of 
 the characters, were nevertheless incomprehensible, 
 according to the scheme of an artistic arrangement and 
 a well-considered plan. There was plainly obvious a 
 sharpness of individuality which often seemed like in- 
 explicable capriciousness, the true sense of which could 
 only be discovered when the book was closed, and we 
 saw the drama filled with life before us ; and then the 
 true picture of existence, seen in a mirror with irre- 
 sistible faithfulness, stood in our presence, and filled us 
 with an awe like that inspired by an apparition of spirits. 
 But how could' this enchantment be measured by the 
 characteristics of " a work of art " ? Was the author 
 of these things a />oet ? 
 
 The little that we know of his life tells us with inno- 
 cent naivete — that he was an actor, who arranged and 
 wrote these pieces for himself and his company ; — these 
 pieces before which our greatest poets now stand 
 amazed and in truly affecting confusion ; and which for 
 the most part would not have descended to them, if 
 the insignificant prompter's books of the Globe Theatre 
 had not been saved from oblivion, just at the right 
 moment, by being printed. Lope de Vega, hardly 
 less wonderful, wrote his pieces from day to day, in 
 direct association with the theatre and its actors ; be- 
 side Corneille and Racine, the poets of a fashion, 
 stands the actor Moli^re — the only one full of life and 
 creative ; and ^schylus stood in the midst of his 
 noble works, as leader of the tragic chorus. 
 
 It is not the nature of \\\c poet, but that of the drama- 
 tist, that is to be investigated if the elements of the 
 drama are to be clearly understood ; and the latter is no 
 nearer to the ordinary poet than to the mere mummer, 
 from whose nature he must fully emerge if he desires, 
 as a poet, to hold the mirror up to life. 
 10 
 
2i8 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 The very essence of the dramatic art, therefore, as 
 opposed to the poetic method, appears to be at first 
 sight entirely irrational ; it is only to be grasped by a 
 complete change in the nature of the observer. It 
 should not be difficult for us to determine in what this 
 change should consist, if we look at the natural 
 method in the beginnings of all art — and this we find 
 distinctly in improvisation. The poet who should 
 show to the improvising actor a plan of the action to 
 be represented, would stand in much the same rela- 
 tion in which the author of an operatic text stands to 
 the musician ; his work cannot yet have any artistic 
 value whatever ; but this will be most fully imparted 
 to it, if the poet makes the actor's improvising spirit 
 his own, and carries out his work completely in the 
 character of an improvisation, so that now the actor 
 can enter with all his own peculiarity into the higher 
 thought of the poet. Of course a complete change in 
 the art-product itself must take place through this 
 means ; and such a change could only be exactly de- 
 scribed, if it were possible to have before us the ac- 
 tually transcribed improvisation of a great musician. 
 
 We have the testimony of excellent witnesses to the 
 incomparable impression which Beethoven left upon 
 his friends by improvising at the piano ; and we can- 
 not regard as exaggerated the regret expressed at the 
 fact of not having been able to preserve these creations 
 in writing ; — it cannot be called exaggerated, even 
 when we tonsider the master's greatest written works, 
 if we remember the frequent occurrence, that even less 
 ■gifted composers, whose compositions when written 
 out are characterized by stififhess and constraint, can, 
 by free improvisation, throw us into genuine amaze- 
 ment at a creative gift never before suspected and of- 
 ten most productive. 
 
 In any case, we believe we shall greatly facilitate 
 the solution of a very difficult problem, if we call the 
 Shakespearean drama a definitely-planned histrionic 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 219 
 
 improvisation of the very highest artistic value.. For 
 if we take this view we shall have an immediate expla- 
 nation of the apparently remarkable inconsistencies 
 in the action and language of characters who are 
 created with the single purpose of being, now and at 
 the moment when they are before us, precisely those 
 characters they are meant to appear to us, — and to 
 whom no language could possibly occur which would 
 lie outside this nature, with which they are, as it were, 
 bewitched. And it would seem absurd enough, on 
 closer consideration, if one of these characters should 
 suddenly seek to appear to us in the character of a 
 poet. This element is silent, and remains a riddle to 
 us, as Shakespeare does. Yet its work is the only 
 true drama ; and we see what importance the drama 
 really has as a work of art, in the fact that its author 
 will always appear to us the deepest poetic nature of 
 all time. 
 
 To continue the considerations to which the drama 
 so strongly urges us, let us now look at those peculi- 
 arities of it which seem most serviceable for our pur- 
 pose. Most prominent among these is the fact that, 
 apart from all its other value, it belongs to the class of 
 pieces which alone are effective in the theatre, — pieces 
 that have been arranged expressly for the theatre at 
 different periods, have proceeded from the theatre or 
 from authors standing in direct communication with it, 
 and have from year to year enriched the popular 
 French stage, for example. The difference between 
 them lies only in the poetic value of true dramatic pro- 
 ducts that have arisen from the same origin. This 
 difference seems, at first sight, to be determined by the 
 greatness and importance of the material selected for 
 their action. While not only the French have suc- 
 ceeded in most truthfully depicting upon the stage all 
 the events of modern life in general, but the Germans 
 (people of much less theatrical talent) have successfully 
 brou<Tht forward the occurrences of this life in its 
 
220 THE PURPOSE Of THE OPERA. 
 
 smaller and more domestic circle, this truly reproauc- 
 tive force has failed just in proportion as the events of 
 a higher sphere of action, and the fate of historic heroes 
 and the myths concerning them (removed to a re- 
 spectful distance from matters of every-day life), were 
 sought to be produced. For this purpose the true poet 
 (that is, the inventor and former of myths) had to over- 
 come the insufficient dramatic improvisation ; and his 
 genius, especially fitted for such a task, must manifest 
 itself in raising the style of that improvisation to the 
 height of his own poetic purpose. How Shakespeare 
 succeeded in raising his players themselves to this 
 height, must remain a problem ; it is only certain that 
 the capacities of our modern players would at once fail 
 in the task thus set them. The assumption is possible, 
 that the grotesque aflfectation peculiar to the English 
 actors of the present day (to which we referred above) 
 is a remnant of an earlier power which, since it comes 
 from a trait lying undeniably in the nature of the na- 
 tion, may have been able, in the most perfect period 
 of national life and through the noble example of the 
 poetic actor himself, to lead to so unprecedented a 
 point in tlieatrical art that Shakespeare's conceptions 
 could be for once fully carried out. 
 
 Or we may perhaps call to mind for the explanation 
 of this enigma, if we do not wish to accept so ex- 
 traordinary a miracle as that just supposed, the fate of 
 the great Sebastian Bach, whose rich and difficult choral 
 compositions would appear to lead us to the theory 
 that the master must have had at command, for their 
 execution, the most incomparable vocal forces ; while 
 on the contrary we know from undoubted documen- 
 tary evidence his own complaints of the general 
 wretched composition of his choir of school-boys. It 
 is certain that Shakespeare retired very early from his 
 connection with the stage ; a fact which we can easily 
 explain by the very great fatigue the rehearsals of his 
 pieces cost him, as well as his despair at the flight of 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 221 
 
 his own genius beyond the possibilities that were open 
 to him. The whole nature of this genius is, however, 
 only clear to us through these very ' ' possibilities," which 
 certainly existed in the basis of the actor's nature, and 
 were therefore very properly taken for granted by the 
 author ; and, considering the efforts for culture {Kul- 
 turbestrebungeii) made by the genius of humanity in 
 one great connection, we can look upon it as the task 
 which the great dramatist in a certain sense be- 
 queathed to his successors, to really reach those high- 
 est possibilities in the development of the capabilities 
 of histrionic art. 
 
 To labor at this task appears to have been the truest 
 calling of our own great German poets. Proceeding 
 from the necessary acknowledgment of Shakespeare's 
 inimitability, this purpose determined a direction 
 for every form of their poetic conception, which we 
 can well understand if we keep this hypothesis in mind. 
 The search for the ideal form of the highest work of 
 art — the drama — led them of necessity away from 
 Shakespeare to the renewed and always deeper, con- 
 sideration of the tragedy of the ancients ; we have seen 
 in what way alone they thought to gain anything from 
 this, and we observed that they were necessarily led 
 from this more than doubtful path to that inexplicable 
 new impression which the noblest creations of the 
 opera (in other respects entirely enigmatical to them) 
 produced upon them. 
 
 Two things were noteworthy in connection with 
 this, namely:— that the noble music of a great master 
 could give an ideal enchantment to the work of even 
 little-gifted dramatic performers, — an enchantment 
 which was denied to even the most admirable actors 
 of the spoken drama ; while on the other hand a true 
 dramatictalent could so ennoble utterly worthless music, 
 that we could be struck by a performance which the 
 same talent could not succeed in producing in a spoken 
 play. That this phenomenon could only be explained 
 
222 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 by the power of music, was unavoidable. And this 
 could be true only of music in general ; while it re- 
 mained incomprehensible how the peculiar flexibility, 
 of its forms could be attained without their subordina- 
 tion to the worst possible kind of dramatic poet. 
 
 We adduced the example of Shakespeare, to give us 
 as much of a glimpse as possible into the nature, and 
 especially the method, of the true dramatist. And 
 mysterious as the greater part of this must be to us, 
 we could nevertheless perceive that it was the actor's 
 art with which the poet entirely. united; and we recog- 
 nized that this actor's art was the dew of life {Lebens- 
 tkau), in which the poetic purpose must be bathed, in 
 order that it might be able, as though by a magic 
 transformation, to appear a true mirror of life. — Now 
 if every action, even every ordinary event of life (such 
 as not only Shakespeare but every true play-wright 
 shows us), can reveal itself to us, when reproduced as 
 a mimic drama, in the glorified hght and with the ob- 
 jective effect of a mirrored picture, we must accept as 
 proved as a result of our further considerations, that 
 this reflection in turn shows itself in the pure light of 
 the ideal so soon as it has been dipped in the magic 
 fountain of music ; and at the same time is displayed to 
 us as a pure form, freed from all realistic materiaUza- 
 tion, 
 
 It would no longer be needful, therefore,' to take into 
 consideration the form of music, but rather the forms 
 of music as historically developed, if one desired to de- 
 termine that hicjhcst possibility in the development 
 of the actor's art, which seemed to the investigator and 
 the worker a dark enigma, while on the other hand it 
 pressed itself more and more upon him. 
 
 By " the form of mu.sic" we must undoubtedly un- 
 derstand melody. The development of this especially 
 fills the history of our music ; as the need of it deter- 
 mined the development of the lyric drama attempted 
 by the Italians, into the opera. The attempt being 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. o-"^ 
 
 first' made to imitate in this rcsoect the form of the 
 Greek.-tragedy, this seemed at the first glance to be 
 divided into t^\•o principal parts, — the choral song, and 
 the dramatic recitation which periodically rose into mus- 
 ical measure; and the actual " drama" was thus left to 
 the recitative, the oppressive monotony of which was 
 finally interrupted by the discovery of the '.' air" (an 
 invention approved by the academy). It was ■ only 
 with this that music gained its independent form as 
 melody ; and it thus, (very rightly) won such- an ad- 
 vantage over the remaining factors of the musical 
 drama, that this latter, no longer employed as any- 
 thing but an excuse for the other, finally sank to the 
 place of a mere scaffolding for the exhibition of the 
 aria. It must be the history of melody, closely lim- 
 ited to this aria form, which must therefore engage 
 our attention, if we are not entirely content with the 
 consideration of those of its effects merely, which it 
 presented to our great poets when they felt themselves 
 so deeply impressed by its power, yet so much more 
 deeply at a loss in thinking of any poetic association 
 with it. It was indisputably only a special form of 
 genius that could so endue with life this narrow and 
 empty form of melodic expression, that it could be capa- 
 ble of a really powerful effect. Its extension and de- 
 velopment was therefore only to be expected from the 
 musician ; and the course of that development could 
 be distinctly seen by a comparison of Mozart's master- 
 piece with Gluck's. In this comparison a rich power 
 of purely musical invention is especially displayed as 
 the only thing which could make pure music powerful 
 in a dramatic sense ; for in Mozart's " Don Juan " 
 there is an abundance of dramatic elements of which 
 the far less powerful composer Gluck had no concep- 
 tion. But it wa'^ reserved for German genius to ele- 
 \ate the musical form, by the highest inspiration of 
 even its least important parts, to the inexhaustible 
 
234 "^"^^ PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 variety and richness which the music of ouf great 
 Beethoven now offers to a wondering world. 
 
 The musical creations of Beethoven have traits 
 which render them as inexplicable from one point of 
 view as those of Shakespeare are from another. While 
 the powerful influence of both must be felt as different 
 in kind, though equal in effect, ev?n this difference be- 
 tween them seems to disappear upon closer consid- 
 eration, and in view of the incomprehensible peculiari- 
 ties of their creations ; for the only way of explaining 
 the one appears to tfs in the explanation given for the 
 other. 
 
 Let us instance in proof of this, and as the most 
 easily intelligible point, the peculiarity of the humor- . 
 ous element in both ; ci,nd we shall see that what oftea- 
 appears to us as an incomprehensible inconsistency in 
 the humor of Shakespeare's creations, appears in pre- 
 cisely similar features of Beethoven's work as a nat- 
 ural piece of high idealism — presented as a melody 
 which is inseparable from the mood of the listener. 
 We cannot escape here from the assumption of a primal 
 connection between the two, which we shall be able to 
 properly define if we do not look upon it as existing 
 between the musician and the popt, — but as between 
 one poetic actor or mimic {Mime), * and another. 
 The secret lies in the directness of the representation, 
 conveyed in the one case by expression and action, 
 and in .the other by living music. That which both 
 create and form is the true work of art, for which the 
 poet only draws the plan — and even this unsuccess- 
 fully, unless he has taken it directly from nature. 
 
 We have seen that the Shakespearean drama is most 
 correctly comprehended under the name of a " definite 
 imitative improvisation ; " and we were obliged to as- 
 
 * In the sense in which Wagner uses it, this word is extremely difficult 
 of translation. Our English " mime " does not express it. He means, 
 of course, to indicate the actor in his character of pure imitator of nature. 
 — Translator. 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 22^5 
 
 sume that the highest poetic value, though emanating 
 at first from the dignity of the material selected, must 
 be secured to such a work of art by the elevation of 
 the style of that improvisation. We cannot be mis- 
 t_aken, therefore, in thinking that such an elevation, to 
 the extent which is really needed, can only be found 
 in that music which stands in just such a relation to it 
 as does Beethoven's music to Shakespeare's dramas. 
 
 The very point in which the difficulty of applying 
 music like Beethoven's to dramas like Shakespeare's 
 is here most prominently to be seen, might, if properly 
 adjusted, lead directly to the highest perfection of 
 musical form, by freeing it from every fetter that may 
 still hamper it. That which so perplexed our great 
 poets in their consideration oflhe opera, and that fea- 
 ture in Beethoven's instrumental music which .still dis- 
 tinctly shows the skeleton of a structure found rather 
 in the same tendency that produced the opera aria 
 and the ballet piece, than in the true nature of music, 
 — these features of conventional composition, though 
 endowed with such wonderfully vigorous life by Beet- 
 hoven's use of melody, would thus most completely 
 disappear before r.n ideal method full of the truest free- 
 dom. Thus inusic, in this respect at least, would 
 adapt itself closely to the thoroughly lifc-fillcd form of 
 a Shakespearean drama, which, when its noble irregu- 
 larity is compared with the drama of the ancients, 
 seems almost like a scene in nature beside an archi- 
 tectural work — while its thoroughly logical character 
 nevertheless is revealed in the certainty of. the effect 
 the work of art produces. In this, too, would be 
 shown the entire novelty of the form of such an art pro- 
 duct which, only conceivable (as an idealized natural 
 production) by employing in it the aid of the German 
 language, the most cultured of modern tongues, could 
 nevertheless deceive the judgment as long as a stand- 
 ard was applied to it which it had entirely outgrown ; 
 — whereas the fitting new standard would be derived 
 10* 
 
226 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 from the impression which the unwritten improvisation 
 of an incomparable composer would make upon one 
 fortunate enough to hear it. The greatest of drama- 
 tists has taught us to give definite form to such an 
 improvisation ; and in the highest conceivable work of 
 art the noblest inspirations of both composer and 
 dramatist should exist as the very essence of the world 
 thus revealed to us in the mirror of the world itself. 
 
 If we adopt, for the work of art which we have in 
 view, this designation : — " a dramatic-musical impro- 
 visation of perfected poetic value, embodied in a fixed 
 form by the highest artistic thought," wc shall find, if 
 we follow the teachings of experience, a surprising light 
 thrown upon the practical points connected with the 
 actual execution of such a work. . 
 
 In a very important sense, and interpreting the 
 matter strictly, our great poets could only be chiefly 
 concerned with the discovery of some method by 
 which a heightened pathos could be added to the 
 drama, and a technical means be found for embodying 
 this. However certain it may be that Shakespeare 
 derived his style from the instincts of the actor's art 
 (der ntimischen Kunst), he must nevertheless have been 
 dependent for the presentation of his dramas on the ac- 
 cident of greater or less talent in his players, who must 
 all have been to a certain extent Shakespeares, just as 
 he himself was always .to a certain extent the character 
 presented ; and we have no reason for the assumption 
 that his genius could have recognized in the perform- 
 ance of his pieces more than the mere shadow of him- 
 self cast upon the stage. 
 
 That which so strongly attracted our great poets tow- 
 ards music was the fact that it was at the same time 
 the purest form and the most sensuous realization of 
 that form. Tlie abstract arithmetical number, the 
 mathematical figure, meets us here as a creation hav- 
 ing an irresistible influence upon the emotions — that 
 is, it appears as melody ; and this can be as unerringly 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 227 
 
 established so as to produce sensuous effect, as the po- 
 etic diction of written language, on the contrary, is aban- 
 doned to every whim, in the personal character of the 
 person reciting it. What was not practically possible 
 for Shakespeare^to be hitnselfihe actor of each one of 
 his rules — is practicable for the musical composer, and 
 this with great definiteness, — since he speaks to us direct- 
 ly through each one of the musicians who execute his 
 works. In this case the transmigration of the poet's 
 soul into the body of the performer takes place ac- 
 cording to the infallible laws of the most positive 
 technique ; and the composer who gives the correct 
 measure for a technically right performance of his 
 work, becomes completely one with the musician who 
 performs it, to an extent that can at most only be 
 affirmed of the constructive artist in regard to a work 
 which he had himself produced in color or stone, — if, 
 indeed, a transmigration of his soul into lifeless matter 
 is a supposable case. 
 
 If we add to this wonderful power in the musician, 
 that capacity of his art which we deduced from the 
 facts we considered in the beginning — the facts that 
 even insignificant music (so long as it is not entirely 
 distorted into the vulgar grotesqueness of certain 
 kinds of opera now popular) makes otherwise unattain- 
 able performances possible to a great dramatic talent, 
 while noble music can dXmost force from insignificant 
 dramatic powers successes impossible in any other w'ky 
 — when we add the results of these facts to the mu- 
 sician's power, we can scarcely feel a doubt as to the 
 reason of the complete failure which this view predicts 
 for the poet of to-day, if he attempts to succeed in 
 mastering the drama, in its noblest sense, by the only 
 means at his command — the capabilities of the same 
 language in which now even newspaper articles speak 
 to us ! 
 
 In this respect, however, our assumption that the 
 highest perfection is reserved for the musically-ar- 
 
228 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 ranged drama, should have a hopeful, rather than a 
 discouraging, influence upon us : for here we are pri- 
 marily concerned with the purification of a great and 
 many-sided department of art — that of the drama as a 
 whole, — the errors of which are to-day both increased 
 and concealed by the. influence of the modern opera. 
 To gain a clear conception of this, and to accurately 
 measure the field of their future productiveness, our 
 dramatists might perhaps find it advisable to trace 
 back the descent of the modern theatre ; but not to 
 seek its origin in the ancient drama, which was in its 
 form a so completely original product of the Hellenic 
 mind, its religion, and even its form of government, 
 that the assumption that it had been imitated by later 
 forms would lead to the greatest errors. The origin of 
 the modern theatre, on the contrary, shows us along 
 the path of its development such an abundance of no- 
 ble productions, of the greatest value, that this path 
 may certainly be followed further without shame. The 
 genuine theatrical " play," in its most modern sense, 
 would have to be the only healthful basis of all further 
 dramatic efforts ; but in order to labor successfully in 
 this direction, it is necessary, first of all, to form a 
 right conception of the spirit of theatrical art, which 
 has its basis in the "art of the actor ; and not to use it 
 for the formulating of tendencies, but as the reflection 
 of life-pictures such as. are really seen. 
 
 The French, who have even recently contributed so 
 much that is excellent in this respect, did not, it is 
 true, look for the appearance of a new Molifere among 
 them every year ; and for us too the birth of a Shake- 
 speare is not to be read in every calendar. 
 
 As far as seeking to satisfy ideal demands is con- 
 cerned, the limit to which such demands may properly 
 go seems to be set, for the influence of the all-power- 
 ful dramatic work of art which we have in view, with 
 greater certainty than has before been possible. This 
 point may be distinctly recognized as existing where, 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 229 
 
 in that art product, song comes in contact with spoken 
 words. Yet by no means an absolutely narrow sphere 
 is indicated by this, but ratheran entirely different and 
 dissimilar one ; and we may at once gain an insight in- 
 to this difference, if we call to mind a certain involun- 
 tary compulsion which forces even our best dramatic 
 singers into excess ; and by which they feel themselves 
 forced to speak an emphatic word in the very midst of 
 their song. Schroder-Devrient, for example, saw her- 
 self compelled to this course by a fearfully highly 
 wrought situation in the opera of " Fidelio," where, 
 holding her pistol bffore the tyrant, she suddenly pos- 
 itively spoke — and with a terrible accent of despair — 
 the last word of the phrase—" another step — and thou 
 art — Dead ! " The indescribable effect of this acted 
 upon every one as a harsh break from one sphere into 
 the other ; and the power of it consisted in this, — that 
 as though by a flash of lightning we gained a sudden 
 insight into the nature of both spheres, — one of them 
 the ideal, and the other the real. It was evident that, 
 for a moment, the ideal one was incapable of bearing 
 a burden which it therefore cast upon the other ; 
 and as especially passionate and excited music is 
 so commonly credited with a purely morbid element 
 inherent in it, it may easily surprise us to recognize 
 from this example how delicate and, purely idjeal. in, 
 form its sphere really is, so that the realistic terrors of 
 actual life cannot be contained in it — though the soul 
 of all reality finds pure expression in music alone. 
 
 Evidently, therefore, there is a side to the world 
 which concerns us most seriously, and the terrible 
 teachings of which are only intelligible to us in the 
 field of observation, in which music must be silent. 
 This field is perhaps best estimated, if we allow our- 
 selves to be led into it by the great actor Shakespeare, 
 as far as the point where we find him overcome by that 
 despairing discouragement which we have thought it 
 necessary to assume as the reason of his early retirement 
 
2 30 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 from the stage. This field may be best called, if not 
 the basis, at least the manifestation of history ; and to 
 properly seize upon its real value for human knowl- 
 edge, must always be left to the poet alone. 
 
 So important and distinct an influence as we could 
 only attempt to indicate here by the merest outline, — 
 an influence exercised not only upon that department 
 of the drama with which it is most closely connected, 
 but on all branches of art, deeply connected with the 
 drama in any way — such an influence could only be 
 possible for the musically-arranged and executed 
 dramatic work that we have referred to, if the latter, 
 in its production before the public, can render itself 
 outwardly intelligible in a consistent way, and thus en- 
 able an opinion of its characteristics to be formed with 
 the necessary freedom. It is so closely related to the 
 opera, that we feel we may rightly look upon it, as far 
 as our present consideration is concerned, as the prov- 
 ince of that branch of art ; none of the possibilities sug- 
 gested to us could have been clear to us, if they had 
 not been manifested for us in the opera in general, and 
 especially in the most admirable works of the great 
 operatic composers. And just as certainly, it was the 
 spirit of music which, in the constantly increasing 
 richness of its development, could have such an influ- 
 ence upon the opera that these possibilities could in any 
 way arise within it. And yet, if we desire to explain 
 the degradation which the opera has undergone, we 
 must seek its cause again in the peculiarities of music. 
 As in painting and even in architecture, the merely 
 " attractive " may displace the beautiful, — so it has 
 been not the less the fate of music to decline from a 
 noble to a merely pleasing art. If its sphere was that 
 of the purest idealism, — if it had so deep an in- 
 fluence on our emotions, and freed what was realistic 
 from everything disagreeable in its representation by 
 the very fact that it showed itself to us as pure form 
 alone, so that what threatened to disturb this fell or 
 
THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 231 
 
 was kept away from it — even if all this was true, yet 
 this pure form, if not placed in an entirely appropriate 
 relation to its environment, might easily seem only 
 suitable for a pleasant plaything, and only be used for 
 such a purpose. This would be the case as soon as it 
 was used, in so unfitting a sphere as the basis of the 
 opera could offer it, as a mere superficial method of 
 giving pleasure to the sense of hearing or arousing the 
 emotions. 
 
 But we are little concerned here with this view, for 
 we began our essay with the complaint made against 
 the effect and the influences of the opera, the unfortu- 
 nate importance of which cannot be better shown than 
 by pointing to the universal experience, that the stage 
 of to-day has long been given up and viewed with 
 complete indifference by the truly educated portion of 
 the nation, who used once to look to it with every hope. 
 If we wish, then, to secure for the work of art we have 
 described, the only esteem which could be just and 
 valuable for it — that of those who have turned with 
 serious displeasure from the recent stage, — this can 
 only be possible outside of all relation with that stage. 
 The neutral ground, however, on which it can be done, 
 though ever so completely separated locally from the 
 field of influence of our theatres, could only bear 
 proper fruit if nourished by the real elements of our 
 histrionic and musical arts. In these alone lies the , 
 truly productive material for genuine dramatic achieve- 
 ment ; every attempt of any other kind must lead not 
 to art, but to an affected artificiality. 
 
 It is our actors, singers, and musicians upon whose 
 own instincts all hope for the attainment of artistic ob- 
 jects must rest, even when these objects themselves 
 may be incomprehensible to them. For they must be 
 the ones to whom these objects will most speedily be- 
 come clear, as soon as their own artistic instincts are 
 put upon the right path toward their recognition. 
 That these instincts of theirs have hitherto been only 
 
232 THE PURPOSE OF THE OPERA. 
 
 guided, by the influences of our stage, toward the de- 
 velopment of the very worst qualities of dramatic am- 
 bition, — this fact must inspire us with the wish to at 
 least occasionally free these otherwise invaluable dra- 
 matic forces from such tendencies, to permit \X\€\x good 
 qualities to gain that practice which would quickly 
 and decidedly make them serviceable in the realization 
 of our proposed art-work. For it is only the peculiar 
 will of this guild of actors, so singular in their errone- 
 ous course, from which the perfect drama we have in- 
 dicated can come, just as Indeed every excellent dra- 
 matic result that has ever appeared has emanated from 
 them. The decline of theatrical art in our time has 
 been brought about less by them than by those who 
 have hitherto — though without any authority — been 
 their leaders. 
 
 jf_weL-desite-tQ-pQmt.o.u.t that, thing which, of ajl on 
 German soil, is and continues to be least worthy of 
 the fame of our great modern triumphs, we must point 
 to the sta^e, the whole course of which has promi- 
 TlKiiLly aira boldly shown it to be a very betrayer of 
 German honor. 
 
 Whoever makes any effort to sustain this course, 
 must submit to a judgment which will necessarily class 
 him with a part of our public life that is of a most 
 doubtful nature, — and from which it will be as difficult 
 to emerge into a sphere of pure art, as it will be to 
 rise from the opera to the ideal drama we have sup- 
 posed. It is certainly true that if, according to Schil- 
 ler's remark (here apparently inexact), that " art has 
 only declined through the fault of the artists" — it can 
 only be elevated again by the artists, and not by those 
 by wliub e'pieasure in art that art suffers injury. To 
 help this elevation of the art-standard by artists — and 
 to help it from without as well — this effort should be 
 the national atonement for the national sin — the evil 
 influence of the modern German stage. 
 
MUSICAL CRITICISM: 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM A LETTER ON THAT SUBJECT TO 
 THE EDITOR OF THE " NEUE ZEITSCHRIFT FUR 
 MUSIK." 
 
 YOU desire me to express to you my opinion as to 
 what part a musical periodical should take with 
 respect to the trial which the music of our day must 
 necessarily undergo, and as to how, by taking part 
 in the trial, it might best subserve the common good. 
 
 At present it is impossible — and I heartily wish it 
 may evermore be unnecessary — for me to engage in 
 any further literary work ; still I will endeavor to ex- 
 plain to you my views as to the matter in hand in the 
 only way possible for me_, viz. , by giving you my opin- 
 ion not as an absolute and binding one, but as one 
 that has proceeded from my peculiar theories, and has 
 had its origin in what must always remain my wish. 
 Hence I will tell you what I should myself do were I 
 from force of circumstances, -or of my own choice, to 
 think of publishing a musical periodical ; it is only 
 by confining myself to this purely personal standpoint 
 that I can communicate my views to you impartially. 
 
 In the first place, I candidly confess to you that at 
 one period of my life I never looked at a musical peri- 
 odical, and that afterwards, I had reason for regarding 
 that period as being, so far at least, one of the hap- 
 piest of my existence. That was the time when, as 
 Kappelmeister in Dresden, I devoted all my energy to 
 the presentation of musical works of art, and when 
 accordingly I thought I must rest all my hopes for 
 the success of art upon the actual representation un- 
 
234 
 
 MUSICAL CRITICISM. 
 
 der my management — on the practical realization of 
 my artistic conceptions. During that period I was so 
 deeply averse to speaking or writing about art that I 
 could only very rarely bring myself to express myself at 
 all. This period I have called one of the happiest of my 
 life ; and it was so, because I could then suffer illu- 
 sion. What I wished to do I never could perform to 
 my full satisfaction ; of all the circumstances which 
 hindered me, I single out two as having a bearing on 
 the subject before us : the total perversion of the public 
 taste, and the brainlessness and the dishonesty of the 
 critics. What the true artist most desires to find is 
 the ingenuousness of pure human sympathy ; he fails 
 to meet with this among our theatre-going public ; 
 then he is forced to seek for help from the side of the 
 cultured artistic intellect — he must engage the medi- 
 tation of criticism. The disgust I soon conceived of 
 the public at length forced me into this needy attitude 
 ■towards criticism; and it was precisely here, where 
 I even sought it, and therefore could not reject it, 
 that I came to fully understand the nature of our 
 modern criticism, and now was forced to engage almost 
 alone in opposition to it. 
 
 What I have since published concerning art does 
 not constitute, as many have supposed, an appeal to 
 popular opinion, but in these writings I turned from 
 the modern public, which I had to give up as a sense- 
 less, heartless mass, and set my face against criti- 
 cism, i. e. against uncritical, false criticism, that criti- 
 cism which is guided neither by sympathy nor by cor- 
 rect understanding ; which rests simply on the igno- 
 rance of the masses, which lives by this ignorance, and 
 even favors it from motives of self-interest. I say I set 
 my face against this kind of criticism ; I did not ap- 
 peal to it. For the thought even of giving it a true 
 direction can never occur to any one who has already 
 been obliged to abandon his hopes of the public. The 
 public is, at least, not wilfulin its perverseness, whereas 
 
MUSICAL CRITICISM. 
 
 235 
 
 criticism is of set purpose and radically perverse. Still 
 I ever made my appeal, as was unavoidable in literary 
 compositions, only to criticism, that is, to the new 
 criticism of right reason ; in other words, the under- 
 standing, which never for a moment deserts its con- 
 stant support, right feeling. Thus I did not appeal to 
 the critical routine of the old method, which was quite 
 divorced from feeling — a method based on the 
 same perversion of feeling and the same stupidity 
 which is seen in the public. My appeal was to the 
 enlightened judgment of those cultured minds which, 
 like my own, are as ill content with the modern public 
 as with the criticism of the present day. 
 
 From that time forward, I again began to look into 
 musical periodicals, and journals devoted to the inter- 
 ests of art in general, for I felt that I must look else- 
 where than to the public for men to whom I could 
 turn for the gratification of my new desire for converse. 
 
 I liad learned, that is, that any effort to appeal to 
 the unrestrained emotions by means of a work of art 
 itself, was entirely rash and fruitless, where such un- 
 restrained and free emotions do not exist to receive 
 the fresh creations of a living art ; I had seen, on the 
 other hand, that it was necessary, above all things, to 
 aim at the destruction of that constraint which we find 
 among the public, hampering the feelings, and fatally 
 destructive for the artist's purpose. Since I was com- 
 pelled to see that the reason of this constraint was 
 deeply-rooted in the elements of our political and 
 social life ; and that only a c implete change in that 
 life could bring about the natural birth of that art 
 which I had in mind ; since I had to make the demand 
 for such a change, as the first thing to be striven for, 
 and to lay special stress upon it, as I did in my earlier 
 writings (" Art and Revolution " and " The Art-work 
 of the Future *) — I must also, looking at the other 
 
 * Two of Wagner's earlier essays in support of his theories — Ktmst 
 und Revolution and Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft. — Tr. 
 
236 MUSICAL CRITICISM. 
 
 side of the matter, perceive that a second influence 
 must be active in bringing about this new birth of art, 
 viz., a consciously existing desire for such an art. 
 And I must consider it the chief task toward which the 
 endeavors of the artist should be directed, to awaken 
 this conscious desire in all those who are dissatisfied 
 with our present art and art-criticism. For he can de- 
 rive the strength for his higher efforts, directed toward 
 the production of the art-work itself, only from the 
 desire of others — and at length of many others. 
 
 But this desire cannot be awakened until we come 
 clearly to see that the present conditions of artist life 
 are unsatisfactory, not because of any accidental cir- 
 cumstance ^some direct result of artistic characteristics, 
 for instance), but for reasons that are essential, and that 
 depend on a long train of causes. And this clear view 
 we now obtain by way of criticism that is analytical 
 and synthetic, healthy, sympathetic and revolutionary, 
 as distinguished from a criticism that knows neither 
 analysis nor synthesis, and which is merely conserva- 
 tive, and desirous of restoring the past. Hence, the 
 first thing we have to do, is to get clear ideas about 
 the status of modern art and the causes why that status 
 is so unsatisfactory. Until this is done, with perfect 
 candor and honesty, we can only go further and fur- 
 ther astray in our efforts to supersede our present art. 
 On the contrary, so soon as we have given clear ideas 
 on this point, we must also gain that strength of will 
 that I have just spoken of, as necessary to aid in the 
 birth of the art of the future, even though the latter 
 may find the actual conditions that make its being 
 possible, to exist only in actual life. 
 
 I am very decidedly of the opinion that the most 
 decisive, because the most necessary, agency for 
 bringing about the birth of the new art is to be found 
 in a periodical devoted to this particular object, and 
 
MUSICAL CRITICISM. 237 
 
 the only question is, how far and within what limits, a 
 simply musical periodical is fitted for a point of union 
 for critical forces employed in this sense ? 
 
 Permit me to answer this question from my own point 
 of view. 
 
 In the first place, I have to inform you that when- 
 ever, in recent years, I have now and then felt a desire 
 to publish my views regarding one phase or another 
 of our art life, I have sought in vain for a periodical in 
 which such communications would be properly in place. 
 I had either to take such as I found, or else suppress 
 my communication altogether. Our aesthetic journals 
 are devoted to the interests of literature — not to those 
 of art ; and hence in their aim (if aim they have) they 
 differ as much from my aim as literature differs from 
 art. They never come in contact with art, properly 
 speaking, but only with art criticism ; they are only 
 kept alive by the possibility of this latter ; and as they 
 heap criticism upon criticism, their office resembles 
 that of the various grades of the police forces in Russia, 
 which supervise each other, the presumption being 
 that each grade needs watching. Now the relation 
 between the people proper, or better, between art and 
 these police forces, is the same as that between art and 
 these artistic-literary journals. In the bureau of these 
 various grades of police, a man would be esteemed a 
 fool or a madman, if he were to give expression to 
 his natural emotions ; and in like manner in these lit- 
 erary journals, the man who has to do only with art 
 is set down for a crack-brained enthusiast. For even 
 when those various grades of police take their broad- 
 est view of a subject, the dominant idea after all is 
 police ; and our literary journals, when they do their 
 best, cannot go beyond the idea of litterateur . 
 
 Our modern music has at least this advantage over 
 literature proper, that it must absolutely be percep- 
 tible by the senses, must be heard in order to be an 
 object of apprehension ; and hence a musical periodi- 
 
238 MUSICAL CRITICISM. 
 
 cal would have one advantageous characteristic, in 
 that at least it deals with the sensible phenomena of 
 an art, which cannot be apprehended at all without 
 such sensible impression ; while on the contrary, even 
 poetic literature, for instance, only exists by being in- 
 dependent of this sensuous influence. 
 
 That music has had need of a literature to be de- 
 voted to its interests and to make men acquainted 
 with it, and hence that there have been " Musical Peri- 
 odicals," is a circumstance which exhibits its weak side; 
 but the same is to be said of all our " fine " arts — 
 architecture, sculpture and painting ; for these arts 
 also have had to call in the aid of periodical literature 
 to diffuse a knowledge of their principles. But what 
 we must aim at, while engaging literature in the service 
 of music, is, so far as possible, to hide away this weak 
 side, to recognize as a defect in our present musical 
 art its dependence on literature, to investigate the 
 nature and causes of this defect, and then resolutely to 
 free music from her dependence upon literature, and 
 place her in a position where she shall no longer need 
 the aid of literature as an interpreter. A musical 
 periodical which should accept this point of view, 
 would possess a character such as must render it 
 most welcome under the present circumstances, and is 
 most necessary for the true interests of art. 
 
 You, my dear friend, have in your most recent ut- 
 terances given us the assurance of your having come 
 to such conclusions as are here indicated, and we have 
 furthermore your promise that henceforth your liter- 
 ary labors will take the direction to which I have just 
 referred. Down to the time of my receiving your 
 announcement I must confess that I never could see 
 the use of a musical periodical. Each new musical 
 journal that made its appearance excited in me only 
 feelings of disgust or of amusement. The opportuni- 
 ties they afforded for talking or scribbling about 
 music, and talking and scribbling about this over 
 
MUSICAL CRITICISM. 
 
 239 
 
 again ; then too the sordid business character of these 
 publications — with no thought at all for music, but all 
 for musical stock and musicians, not to speak of music- 
 making machines ; all this was evidence to me how 
 low down into Byzantinism our music had fallen — a 
 Byzantinism which in my opinion leaves it no more 
 creative force tlian that of an emasculated creature. 
 
 But in your prospectus you disclosed your resolution 
 to break utterly with this system ; in other words to 
 resist its influence, and so far as possible to break it 
 down. 
 
 Inspired by this spirit, the journal will soon be 
 forced to perceive how necessary it is to incorporate 
 the poet with its work ; for it is he who must unite 
 with the real tone-artist, to bring forth the full concord 
 from which the flower of true Musical Art shall spring. 
 We must turn, therefore, to that poet who longs, for 
 his own satisfaction, to free himself from the ruts of 
 merely literary poetry, just as the musical artist, from 
 his peculiar position, longs for the poet. We must 
 open our arms to this poet ; for we cannot feel our- 
 selves justified in absolute hopefulness until we can re- 
 ceive him in the fullest spirit of love. We must see 
 in his attentive approach to us, his gradual drawing 
 near, only evidence of the fact that we, from our stand- 
 point, are on the right and proper way toward the at- 
 tainment of what we wish ; and so long as we cannot 
 perceive this approach on his part, we must be con- 
 vinced that we are ourselves in just such an isolated 
 and lonely position as that from which we seek to en- 
 tice the purely literary poet. The poet cannot enter 
 into association with us until we take away from him 
 the same dislike toward the mere music-maker that we 
 feel toward the mere litterateur ; and he will nourish 
 this dislike as long as he sees us lending our support 
 to the modern trivial style of musical art. The first 
 poet who gives us his hand and aid should prove 
 to us that we have really and completely departed 
 
240 MUSICAL CRITICISM. 
 
 from the old ruts, and have freed ourselves from our 
 unproductive egotism. 
 
 The goal of the united efiforts of three types of 
 artist — the poet, the musical composer, and the actor, 
 can only be a work of art made positively real to the 
 senses by a life-like presentation ; in short, of a work 
 of art that, as compared to the only one now known, 
 shall be in truth "the Art-work of the Future" 
 {Kiinstwcrk der Zukimft) — a work which only the life 
 of the future, it is true, can enable us to produce. 
 To prepare this art-work for the life of the future is 
 the proper endeavor of the artist of the present ; and 
 indeed, in this endeavor lies the security for the ap- 
 pearance of such a work in that life. Until it has be- 
 come fully living, we have none of us reached our 
 goal ; but when we have reached it in the production 
 of this true art-work ; when what we have longed 
 for stands completed, exercising its influence upon 
 our emotions, our criticism, too, is at an end ; then 
 we shall be released from the duties of critics to be- 
 come artists and enjoyers of art ; and then, honored 
 friend — then let your musical journal end — it dies, be- 
 cause the art-work lives ! 
 
 Such an extraordinary, unprecedented, and yet (for 
 our time) so necessary a task can, in my opinion, be 
 performed by a musical periodical. It lies within its 
 power to keep this task steadily in view ; within the 
 power of its present and future editors to completely 
 fulfil it. I am gladly prepared to place myself among 
 these workers ; yet it is my strongest wish to learn 
 that I shall be unnecessary to you. I can give assur- 
 ance that I have done my best, in every way I had of 
 proclaiming my sentiments, to build the way for the 
 new school; as well my purely artistic as my liter- 
 ary works will very possibly serve you and your collab- 
 orators for a while as material for the discussion and 
 
MUSICAL CRITICISM. 241 
 
 development of that school ; and thus I can claim to 
 have done my part in advance for your periodical. 
 
 ********* 
 
 With the heartiest wish for the success of your un- 
 dertaking in the new path, I commend myself to your 
 always friendly consideration as, &c., &c., 
 
 Richard Wagner. 
 
 Zurich, January 25, 1852. 
 11 
 
THE 
 LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEN. 
 
 FROM the womb of night and of death there sprang 
 a race, who dwelt in Nibelheim (Nebelheim, the 
 place of mists), that is, in dim subterranean chasms and 
 cav.es. They were called Nibelungen ; like worms in a 
 dead body, they swarmed in varying, restless activity, 
 through the entrails of the earth ; they wrought in met- 
 als — heated and purified them. Among them Alberich 
 gained possession of the bright and beautiful gold of the 
 Rhine — The Rheingold ; — drew it up out of the depths 
 of the waters, and made from it, with great and cun- 
 ning art, a ring, which gave him power over all his race, 
 the Nibelungen. Thus he became their master, and 
 forced them thenceforth to labor for him alone ; and 
 so collected the inestimable treasure of the Nibelungen, 
 the chief jewel of which was the Tarnhelm (helmet), 
 by means of which one could assume any figure that 
 he chose, and which Alberich had compelled his own 
 brother, Reigin, to forge for him. Thus equipped, 
 Alberich strove for the mastery of the world and all 
 that was in it. The race of the giants — the insolent, 
 the mighty, the primeval race, was disturbed in its sav- 
 age ease ; its enormous strength, its simple wit, were not 
 enough to contend against Alberich's ambitious cun- 
 ning. The giants saw with apprehension how the Nib- 
 elungen forged wondrous weapons, which, in the hands 
 of human heroes, should bring about the ruin of the giant 
 race. The race of the gods, rapidly rising to omnipo- 
 tence, made use of this conflict. Wotan agreed with the 
 giants that they should build for the gods a castle, from 
 which they might order find rule the world in safety ; 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEN. 
 
 243 
 
 but after it was done the giants demanded the treas- 
 ure of the Nibclungen as their reward. The great 
 cunning of the gods succeeded in the capture of Al- 
 bcrich, and he was compelled to give the treasure as 
 ransom for his life. The ring alone he sought to keep ; 
 but the gods knowing well that the secret of his 
 power lay in this, took the ring from him. Then he 
 laid a curse upon it, that it should prove the ruin of 
 all who should possess it. Wotan gave the treasure to 
 the giants ; but the ring he kept, to insure his own 
 omnipotence. The giants, however, forced it from 
 him by their threats, and Wotan yielded at the advice 
 of the three Fates {Nornen) who warned him of the 
 approaching downfall of the gods. 
 
 The giants left the treasure and the rin^on the Gnita 
 plain (The plain of Discord) under the guardianship 
 of an enormous dragon. By means of the ring, how- 
 ever, the Nibelungen, with Alberich, were kept in slav- 
 ery. But the giants did not understand how to make 
 use of their power. It was enough for their clumsy 
 ideas to have once bound the Nibelungen. So the 
 dragon lay from time immemorial, watching with his 
 idle terrors over the treasure. The race of giants 
 faded and died away powerless before the new race of 
 gods ; the Nibelungen suffered on, wretched and ma- 
 licious in their fruitless activity. Alberich brooded 
 ceaselessly over the recovery of his ring. And now the 
 gods, in their high energy, regulated the world, con- 
 trolled the elements by their wise laws, and devoted 
 themselves to the careful guardianship of the human 
 race. Their power ruled over all. Yet the peace 
 through which they held that power was not based 
 upon a reconciliation ; it was brought about by force 
 and deceit. The object of their high rule over the 
 world was a moral consciousness, but the wrong which 
 they had themselves wrought kept its hold upon them. 
 
 From the depths of Nibelheim the consciousness of 
 their wrong-doing rose up against them ; for the slav- 
 
244 "^^^ LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEN. 
 
 ery of the Nibelungen was not broken. Albcrich 
 had only been robbed of his mastery, and this not for 
 a high purpose ; and the soul and the freedom of the 
 Nibelungen lay buried uselessly beneath the body of 
 the idle dragon ; Alberich was right in his reproaches 
 against the gods. 
 
 But Wotan himself could not expiate the wrong 
 without committing a new injustice. Only a free will 
 independent of the gods themselves, which could take 
 upon itself all the fault and do penance for it, had 
 it in its power to loose the enchantment ; and the gods 
 saw the capability of such a free will in man. They 
 sought therefore to infuse their divinity into man, 
 that they might raise his strength so high that he, con- 
 scious of this power, might withdraw himself even 
 from the divine protection, in order to do, according to 
 his own will, what his mind suggested to him. So 
 the gods educated men for this high purpose, to be 
 the expiators of their crime ; and their object was to be 
 attained when they had lost themselves in this human 
 creation — that is, when they must give up their direct 
 influence to the freedom of human consciousness. 
 
 And now mighty races of men, sprung from divine 
 seed, bloomed into being ; they steeled their strength 
 in strife and conflict ; Wotan's maidens watched over 
 them as guardian angels. As Valkyres they led to 
 Walhalla those who had fallen in battle, there to con- 
 tinue in Wotan's companionship a glorious life of mar- 
 tial games. 
 
 But the right hero was still unborn, in whom inde- 
 pendent strength should come to its full consciousness, 
 so that he should be able voluntarily, and with the 
 penance of death before his eyes, to call that boldest 
 deed his own. At last this hero was to be born of 
 the race of the Volsungs. Wotan blessed an unfruitful 
 marriage of this race by giving the wedded pair an 
 apple of Hulda to eat ; twins, Siegmund and Sieg- 
 linda, brother and sister, were the product of the mar- 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELVNGEN. 245 
 
 riage. Siegmund took a .wife, Sieglinda married a 
 husband (Hunding) ; but both marriages remained un- 
 fruitful ; and at length, to beget a true Volsung, the 
 brother and sister themselves joined in wedlock. Hun- 
 ding, Sieglinda's husband, discovered the crime, dis- 
 carded his wife, and attacked Siegmund. Brunhilda the 
 Valkyr aided Siegmund against the command of Wotan, 
 who had decreed his destruction as a punishment for his 
 sin. Siegmund had already, under Brunhilda's pro- 
 tection, drawn the sword which Wotan himself had 
 given him, and was about to deal Hunding a deadly 
 stroke, when the god caught the blow upon his spear, 
 against which the sword broke in two pieces. Sieg- 
 mund fell. Brunhilda was punished by Wotan for 
 her disobedience ; he expelled her from the company 
 of the Valkyres, and banished her to a barren rock 
 where she, the divine virgin, should be given in mar- 
 riage to the man who should find her there and wake 
 her from the sleep into which Wotan had cast her. 
 But she begged as a boon, that Wotan should surround 
 the rock with the terrors of flame, that she might 
 be certain that only the bravest of heroes could win 
 her. 
 
 The banished Sieglinda, after a long pregnancy, 
 brought forth in the wilderness Siegfried (him who 
 through victory should bring peace). Reigin (Mime), 
 Alberich's brother, hearing the cries of Sieglinda in 
 her labor, went to her from his caves and helped her ; 
 after the birth she died, after having revealed to 
 Reigin her fate, and confided to him the boy. 
 
 Reigin brought up Siegfried ; he taught him the 
 arts of the smithy ; told him of the death of his 
 father ; and procured for him the two pieces of the 
 latter's broken sword, from which Siegfried, under 
 Mime's direction, forged the sword Balmung. And 
 now Mime urged the youth to the destruction of the 
 dragon, telling him he would show his gratitude 
 thereby. Siegfried, however, desired first to avenge 
 
246 THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEN. 
 
 the death of his father. He sallied forth, attacked and 
 killed Hunding, and not till then did he fulfil Mime's 
 wish, and overcome and slay the giant dragon. 
 
 As he put his finger, heated with the dragon's blood, 
 into his mouth to cool it, he involuntarily tasted of 
 the blood, and by this means suddenly gained a 
 knowledge of the language of the birds which were 
 singing around him. They praised Siegfried's won- 
 drous deed, pointed out to him the treasure of the 
 Nibelungen in the dragon's cave, and warned him 
 against Mime, who had only made use of him to gain 
 the treasure, and who would now seek his life in order 
 that he might possess that treasure alone. * Upon this 
 Siegfried slew Mime and took from the treasure the 
 ring and the helmet. He then consulted the birds 
 again, who counselled him to win for himself Brunhilda, 
 the most beautiful of women. 
 
 Siegfried now again sallied forth and reached Brun- 
 hilda's rocky fortress, penetrated through the fire that 
 raged around it, and awakened Brunhilda. She joy- 
 fully recognized Siegfried, the noblest hero of the 
 Volsung race, and yielded herself to him ; he wedded 
 her with the ring of Alberich, which he placed upon 
 her finger. When the desire seized him of sallying 
 forth to new feats, she communicated to him by her 
 instructions her secret knowledge, and warned him 
 of the dangers of treachery and faithlessness ; they 
 swore truth to each other, and Siegfried left her. 
 
 A second race of heroes, also of divine origin, was 
 that of the Gibichungen, on the Rhine. Among 
 them were Gunther, and Gudrun his sister. Gun- 
 ther's mother, Crimhilda, had once been ravished by 
 Alberich, and she bore him a natural son, Hagen. 
 As the desires and hopes of the gods rested upon 
 Siegfried, Alberich based his hope of regaining the 
 ring on Hagen, the hero whom he had begotten. 
 Hagen was pale, serious, and gloomy ; his features 
 hardened early ; he seemed older than he was. Even 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELUtfGEN. 
 
 247 
 
 while he was a child, Alberich had secretly revealed to 
 him the knowledge of his father's fate and incited him 
 to strive after the ring. He was strong and powerful ; 
 yet still he did not seem to Alberich mighty enough 
 to slay the dragon. 
 
 As Alberich was now powerless, he had not been 
 able to hinder his brother Mime, when the latter 
 sought to gain the treasure by means of Siegfried ; 
 but now Hagen was to bring about Siegfried's ruin in 
 order to win from him at his death the ring. Hagen was 
 hostile to Gunther and Gudrun ; they feared him, but 
 they esteemed his cunning and experience. The secret 
 of Hagen's wonderful birth, and the fact that he was 
 not his real brother, was known to Gunther ; he had 
 once reproached Hagen with being a bastard. Gun- 
 ther had been instructed by Hagen that Brunhilda 
 was of all women the most to be desired, and aroused 
 by him to a longing to possess her, when Siegfried 
 came among the Gibichungen on the Rhine. Gudrun, 
 inspired with love for Siegfried by the praise which 
 Hagen had lavished upon him, gave Siegfried, by 
 Hagen's advice, a goblet of welcome prepared through 
 Hagen's art in such a way that it caused Siegfried to 
 forget his life with Brunhilda, and his espousal with 
 her. Siegfried sought Gudrun for his wife, and Gunther 
 consented on condition that he should aid him to gain 
 Brunhilda. Siegfried agreed to this ; they swore an 
 oath of brotherhood to one another, from which Hagen, 
 however, held himself aloof. Siegfried and Gunther 
 entered upon their journey, and arrived at Brunhilda's 
 rock-fortress ; Gunther remained in their ship, and 
 Siegfried for the first and only time made use of his 
 power as ruler of the Nibelungen, by putting on the 
 helmet and assuming by its aid the figure and appear- 
 ance of Gunther. So he penetrated through the 
 flames to Brunhilda. She, already robbed of her 
 maidenhood by Siegfried, had also given up her super- 
 human power ; all her wisdom she had given over to 
 
248 THE LEGEND OF THE NTBELUNGEN. 
 
 Siegfried, who made no use of it ; now she was pow- 
 erless as any ordinary woman, and could make only a 
 fruitless resistance to the new, bold suitor ; he seized 
 from her the ring, with which she was now to be es- 
 poused to Gunther, and forced her into a room where 
 he slept by her side during the night, but, to her sur- 
 prise, with his sword lying between them. In the 
 morning he brought her to the ship, where he per- 
 mitted the real Gunther to take his place unremarked 
 by her side ; and he transported himself by the 
 powers of the helmet at once to the Gibichenburg on 
 the Rhine. Gunther reached his home upon the Rhine 
 with Brunhilda, who followed him in gloomy silence ; 
 Siegfried, at Gudrun's side, and Hagen, received them 
 when they arrived. 
 
 Brunhilda was filled with rage when she saw Sieg- 
 fried as Gudrun's husband ; his cold, friendly indiffer- 
 ence toward her filled her with amazement ; but she 
 guessed the treachery that had been wrought against 
 him, and demanded the ring which did not belong to 
 him, but which Gunther had received from her ; he 
 refused it. She demanded of Gunther that he should 
 take the ring from Siegfried ; Gunther was perplexed 
 and hesitated. Brunhilda asked — did Siegfried then 
 receive the ring from her ? But Siegfried, who re- 
 cognized the ring, said, " I received it from no 
 woman ; my own strength won it from the giant 
 dragon ; by it I am the ruler of the Nibelungen, and 
 I will give up its power to no man." Hagan stepped 
 between them and asked Brunhilda whether she 
 certainly recognized the ring? If it was her ring, 
 then Siegfried might have become possessed of it by 
 treachery, and it could only belong to Gunther her 
 husband. Brunhilda cried out with indignation at the 
 trick that had been played upon her, and a terrible 
 thirst for revenge against Siegfried filled her soul. 
 She cried out to Gunther that he had been betrayed 
 by Siegfried ; — " I am not married to thee, but to 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEN. 249 
 
 this man ; he received my favors." Siegfried re- 
 proached her with falsehood ; declared that he had been 
 true to his oath of brotherhood — that he had laid his 
 sword between Brunhilda and himself ; he demanded 
 of her that she should bear witness to this. Purposely, 
 and aiming solely at his ruin, she would not under- 
 stand him ; she declared that he lied, and falsely ap- 
 pealed to his sword Balmung, that she had seen hang- 
 ing quietly on the wall while he lay lovingly by her 
 side. 
 
 The men and Gudrun besought Siegfried to repel 
 the accusation if he could, and Siegfried swore a sol- 
 emn oath in confirmation of what he had said. Brun- 
 hilda accused him of perjury ; he had sworn so many 
 oaths to her and Gunther, she said, that he had 
 broken. Now he swore to a perjury to strengthen a 
 lie. All was in a furious excitement. Siegfried cried 
 out to Gunther to restrain his wife, who so shamelessly 
 maligned her own and her husband's honor ; he him- 
 self departed with Gudrun into their chamber. 
 
 Gunther, in the deepest shame and wretchedness, 
 seated himself apart and covered his face ; and Hagen 
 approached Brunhilda, who was consumed by the 
 most fearful rage. He offered himself as the avenger 
 of her honor ; but she laughed at him, as powerless to 
 conquer Siegfried ; a single glance from his glowing 
 eyes, such as had shone upon her even through his 
 deceitful disguise, would break Hagen's courage. Then 
 Hagen said he knew Siegfried's mighty strength full 
 well ; — that she must tell him, therefore, how he was to 
 be overcome. She, who had hallowed Siegfried, and 
 had secured him, by secret charms, against wounds, 
 advised Hagen that he must strike him in the back ; for 
 that as she knew the hero would never turn his back 
 to his foes, she had not made that also enchanted. 
 
 Gunther was informed of the plan of murder. They 
 called upon him to avenge his honor, and Brunhilda 
 covered him with accusations of cowardice and treach- 
 11* 
 
250 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEN. 
 
 ery, until at last he acknowledged his fault, and the 
 necessity of ending his shame by Siegfried's death. 
 Yet he was filled with horror at the thought of being 
 guilty of breach of his oath of brotherhood. Brun- 
 hilda scoffed at him bitterly ; what breaches of faith 
 had not been committed against her ? And Hagen 
 urged him on by the prospect of gaining the Nibelun- 
 gen-ring, which Siegfried would let go at his death. 
 At last Gunther consented ; Hagen planned a hunt for 
 the next day, when Siegfried should be attacked ; per- 
 haps his murder could be concealed from even Gud- 
 run. Gunther was anxious on her account, for Brun- 
 hilda's thirst for revenge was sharpened by jealousy of 
 her. — Thus Siegfried's death was decided on. 
 
 Siegfried now appeared with Gudrun in the hall, 
 brilliantly arrayed, and invited them to a sacrifice and 
 the marriage feast. The conspirators obeyed with 
 hypocritical readiness, and Siegfried and Gudrun re- 
 joiced at the apparent restoration of peace. 
 
 On the following morning, Siegfried, following 
 the game, wandered into a lonely rocky defile on the 
 Rhine. Three water-sprites suddenly rose from the 
 flood before him ; they were the wise daughters of those 
 depths from which Alberich had once taken the clear 
 Rhine-gold, to make from it his mighty mystic ring. 
 The curse and the power of this ring would be forever 
 at an end, if it should be given back to the waters, and 
 thus dissolved again in its original pure element. The 
 water-sprites longed for the ring, and besought Sieg- 
 fried to give it to them ; but he refused it. (He had 
 taken upon himself, while sinless, the sin of the gods, 
 and now he brought the penance of their wrong upon 
 himself by his pride and unyielding spirit.) 
 
 The sprites told him of the evil and the curse con- 
 nected with the ring ; he must cast it into the waters, 
 or he would not outlive the day. But Siegfried said 
 "you shall not cheat me of my power, ye cunning 
 women ; I care not a hair for the curse or for your 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEN. 25 1 
 
 threats. What my own courage suggests to me is my 
 first law ; and what I do according to my own beliefs, 
 that is decided for me. You may call this curse or 
 blessing, but I shall obey it, and shall not strive 
 against my own power." Then the women asked 
 him — " Willst thou surpass the gods ? " 
 
 And he said, " If you would show me the way to 
 overcome the gods, I would fight against them with 
 all my courage. I know three wiser women than you ; 
 and they know how the gods will some day be in bit- 
 ter straits. It must be the care of those devoted to 
 the gods, to see that I then fight on their side. 
 Therefore I laugh at your threats ; the ring remains 
 mine, — and thus I cast life behind me," and he took 
 up a clod of earth and threw it backward over his 
 head. 
 
 Then the women made sport of Siegfried, who 
 thought himself as strong and wise as he was really 
 blind and dependent. 
 
 " He has broken his oath, though he knows it not ; 
 he has lost a thing of higher value than the ring, 
 though he knows it not ; runes and enchantments 
 have been taught him, and he has forgotten them. 
 Farewell, Siegfried ! We know a proud woman who 
 will have the ring to-day, when thou art slain. Let 
 us turn to her ! She will give us a better hearing ! " 
 
 Siegfried looked laughing after them, as they floated 
 singing away, and cried, " If I were not true to Gud- 
 run, I would have captured one of you ! " Then he 
 heard his companions in the hunt approaching, and 
 wound his horn ; and the hunters, Gunther and Hagen 
 at their head, assembled about him. They took their 
 hunters' meal ; and Siegfried, in merry mood, made 
 sport of himself on account of his fruitless hunt ; — only 
 water-game had offered itself to him, for hunting which 
 he was unfortunately unprepared ; — otherwise, he 
 would have brought to his companions three wild 
 v/ater-birds, who had prophesied to him that he would 
 
252 THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEN. 
 
 die this very day. Hagen, drinking, took up the jest, 
 and asked him if he really understood the song and 
 speech of the birds ? 
 
 Gunther was gloomy and silent, and Siegfried sought 
 to cheer him, relating in songs the story of his youth, 
 his adventure with Mime, his slaying of the dragon, 
 and how it came about that he understood the song 
 of the birds. In the remembrance which this recalled 
 to him he suddenly recollected the advice the birds 
 had given him to seek out Brunhilda ; how he had 
 gone to the flaming rock and awakened her. The re- 
 membrance grew clearer and clearer within him. 
 Suddenly two ravens flew swiftly above his head. 
 Hagen interrupted him ; — " What do those ravens tell 
 thee ? " Siegfried sprang quickly up ; and Hagen 
 said, " I understood them that they hasten to an- 
 nounce thy coming to Wotan." With that he thrust 
 his spear into Siegfried's back. 
 
 Gunther, guessing by Siegfried's story the truth of 
 his incomprehensible relations with Brunhilda, and sud- 
 denly recognizing from it Siegfried's innocence, had 
 seized Hagen's arm to save the hero, but without being 
 able to avert the stroke. Siegfried raised his shield to 
 dash down Hagen with it, but his strength failed him, 
 and he sank groaning to the earth. Hagen had 
 turned away ; Gunther and his men gathered sympa- 
 thizing and agitated about Siegfried, when he opened 
 his eyes once more and cried — " Brunhilda ! Brun- 
 hilda ! thou glorious child of Wotan ! How fair and 
 bright thou comest to me ! Thou saddlest thy steed, 
 smiling gravely and solemnly, thy steed that strides 
 dripping with dew through the heavens. Thou guidest 
 his course toward me — for here there is a hero for thy 
 choosing ! O happy I, whom thou dost cherish as thy 
 husband ! Lead me now to Valhalla that I may drink 
 there, to the honor of all heroes, the mead thou offerest 
 me, thou glorious handmaid — the mead of the Great 
 Father ! Brunhilda ! Brunhilda ! I greet thee ! " 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEH. 253 
 
 Thus he died. And the men raised his corpse upon 
 his shield, and, led by Gunther, bore it away in solemn 
 procession over the rocky heights. 
 
 They set down the corpse in the hall of the Gibech- 
 ungen, the court of which opened at the rear upon the 
 banks of the Rhine. Hagen had called forth Gudrun 
 with a shrill cry, telling her that a wild boar had slain 
 her husband. Filled with horror, Gudrun threw her- 
 self upon Siegfried's body ; she accused the brothers of 
 his murder ; but Gunther pointed to Hagen ; he was 
 the wild boar, the murderer of the hero. And Hagen 
 said — " If I have slain him then, whom none other 
 dared touch, what was his, is my rightful booty. The 
 ring is mine ! " Gunther stepped before him : — 
 " Shameless bastard ! the ring is mine — Drunhilda 
 meant it for me ! Hear me, all of you I " 
 
 Then Hagen and Gunther fought, and Gunther fell. 
 Hagen sought to draw the ring from the body, but it 
 raised its hand threateningly. Hagen shrank back in 
 horror — Gudrun shrieked aloud. Then Brunhilda 
 strode solemnly between them : ' ' Silence your clamor ; 
 your idle rage ! Here stands his wife whom you have 
 all betrayed ! I demand my right — for what was to hap- 
 pen has come to pass." " Wretch !" cried Gudrun, 
 " It was thou who wrought us ruin." But Brunhilda 
 said, " Silence, miserable one 1 Thou wast but his mis- 
 tress. I am his wife, to whom he swore faith before 
 he had even seen thee ! " " Woe is me ! " Then cried 
 Gudrun, " Accursed Hagen, why didst thou advise me 
 of the draught by which I stole her husband from her ? 
 For now I know it was but the draught that made him 
 forget Brunhilda." 
 
 Then Brunhilda said* — " Oh, he is pure ! Never 
 were vows more truly kept than he kept them. 
 And Hagen has not slain him — no, he has but 
 marked him out for Wotan, to whom I am now to lead 
 him. For now I too have done my penance ; I am 
 
254 ^^^ LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNGEN. 
 
 pure and free ; for only he, the noble one, has had mc 
 to wife." 
 
 Then she had a funeral pyre built upon the bank to 
 burn Siegfried's body ; no horse, no slave was to be 
 sacrificed with him ; she alone would offer her body to 
 the gods in his honor. But first she took possession 
 of her inheritance ; the helmet should be burned with 
 him, but the ring she herself put on. 
 
 And she said: — "Thou hero overbold, how didst 
 thou hold me bound to thee ! I told thee all my 
 knowledge ; thee, a mortal — and so I had to part with 
 my own wisdom. But thou madest no use of it — thou 
 trustedst to thyself alone. And now that thou must 
 needs give it up in death, my knowledge comes back 
 to me, and I know again the runes of this ring. I 
 know too, the runes of the primal law, the old utter- 
 ance of the Fates ! Hear then, ye glorious gods, your 
 wrong is expiated ! Thank him, the hero, who took 
 your fault upon himself! He gave it into my hand to 
 end the work ; the slavery of the Nibelungen i.s abol- 
 ished — :the ring shall bind them no more ! yet Alberich 
 shall not receive it ; he shall enslave you no longer ; 
 but he himself shall be as free as you. For I give this 
 ring to you, wise sisters of the watery depths ; the 
 flame that burns me, shall purify the evil treasure. 
 Dissolve it and keep it harmless — the Rhinegold that 
 was stolen from you, that slavery and wrong might be 
 forged from it ! Thou only, Father of all, shalt reign ! 
 That thy power may be eternal, I lead him to thee ! 
 Receive him nobly— he is worthy of it ! " 
 
 And amid solemn songs, Brunhilda mounted Sieg- 
 fried's funeral pyre. Gudrun bent in bitter grief over 
 the murdered Gunther. The flames rose above Sieg- 
 fried and Brunhilda ; suddenly they streamed up in 
 brightest lustre, and above a dark cloud of smoke arose 
 a glory, in which Brunhilda, armed and mounted upon 
 her steed as a Valkyr, led Siegfried by the hand. 
 
 At the same moment the waves of the Rhine rose to 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE NIBELUNCEN. 355 
 
 the entrance of the hall ; the three water-spirits bore 
 away upon them the helmet and the ring. Hagen 
 rushed madly toward them to tear the treasure from 
 them ; but they seized him and bore him with them to 
 the depths below. 
 
THE 
 OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 THE CIRCUMSTANCES LEADING TO ITS INCEPTION, 
 AND TO THE FORMATION OF WAGNER-ASSOCIA- 
 TIONS (WAGNER- VEREINE).* 
 
 THE kind reader has seen from the closing pass- 
 ages of the preface to my trilogy, t the hope- 
 less mood which finally suggested to me the adoption 
 of a course with regard to the completed parts of my 
 musical composition, which was not much more con- 
 soling than that I had adopted when I sacrificed the 
 poem itself as a purely literary product. If I ex- 
 tracted from my scores and carefully arranged a few 
 fragments for a concert performance, I thought I might 
 flatter myself, as in the case of my edition of the poem, 
 with the idea that it was not altogether impossible to 
 succeed by this method in attracting the necessary at- 
 
 * This account of the difficulties which he encountered in endeavoring 
 to secure a production of the " Ring of the Nibehingen " (his great 
 trilogy), is given by Wagner under the foUovfing title : " Bayreuth. I. 
 Schliissbericht iiber die Umstiinde untl Schicksale welche die Ausfiihrung 
 des Biihnenfestspieles 'der Ring des Nibelungen,' bis zur Urvindung von 
 Wagner-Vereinen begleiteten." It has been thought best to replace this 
 long title by the briefer and equally intelligible one given above. — 
 Translator. 
 
 f Printed in the sixth volume of the German edition of Wagner's col- 
 lected works, but not included in this translation. — Tr. 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 257 
 
 tention to my work and the theories connected with 
 it. And indeed, it was surprising to see these frag- 
 ments of a music which had come into being, unlike any- 
 other in the world, solely with a view to a great dram- 
 atic whole, accepted by the public, even when they came 
 to theni in this wretched way, with the most lively ap- 
 plause ; it was an experience that might have seemed, 
 looking at it fairly, to confirm with extraordinary 
 force the hitherto accepted view, — that in the plan of 
 my work I had completely fallen into the chaos of 
 obscurity and impossibility. But still the general 
 opinion prevailed that it was best to have nothing to 
 do with me. 
 
 Under such impressions my frame of mind at last 
 reached such a point that I felt compelled to undertake 
 something which should take me out of the atmos- 
 phere of Ml wishes, hopes, imaginings, and especially 
 efforts, in behalf of my great work. So I planned the 
 " Meistersinger von Nlirnberg." But a small part of 
 the musical composition of this new work was finished, 
 however, when the prince whom I besought fate to 
 send to me,* really entered into my life's affairs. 
 
 No poetic diction, not even a whole poetic diction- 
 ary, could contain a phrase fit to describe the beauty 
 of the experience which suddenly, at the call of a 
 noble, thoughtful king, now began in my existence. 
 For it was truly a king who cried to me in my chaos : 
 — " Come ! Finish thy work ! I wish it ! " 
 
 The remote future, if my work should live till then, 
 cannot be prevented from learning the circumstances 
 which, from that decisive event until now, have hin- 
 dered my work from becoming an accomplished 
 fact. It seemed as though, as soon as I was placed 
 with my artistic purpose in the full light of pub- 
 licity, all the opposition to it that had hitherto 
 
 * In the passage of the preface to the " Nibelungen," referred to above. 
 — Tr. 
 
2S8 THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 nursed itself in secret, was to break forth with its 
 full hostile power. It seemed as though there were 
 no interest, among all those represented in our press 
 and our society, which the carrying out of my work 
 and the plan of its performance did not oppose in the 
 most destructive manner. In order to evade the 
 shameless direction which was taken by this hostility, 
 proceeding from every sphere of society and directed 
 against the patron as well as the prot6g6, I thought it 
 incumbetjt upon me to tone down the conspicuous and 
 vigorous character of the undertaking as it had at first 
 been boldly conceived, and so to bring the matter into 
 a state in which it would be able to conceal those of its 
 characteristics which had drawn down the general rage 
 upon it. I even sought to distract public attention 
 from it altogether, by devoting some hardly gained 
 leisure to finishing the score of my " Meistersinger," 
 in order that I might show myself, by this work, to be 
 apparently quite in accord with the ordinary course in 
 theatrical matters. 
 
 But the lessons which I derived from the fate of 
 this work (which was favorably received by the public), 
 and my experience of the spirit of our German stage, 
 decided me to entirely refrain from all further rela- 
 tions of any kind with the latter. The peculiar char- 
 acter of German art-ideas, so far as they express them- 
 selves in the public taste in theatrical matters, must 
 make it manifest to any one of even the slightest criti- 
 cal ability, as soon as he came into any direct connec- 
 tion with the stage, that all his efforts for the improve- 
 ment of that stage, in so far as he seeks the support of 
 an energetic popular opinion to aid him, must be in 
 vain, and can only excite indignation against him. 
 And for this reason it remained impossible for me to 
 persuade myself to take any further part in the efforts 
 which I had myself begun (yielding to the storm), to 
 have some detached parts of my great work performed. 
 Even the result of these attempts has never been 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 259 
 
 Stated to me in detail ; for my friends knew that I de- 
 sired to be spared its recital. 
 
 But the very sacrifice that I have here described, 
 made it possible for me to obey the first words of my 
 noble benefactor — " complete your work." I had 
 gained anew that quiet shelter, far from every sound, 
 from which I had once looked out into the silent alpine 
 region,* as I formed my stupendous scheme, and be- 
 gan the execution of that which I was now permitted 
 to finish. 
 
 The strong and faithful protection which now watched 
 over the carrying out of my work, is the same which 
 made it possible for me to enter hopefully and trust- 
 fully upon the path which should bring my completed 
 composition to its originally-intended performance, in 
 the fullest sense. For if one class opposed the noble 
 decision of the single power that protected me, I 
 could now, with the work that had been completed 
 under the shelter of that power, turn to an entirely 
 different class, to which I could fully entrust it and the 
 possibility of its performance. 
 
 To this end I came forward with a " Communication 
 and Appeal to the Friends of my Art," t which I be- 
 gan with an explanation of my plan, such as was laid 
 down in the preface before referred to ; and I added 
 to it the following more accurate sketch of the charac- 
 ter of my undertaking, and of the advantages which I 
 believed might be gained from it, for the German stage 
 in general. 
 
 " I have already sufficiently pointed out, in my ex- 
 planation of my earlier plan, that under the peculiar 
 circumstances in which I found myself placed with my 
 principal work, I especially desired to secure an abso- 
 lutely correct performance of it, inasmuch as it seemed 
 
 * See Autobiography, p. 23. — Translator. 
 
 \ MitthHlung und Aufforderung an die Freunde meiner Kunst. 
 
26o THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 to me the most lamentable feature of the modern 
 stage, that all the performances that it brings before 
 the public, with perhaps the exception of the lowest 
 class, suffer under the cardinal sin of incorrectness. 
 The reason for this has been several times pointed out 
 by me in other places than this, and I will only speak 
 of it here as lying in the lack of originality of our 
 theatrical productions. That our theatrical perform- 
 ances are only imperfect and often entirely distorted 
 imitations of non-German dramatic art, can by no 
 means be concealed by the fact that even our German 
 authors are all imitators of foreign models in the con- 
 ception as well as the style of their dramatic composi- 
 tions. Whoever knows anything of our stage, must 
 derive from this fact a false impression of theatric art 
 in general, — an impression which leads, with really cul- 
 tured people, to a contempt for it, and with the great 
 and less critical theatrical public to a degradation of 
 taste, the reaction of which upon the spirit of the stage 
 forces this latter to a still greater lowness of tone. 
 
 " The only practicable way in which our stage can be 
 even gradually improved, seems to me to be this :— ^ 
 that works which, on account of their very originality, 
 require the greatest accuracy of detail in their produc- 
 tion, in order to make the proper impression upon the 
 public, shall not at present be committed to this stage, 
 since it cannot assimilate to their tone without greatly 
 lowering it, and making it practically unintelligible. 
 But on the other hand such works might be made ex- 
 ceedingly useful to our authors if performed outside 
 of this stage and beyond its injurious influence, thus 
 showing them, by perfect accuracy and unmixed 
 purity, universally understood models of what was 
 before unintelligible to them. 
 
 ' ' The German stage cannot be helped by the mere 
 laying down of artistic principles ; for the stage, in 
 whatever condition it is, has become a habit with the 
 people, and is therefore a power. Its errors are based 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 26 1 
 
 upon its whole organization, which has established it- 
 self among us — a faulty imitation of foreign matter, 
 like our French fashions in dress. If then we must 
 confess ourselves too weak to contend against its exist- 
 ence, we must look to an entirely new institution, as 
 far as possible withdrawn from the influence of the thea- 
 tre, if we really have at heart the development of the 
 true, essential German spirit in this branch of art — so 
 incomparably powerful in its influence upon the public 
 mind. 
 
 " My own difficulty suggested to me the conception 
 of the leading features of such an institution. It 
 would be in complete accord with the German nature, 
 now developing itself politically in the newly-restored 
 German Empire ; for the forces exerted in it would 
 always belong to parts of a great whole. It should 
 offer nothing more than a common place for the 
 periodical meeting of the best theatrical strength of 
 Germany, for the practice and performance of their 
 art in a high and truly original German style, such as it 
 cannot be made possible for them to attain in the 
 ordinary round of their daily duties. 
 
 " In regard to the possibility of theatrical perform- 
 ances carried out in this sense, I relied especially 
 upon the appreciation which my own dramatic works 
 had met with among the German public ; for I assume 
 that such appreciation would be extended in a still 
 greater degree to my greatest work, if I declare that 
 this is composed in a style the correctness of which I 
 could onl)' expect to prove by so correct a theatrical 
 presentation as could only be secured by the carrying 
 out of the plan I have proposed. I count with confi- 
 dence upon a corresponding result, not of my work 
 as such, but of the complete correctness of its perform- 
 ances, and I assume that this result would first show 
 itself in a desire for the periodical repetition of similar 
 performances, for which (and perhaps this might ex- 
 tend to all branches of dramatic art) only such works 
 
262 THE OPERA BOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 should be selected as seem to be entitled by the origin- 
 ality of their conception and the true German nature 
 of their style, to a peculiarly accurate theatrical repre- 
 sentation. 
 
 " As I have expressed myself more fully elsewhere 
 on the salutary and in every way beneficial results of 
 such an undertaking, if it should prove successful, I 
 will only indicate here the way in which it seems to 
 me that the project, destined to be gradually extended, 
 can be practically carried out. 
 
 ' ' In the first place, I believe that I may appeal to 
 the energetic support of true friends of my art, by 
 asking them to give me the assurance of their aid in 
 the attainment of my object — a performance of my 
 great trilog}'. I now formally request them to make 
 themselves known to me, by simply announcing to 
 me their favorable disposition toward my undertaking. 
 If I am so fortunate as to gain in this way a satisfac- 
 tory hope of success, a simple plan will be suggested 
 to those who have announced themselves as friends of 
 my scheme, by which they will be enabled, as an or- 
 ganized society with a common aim, to make them- 
 selves patrons of and participants in the performances 
 I have in view. I should still venture to attribute to 
 this scheme, based upon a voluntary union of its sup- 
 porters, the character of a truly national undertaking 
 in a high sense, even if friends of my art outside Ger- 
 many should announce to me their support of the 
 plan ; for I may assume that, considering the great 
 attention now paid by cultured foreigners td the spirit 
 of German art in this branch, the purity and original- 
 ity of its development are matters of great importance, 
 if the expectations of its beneficial influence formed 
 in other countries are to be fulfilled. At the same 
 time all this tends to benefit that which must be so im- 
 portant to us in the best national sense. 
 
 " If this first undertaking should be carried out, on 
 the basis of a voluntary union of its supporters, to the 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREVTH. 263 
 
 immediate object indicated — that of a successful re- 
 sult, and one which I imagine would be very instruc- 
 tive as to the fate of my further schemes — then the 
 plan would need to be considered of establishing, 
 from this isolated project, a really national art-institu- 
 tion. As I have already given my views of the char- 
 acter and influence of such an institution, and espec- 
 ially of the differences between this and our existing 
 stage, the only point now needing to be established is 
 the belief that this in turn could be best accomplished 
 by a union of all, or at least of the specially endowed, 
 German theatres. 
 
 " If I entirely disregarded this point as far as the 
 attainment of my immediate object was concerned, I 
 did so from the well-founded knowledge that in the 
 present state of the theatres and their directors, any 
 appeal I might make to them would lead, at the best, 
 only to the greatest misconceptions, and as a result of 
 these, to a hopeless complication. Only the influence 
 which I can look for from a successful result of my 
 undertaking, could have a sufficiently enhghtening 
 effect here ; and of course a favorable influence could 
 only be exerted upon the theatres by the permanent 
 institution I have suggested, if that institution should 
 be finally founded and supported by the theatres them- 
 selves. 
 
 " To lay down the right basis for such action, might 
 then become the serious task of an imperial official, 
 busied with the elevation of the national morality in 
 its highest sense. For it is certain that the public 
 morality can be easily judged by the character of the 
 public art of a nation ; and no art has so powerful an 
 effect upon the fancy and spirit of a people as the 
 theatrical representations daily presented to it. Even 
 if we have a doubt as to whether the very questionable 
 influence of the German stage has been brought about 
 through the condition of the nation's morality, and even 
 if we desire to look upon the result of that influence hith- 
 
264 ^^^ OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 erto as a mere misleading of the public taste, it may 
 nevertheless be positively asserted that an ennobling of 
 that taste, and of the morals necessarily influenced by 
 it, can be most energetically directed and supported by 
 the stage. And to have called the attention of the 
 nation's leaders to these considerations, would not be 
 the smallest part of the satisfaction which I could 
 receive from a successful result of the undertaking 
 which I have herewith announced." 
 
 Although I consider that I expressed myself suffi- 
 ciently clearly in the preceding notice, in regard to the 
 importance I attributed to the undertaking in aid of 
 which I appealed to the friends of my art, yet I desire 
 now to more carefully point out the characteristics 
 which I attributed to that " other class " to which I 
 referred before. 
 
 Permit me first of all to repeat from my account of 
 the fate of my " Nibelungen," a phrase in which I en- 
 deavored to explain my- decision, in every subsequent 
 art-undertaking, to turn for support from Paris to Ger- 
 many. I said : — " It was my knowledge of the unex- 
 ampled confusion and hopelessness of the Parisian art 
 element, which sharpened my view of the secret that 
 lay at the root of this." This " secret," in part exist- 
 ing clearly and truly in my own mind, has to be partly 
 sought in that same demoralized public element, in 
 order to make it as clear as that of which I was myself 
 conscious. It was a great delight to me, after despair- 
 ing endeavors which brought me into some singular 
 relations, to recognize this secret as the true essence 
 of the German spirit (das wahre Wes'en des deutschen 
 Geistes), Among perplexities of every kind I was 
 forced to come to the decision that the repulsive shape 
 in which this spirit exposed itself to popular criticism, 
 was a complete distortion of it, and that it appeared 
 so ill — in many respects so laughable — in its present 
 
THE OFERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 265 
 
 guise, might be taken, on more careful examination, 
 as an evidence of its original high character. 
 
 History teaches us for what a noble gain the German 
 sacrificed his outward independence during more than 
 two whole centuries. That for two whole centuries he 
 was only known as " a German" among the nations 
 of Europe, by the lack of independence shown in his 
 outward bearing and by the awkwardness and even lu- 
 dicrousness of his public behavior, — this fact is less 
 shameful to him, considering the wretched circum- 
 stances attending his life, than if he had worn the garb 
 so forced upon him with a grace and ease that would 
 have made him unrecognizable in it, — as th? Pole has 
 worn the gffeirment of French culture. It could be seen 
 from the verj' disagreeable characteristics of his social 
 nature, that his real character was not involved in 
 them ; this latter was only manifested in what was 
 always recognizable as a distorted form. But not to 
 despair in the presence of the pitiable distortion, re- 
 quired almost as strong a faith as the Christian has to 
 constantly oppose to the illusions of the world. It 
 was such a faith that inspired a German statesman of 
 to-day with the courage to reveal to the world by his 
 vigorous action, what he knew to be the secret of the 
 nation's political strength. The secret of the revelation 
 to which / long to contribute, consists in the fact that 
 the now-honored German has a national type of art, 
 too, that is worthy of esteem. 
 
 And verily, faith in the strength of this secret force 
 and in the possibility of bringing it to light, required 
 hardly less courage than that statesman needed, who 
 only had to estimate accurately the long-treasured 
 strength of an organization that had always remained 
 alive and in process of development, in order to have 
 that strength entirely at his command. The artist, on 
 the contrary, working in that sphere most intimately 
 connected with and exercising most influence upon the 
 public, finds the really hopeless neglect of the national 
 12 
 
266 THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREVTH. 
 
 art-spirit embodied in an organization almost as strong 
 as that in which the statesman found the mihtary 
 strength of the country. 
 
 What was most difficult and painful to overcome in 
 the conflict in the case of the artist, was that in this 
 very sphere (the nature of which I have sufficiently 
 indicated) the corruption of the German art-spirit had 
 extended not only to the aesthetic perception and 
 judgment, and the disposition most receptive of such 
 influences, but even to the moral sense of all those 
 who shared in the gain received from this corruption. 
 An art which no one of those practising it really un- 
 derstands and loves for itself, must diffuse, in all its 
 contact with the public life, an atmosphere of frivolity 
 which, the further the influence of such an art extends, 
 poisons more and more widely all which it touches. 
 
 Where was I to look, then, among the deeply-seated 
 forces of our elaborately and powerfully-organized so-- 
 cial life, for the secret force which corresponded to that 
 which I believed in ? It would seem impossible to 
 allow the statesman any influence here. We should 
 soon see how frivolous and ludicrous everything in this 
 matter appears, if we should imagine that one of our 
 parliaments could discuss it. Those who, after their 
 exertions in affairs of state, 
 
 "In Ruh' was gutes speisen woUen," * 
 
 can hardly be expected to see that everything in this 
 department, too, is in as disgraceful a condition as 
 were German politics before their great upheaval. 
 We are only sorry that the gentlemen should find such 
 bad and unnutritious dishes ; but if we toil and make 
 every sacrifice to furnish their table well for once, we 
 cannot prevent their enjoying the bad to-morrow with 
 as much zest as they show in the enjoyment of the 
 
 * " Want to enjoy a good meal in peace — " i. e., like to take their 
 pleasure, (in the theatre, to which Wagner is referring,) Without having 
 that also a matter of work. — Translator. 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 267 
 
 good to-day. It is this that disgusts us, and finally in- 
 duces us to leave their dishes to the scullions. 
 
 Since I had to seek the German nature in its more 
 ideal side, the artist-world was more fitting for my 
 purpose than the great public. Here I could proceed 
 from the nature of the actual musician, and find en- 
 couragement and delight in the fact that he showed 
 such a capacity for grasping so quickly that which was 
 correct, as soon as it was intelligibly shown him. 
 Nearly in the same position, though involved in far 
 more destructive habits, I found the musical-actor 
 (den miisikalishen Mimen), who, if really talented, 
 recognizes and readily enters the true sphere of his 
 art, as soon as the true examples it presents are prop- 
 erly set before him. 
 
 The view I had formed, then, that intelligent appre- 
 ciation would not fail in the excellent performances of 
 the artists who must actually take part in my plan, 
 was based on these encouraging characteristics I found 
 in them. But a further necessary task which I must 
 undertake, consisted in awakening a similar hope of 
 such satisfactory attainment, among all those whose 
 assistance I needed in the accomplishment of my de- 
 sign. If, by all the exertions I have made in furnish- 
 ing examples of worthy artistic performances, and by 
 the explanation of problems which have become clear 
 to me, I have gained the active attention of a suffi- 
 cient part of the German public to render my purpose 
 attainable — then I must recognize in this portion of 
 the public that new class which I needed to discover. 
 This class would then become the nucleus of that of 
 which I had conceived ; not confined to any special 
 order in society, but penetrating all ranks, it would 
 represent in my eyes the active, receptive element in 
 German feeling, appreciative of every manifestation of 
 the German nature in that branch of art which has 
 hitherto been abandoned to the most anti-German in- 
 fluences. 
 
THE 
 OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH 
 
 II. 
 
 In the invitation I published some time ago, calling 
 on the lovers of my art to join in my projected enter- 
 prise, I addressed to a general public, personally un- 
 known to me, a question, the answer to which I awaited 
 for my own instruction. 
 
 Only to a few of my more intimate friends did I 
 make known, in any detail, my more definite views as 
 to how the public interest in my enterprise was to take 
 shape. The youngest of these friends, the unusually 
 gifted and energetic Karl Tausig, seized the opportunity 
 which here presented itself as setting before him a per- 
 sonally agreeable task. In co-operation with a lady of 
 high rank, an earnest and thoughtful patron of my art, 
 he drew up a plan for gaining the requisite number of 
 parlors for my enterprise. He proposed to place at 
 our disposal, by the sale of patronage shares of 300 
 thalers each, the sum of 300,000 thalers, which ap- 
 peared necessary for the erection of a provisional 
 theatre, an improved arrangement of the stage, and 
 the procuring of perfect scenery, as also for the remu- 
 neration of the select artists who should be engaged 
 in the performances. Hardly had he entered on the 
 line of action marked out for himself, when premature 
 death removed him from our midst in the thirtieth year 
 of his age. My last word to him I had to inscribe upon 
 his tomb : it will not be out of place to repeat it here. 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 269 
 
 EPITAPH ON KARL TAUSIG. 
 
 It was thy lot, thy daring choice, to gather 
 
 Life's slow-grown fruit ere hasty spring was o'er; 
 
 'Twas early ripe — but ripe for death ; so rather 
 Must we thy lot, thy daring choice deplore. 
 
 Profoundly perplexed as I was now, my former ques- 
 tion to a " General Public" became now a question 
 addressed to Fate. 
 
 The little circle of my friends, now so painfully nar- 
 rowed, toiled on unmoved in the path indicated by the 
 deceased. A personage of the highest rank was gained 
 as a patron, and unexpectedly there was manifested an 
 active interest on the part of those in less exalted sta- 
 tion, and even of those of no ofiScial station, with a view 
 to materially assisting me by forming an association. 
 At Mannheim, a specially ardent lover of my art and of 
 my theories, who down to that time had been per- 
 sonally unknown to me, backed by his associates who 
 were equally well disposed, founded a society for the 
 promotion of the enterprise announced by me, and 
 this society, regardless of the derision this act called 
 forth, boldly assumed the name of "The Richard Wag- 
 ner Society." Their example found imitators. In 
 Vienna a second society was formed, which assumed 
 the same name, and similar societies soon sprang up in 
 one German city after another. Nay, beyond the 
 German frontiers, in Pesth, Brussels, London, finally 
 in New York, societies with the same tendencies and 
 bearing the same name arose, and sent me greeting 
 and encouragement. 
 
 It now appeared to me that the time had come for 
 making the needful preparations for executing my 
 project. As early as the spring of 187 1, I had quietly 
 and unnoticed had my eye upon Bayreuth, the place I 
 have chosen for my purpose. The idea of using the 
 Margravian Opera House was abandoned so soon as 
 
270 
 
 THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 I saw its interior construction. But yet the peculiar 
 character of that kindly town and its site so answered 
 my requirements that during the wintry latter part of 
 the autumn of the same year I repeated my visit — this 
 time however to treat directly with the city authorities. 
 I need not here say how deeply indebted I am to the 
 worthy, honored men, whose hospitable overtures 
 secured to my enterprise a genial soil in which it will 
 flourish as long as my own life endures. An unsur- 
 passably beautiful and eligible plot of ground at no 
 great distance from the town was given me, on which 
 to erect the proposed theatre. Having come to an 
 understanding as to its erection, with a man of ap- 
 proved inventive genius, and of rare experience in the 
 interior arrangement of theatres, we could then entrust 
 to an architect of equal acquaintance with theatrical 
 building the further planning and the erection of the 
 provisional structure. And despite the great difficul- 
 ties which attended the arrangements for putting under 
 way so unusual an undertaking, we made such progress 
 that the laying of the corner-stone could be announced 
 to our patrons and friends for May 22, 1872. 
 
 Then it occurred to me to present the assembled pa- 
 trons, as an artist's return for the pains they were at in 
 meeting at Bayreuth, as perfect an execution as was 
 possible of the ninth symphony of Beethoven. My 
 simple invitation to the most prominent orchestras and 
 Sangerchors, as well as to the most celebrated artists, 
 sufficed to bring together such a number of excellent 
 performers as perhaps never before met on a similar 
 occasion. 
 
 In this first success no one could fail to recognize a 
 highly encouraging omen for the future prosperity of 
 the grand theatrical performances themselves. Indeed 
 so excellent was the effect produced upon the minds of 
 those who had participated in the entertainment, that 
 not even the unfavorable state of the weather, which 
 interfered with the ceremony of laying the corner-stone. 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAVREUTH. 27 1 
 
 could check the flow of their spirits. In the box which 
 was to be enclosed in the corner-stone, I placed besides 
 a dedication to the exalted protector of my best efforts, 
 and several appropriate documents, a few verses of my 
 own composing : 
 
 I bury here a secret deep. 
 
 For centuries long to lie concealed ; 
 Yet while this stone its trust shall keep. 
 To all the secret stands revealed. 
 • 
 
 To the meeting I made the following address : 
 Friends and honored Patrons : — By your 
 favor I stand to-day where " never artist stood before 
 me. You believe in my vocation to found for Ger- 
 mans a theatre of their own, and you place in my 
 hands the means of erecting this theatre in actual, ma- 
 terial form before your eyes. The provisional build- 
 ing of which we lay the corner-stone to-day, is, for the 
 beginning at least, to serve this purpose. When we 
 come together here again, this structure shall greet 
 your eyes, and in its characteristic peculiarities you 
 will at once read the history of the thought which it 
 embodies. You will find here an outer shell formed of 
 the poorest material, which will best recall to your 
 minds the hastily adorned halls, which from time to 
 time used to be erected in German cities for the meet- 
 ings of singing societies and other similar occasions, 
 and which were taken down again after the festival was 
 over. But the enduring element of this building will 
 become clearer to you as soon as you enter its interior. 
 Here, too, you will first observe the extreme poor- 
 ness of the material and the entire absence of orna- 
 mentation ; you will perhaps even miss with surprise 
 the simple decorations with which festival halls used 
 to be beautified. But then, in the proportions and 
 arrangements of the hall itself and the auditorium, 
 you will find a thought expressed which will estab- 
 lish between yourselves and the play you came to 
 
272 
 
 THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 see, a new relation very different from that which 
 previously existed. Should this effect be simply and 
 completely produced, then the mysterious entrance 
 of the music will prepare you for the unveiling and 
 plain exposition of scenic paintings, which, appear- 
 ing to come out of an ideal world of .dreams, will 
 acquaint you with the full reality of the ingenious de- 
 ceptions whereof the art of painting is capable. Here 
 nothing will even provisionally speak to you with mere 
 hints ; so far as is permitted by the artistic possibili- 
 ties of the times, the most perfect representation will 
 be set before you in scenic as in mimic play. 
 
 This has been my plan ; and it puts all that portion 
 of our building which I called the enduring element, 
 into that part of it designed to produce the completest 
 possible illusion. If I entertain any expectation of 
 successfully executing this artistic design, my sole in- 
 spiration has been a hope which sprang from the midst 
 of despair itself. My confidence is in the genius of the 
 German people, and that genius I expect to see mani- 
 fested even in those phases of our life wherein, as in 
 our art, it has languished most pitiably. Above all 
 I have faith in the genius of German music, knowing 
 as I do how brilliantly it manifests itself in our musi- 
 cians whenever it is aroused by the summons of the 
 German Master. I have faith in our actors and sing- 
 ers, knowing as I do that they would, as it were, be 
 animated with a new life when the German Master 
 summoned them away from the vain trifling of an art 
 whose only aim is amusement, and placed before their 
 minds the true ideal of their high calling. I have faith 
 in our artists — and this I may well say to-day when 
 so many distinguished artists are assembled here from 
 every quarter of the Fatherland, in compliance with 
 my simple friendly invitation. While all these, obliv- 
 ious of self in the delight inspired by a masterpiece 
 of art, execute to-day as a festive greeting the won- 
 derful symphony of our great Beethoven, we all may 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREVTH. 
 
 273 
 
 say that the structure whose foundations are this day 
 to be laid, will be no delusive castle in the air, even if 
 we artists can do no more than vouch for the truth of 
 the idea to be embodied in it. 
 
 But to whom shall I now turn, in order to insure for 
 this ideal work its permanence, and for the stage its 
 monumental home ? 
 
 Of late our undertaking has been spoken of as the 
 building of the "National Theatre at Bayreuth." I 
 cannot accept this title as correct. Where is the 
 "Nation" that builds this theatre? When a little 
 while ago the question of state support of the great 
 Parisian theatres was debated in the French Assem- 
 bly, the orators believed that it was their duty to ad- 
 vocate warmly the continuance and even increase of 
 their subsidy, on the ground that the maintenance 
 of these theatres was a duty they owed not only to 
 France but to Europe, which received the laws of its 
 mental culture from the French. Fancy the perplex- 
 ity and" confusion of a German parliament were a 
 similar question to arise. The discussion would proba- 
 bly lead to the pleasant discovery that our theatres have 
 no need of national support, the French National As- 
 sembly having already provided for all their wants. 
 At best our theatre would be treated as but a few 
 years ago the German Empire would have been 
 treated in our various local parliaments — viz., as a 
 chimera. 
 
 Even if I had in my mind the idea of the true Ger- 
 man stage, I should have to confess that it were 
 hopeless for me to go before the nation to advocate 
 my idea. Perhaps some will say that while one man 
 may fail to inspire confidence, an association may suc- 
 ceed, and that success would be insured if an immense 
 joint-stock company were formed, which should com- 
 mission an architect to build somewhere a splendid the- 
 atre, to which should be boldly given the title " Ger-- 
 man National Theatre," in the expectation that veiy 
 12* 
 
274 "^^^ OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 soon a German national histrionic art would be spon- 
 taneously developed. The whole world nowadays 
 firmly believes in a continuous progress, so called, 
 which in our own times is supposed to be specially 
 active — but no one appears to have any clear idea as 
 to the direction in which we are progressing. On the 
 other hand, those who have really brought into the 
 world something new have never been asked as to 
 their relations to this progressive environment, which 
 set up hindrances and obstacles in their way. We will 
 not on this festive occasion recall the outspoken com- 
 plaints, nay, the profound despondency of our great- 
 est minds, whose work has pointed out the one path 
 of true progress ; still you will permit me, to whom 
 to-day you pay such distinguished honor, to say how 
 grateful I am that my individual project has been ap- 
 preciated and heartily adopted by a host of friends, as 
 your presence here to-day testifies. 
 
 To you alone, lovers of my special art and of my 
 most distinctive work, could I look for encouragement 
 in carrying out my project ; only upon you could I call 
 for assistance in my work. To bring this work sim- 
 ply and fairly before the minds of those who have 
 been favorably disposed toward my art, though hither- 
 to they could contemplate it only in a faulty and dis- 
 torted representation — such was my desire, and I 
 thought I could make it known to you without pre- 
 sumption. And in this my almost personal relation 
 to you, my patrons and friends, do I even now recog- 
 nize the groundwork upon which we are to lay the 
 foundation-stone which shall support the entire edifice 
 of our most exalted hopes for Germany. True, for the 
 present, this structure will be but provisional — but so 
 for centuries was the whole outer form of German life. 
 But it is a characteristic of German life that it builds 
 from within ; the everlasting God lives within it long be- 
 fore He raises from it the temple of His glory. And 
 this temple will be in just so far a manifestation of the 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 275 
 
 spirit within, as it is consistent with it in its rich orig- 
 inality. Hence I will regard this stone as the magic 
 stone which has the power of revealing the hidden 
 mysteries of that spirit. Let it have for the present 
 no other accessories than those appropriate ones the 
 assistance of which is necessary to produce that illusion 
 through which you are to look into the true mirror of 
 life ; yet even now it has the strength and the proper 
 adjustment which will enable it one day to support a 
 majestic edifice, so soon as the German people desires 
 to honor itself by entering with you into possession of 
 it. Be it therefore consecrated by your love, by your 
 blessing, by the profound gratitude I feel for you, 
 for all of you, who have aided me by your good 
 wishes, your countenance and your means. May it 
 be blessed by the genius who put it into your hearts 
 to comply with my invitation ; who gave you courage 
 to repose full confidence in me despite all derision ; who 
 could speak to you through me, for in your hearts he 
 might expect to recognize himself— by the genius of the 
 German Nation, who calls to you across the centuries 
 with that morning song of his that is ever young. 
 
 I need not here narrate the history of that happy 
 festival, the intent and significance of which is as I 
 believe sufficiently indicated in the foregoing address. 
 It inaugurated an undertaking which has been able to 
 endure the derision and obloquy of those who could 
 not understand the idea underlying it, as was to have 
 been expected of the majority of the people who now- 
 adays busy themselves fatuously in earning a precari- 
 ous livelihood in art and letters. Whatever difficulties 
 may attend the progress of our enterprise herein, I 
 must recognize, and my friends no less than myself 
 must recognize, the self-same hardships which for a 
 long period, for centuries, have attended the healthy 
 development of a truly German culture. I need 
 not more fully describe these difficulties for whom- 
 
276 THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 ever has followed with interest the explanations I have 
 made from my .peculiar standpoint, and the discussion 
 of the same. My view and hopes in this regard I will 
 however set forth once more in one of the ideas which 
 already seems to be currently implied by the name 
 "Bayreuth" — which has come to indicate something 
 partly unknown or misunderstood, partly waited for 
 with expectation and confidence. 
 
 What our not always very ingenious witlings have 
 hitherto dished up for their own amusement under the 
 absurd name of " Music of the Future," has now quit 
 the nebulous shape and has become a " Bayreuth " with 
 actual walls, resting on firm foundations. Thus what 
 was a cloud has acquired a local habitation, and has 
 thus put on a very real form. The " Theatre of the 
 Future" is no longer a "nonsensical idea" of mine, 
 which I want to force upon the present stage, with 
 myself as a sort of Musical Director General, or In- 
 tendant General ; * but (probably just because I was 
 bound never to succeed) it seems now that I want to 
 plant this idea of mine in a certain locality ; and 
 let us see what this locality is. It is little, remote, un- 
 honored Bayreuth. At any rate, then, I have not 
 sought to have my theatre established in any popu- 
 lous city — though that would not have been so difficult 
 as some people pretend to beUeve. Let the witlings 
 deride the smallness of the place and the extrava- 
 gance of our ideas ; for all that, here is the ob- 
 ject of their derision endowed with a local habitation. 
 I accept now, with great pleasure, for my theatre, the 
 name given to it by the witlings — "Bayreuth," just as 
 I once accepted their very stupid phrase, " Music of 
 the Future." If my friends could accept this latter 
 phrase, as expressing their theories, in the same 
 spirit with which the brave Netherlanders proudly ac- 
 
 * As was lately affirmed by the writer of the History of Music in 
 Brockhaus's Konversations-Lexikon. 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAVREUTH. 2/7 
 
 cepted the nickname " Gueux," then I may willingly 
 accept the name Bayreuth, as a word of good omen ; 
 it may serve to indicate the union of those elements 
 that have come together from the most widely sepa- 
 rated quarters to aid in the realization of the work of 
 art I had planned. 
 
 The man who after long wandering has reached the 
 spot which he has chosen for his permanent resting- 
 place, closely observes every indication that pre- 
 sents itself to him, giving to each the most favorable 
 interpretation. If in the " Meistersinger " I made 
 my Hans Sachs eulogize Nuremberg as lying in the 
 centre of Germany, I thought that the same might be 
 said still more justly of Bayreuth. The immense 
 Hercynian Forest into which the Romans never pene- 
 trated, once extended hither. The name Franken- 
 wald still remains, showing that the whole region was 
 once a forest ; the gradual clearing away of which is 
 indicated in sundry local names, or made up in part 
 of the syllables "reuth" (reuten, to make a clear- 
 ing). Of the name Bayreuth, two different interpre- 
 tations are given. According to one account, in early 
 times the land hereabout was given to the Bavarian 
 dukes and the Frankish king, and here the Bavarians 
 cleared away the forest and made a home for them- 
 selves. This interpretation of the word flatters a cer- 
 tain historic sense of justice, in that the land, after 
 frequent changes of owners, at last reverts to those to 
 whom it owes a portion of its culture. Another and 
 more sceptical explanation would have it that " Bay- 
 reuth " is simply the name of a hamlet built up " beim 
 Reuth " (in the clearing). However this may be, the 
 " reuth " remains, indicating a place won from the for- 
 est, and made productive ; and here we are reminded 
 of the " Rutii " of old Switzerland, whence the word 
 derives a still more pleasing and more elevated signifi- 
 cance. The land became the Frankish frontier of the 
 German empire against the fanatical Czechs, whose 
 
278 THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 more peaceable Slavic brethren had previously settled 
 there, and had so far advanced in civilization, that to 
 this day many of the names of places bear both the 
 Slavic and the German stamp. Here first did Slavs 
 become Germans, without having to renounce their 
 own peculiar characters ; and they peacefully share in 
 the fortunes of the common population. This speaks 
 well for the peculiarities of the German mind. After 
 a long-continued rule over this frontier, the Burgraves 
 of Nuremberg made their way into the marches of 
 Brandenburg, where they were destined to found the 
 kingdom of Prussia, and finally the Empire of Ger- 
 many. Though the Romans never penetrated hither, 
 still Bayreuth was not uninfluenced by Roman civili- 
 zation. In ecclesiastical affairs, it broke boldly away 
 from Rome. The old city, often reduced to ashes, 
 adopted the French taste, under princes with a liking 
 for embellishment ; an Italian erected, in the shape of 
 a grand opera-house, one of the most fanciful monu- 
 ments of the rococco style. Here flourished ballet, 
 opera, comedy. But the Burgomaster of Bayreuth 
 " affected" (as her ladyship expressed it), " affected " 
 to pronounce his speech of welcome to the sister of 
 Frederick the Great, in pure German. 
 
 Who is there that does not recognize in these few 
 outlines, a picture of German life and its history which 
 might mirror for us, on a larger scale, the whole Ger- 
 man Empire ? A rugged soil, enriched by the mani- 
 fold populations which have settled thereon, with local 
 names, that are often hardly intelligible, in short, hardly 
 recognizable, save by the German tongue, which has 
 been maintained with victorious constancy. The 
 Roman church obtruded her Latin, and an extraneous 
 civilization its French. The scholar and the noble 
 used only the foreign speech, but the clown of a Bur- 
 gomaster always " affected " his native German. And 
 the German gained the mastery at last. Indeed, as 
 we see from this story of the Burgomaster of Bay- 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREVTH. 279 
 
 reuth and the Prussian princess, not only was German 
 spoken here, but people even affected to speak " pure 
 German " — a thing which must have deeply pained 
 the illustrious lady, for when once she herself met the 
 empress of Austria, the two could not understand 
 one another's German, for each spoke the peculiar 
 dialect of her own native place. The spirit of German 
 culture, therefore, is expressed in the fact that the edu- 
 cated community of Bayreuth obviously took a strong 
 interest in a revival of German literature, which could 
 enable them so to follow the unprecedented develop- 
 ment of the German mind, the influence of a Winckel- 
 mann, a Lessing, a Goethe, and finally a Schiller, that 
 a widely esteemed contribution to the culture of that 
 mind could rise- up among themselves, in the produc- 
 tions of their own original Friedrich Richter, who calls 
 himself " Jean Paul " as though in merry irony. And 
 thus the ridiculous foreign element among the higher 
 classes, who were continually exposed to French influ- 
 ences, became impotent and harmless. 
 
 Who is there that would not experience a thrill of 
 pleasure, on listening to the grand strains of this 
 wonderful ninth symphony, performed by German 
 musicians, assembled at the festival from all parts of the 
 Fatherland, as he remembered that the court of the Mar- 
 grave, accompanied by his guests — the great Frederick 
 at their head — had in the same place witnessed a bal- 
 let or a French comedy, or had Hstened to an Italian 
 opera ? When from that gallery from which gallooned 
 court trumpeters had blown their stated flourishes, 
 enthusiastic German singers now proclaimed, " Seid 
 umschlungen, Millionen ! " did there not arise before 
 the mind a vocal, living tableau which, distinctly an- 
 nounced the triumph of the German soul ? 
 
 It was permitted to me, without a dissenting voice, 
 to give this msaning to our inaugural festival ; and 
 to all who kept that festival with us, the name of 
 
28o THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 " Bayreuth," in this sense has become a precious 
 memory, a cheering thought, a frequent motto. 
 
 And such a motto we need in order to persist in the 
 daily struggle against the encroachments of a foreign 
 spirit. 
 
 The question, " What is a German ? " is one that has 
 long seriously occupied my mind. It has always come 
 up in new shape ; when I supposed I could answer it sat- 
 isfactorily in one shape, the next minute there it was be- 
 fore me in a very different one, and oftentimes I was per- 
 plexed and could make no reply. A certain patriot, the 
 wonderful Arnold Ruge, when driven to desperation by 
 this query, at last thought the reply must be that the 
 German is " niedertrachtig " (low). Whoever has once 
 heard this dismal expression, will find it recurring to 
 his mind in moments of such dejection, and it may per- 
 haps then be compared to one of those potent arcana 
 with which the physician strives to overmaster a mor- 
 tal distemper : it quickly shows us that we ourselves 
 are that " German" who retreats in fright from his own 
 degenerate nature. This indicates that he only can 
 recognize its distortion as such ; and what could make 
 this recognition possible for him, save his unshaken 
 consciousness of his true nature ? At all events he 
 can never again be deceived ; he can never again com- 
 placently practise self-deception or flatter himself with 
 false pretences which have no longer any weight. He 
 cannot find in any reality, in any actual, form of exist- 
 ence, the elements of a German life, except in that 
 form in which it reveals itself as bad, — even as repul- 
 sive. Even his language — that one sacred heirloom of 
 his race, painfully acquired and handed down to him by 
 the greatest minds — he sees recklessly given over to 
 destruction. He sees how everybody conspires to 
 make good the arrogant prediction of the President of 
 the United States, that before long only one language 
 will be spoken throughout the world — which means, 
 when you look at the matter more closely, that there 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 28 1 
 
 will be a universal jargon, made up of all sorts of in- 
 gredients ; and the German of the period may be sure 
 that he has already made a handsome contribution to it. 
 One who might have been at the time deeply dis- 
 tressed by these lugubrious thoughts could not fail to 
 be encouraged on that day when, even in that won- 
 derful rococco hall of the Bayreuth Opera House, he 
 was addressed with the " seid umschlungen, Million- 
 en ! " and he probably felt that General Grant's saying 
 might be fulfilled in a way the illustrious American 
 had not thought of. 
 
 But it was plain to every one that the German word 
 that solves the probleni in the sense of the great mas- 
 ter of melody, must, in order to become an actual 
 deed, displaying itself in a definite form, have different 
 surroundings from those of the Franco-Italian operatic 
 theatre. And we have therefore laid to-day the cor- 
 ner-stone of a building, with the peculiarities of which 
 I will, in closing, endeavor to make my reader ac- 
 quainted, in order to show him, in its peculiar con- 
 struction, an example of what has suggested itself as a 
 result of my desire to prepare for the German mind 
 a theatre fitting and appropriate for it. 
 —. In explaining once" again the plan of the Bayreuth 
 theatre, now in process of erection, it will be best for 
 me to repeat what I have elsewhere said of the neces- 
 sity, first observed by myself, of concealing from view 
 the musicians : for from this one necessity has pro- 
 ceeded all the other alterations in the body of our New- 
 European Theatre. 
 
 My views on the subject of concealing the orchestra 
 are already known to my readers from certain detailed 
 expositions of them in my previous essays ; and I 
 hope that their next visit to any Opera House of the 
 period, convinced them (if they were not convinced 
 before) of the correctness of my judgment as to the 
 unpleasant effect caused by the obtrusion of the techni- 
 cal apparatus of the music before the eye. — 
 
282 THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYRKUTH. 
 
 I have explained in my essay on Beethoven the rea- 
 son why, through the power exerted over our emotions 
 by noble performances o f ideally perfect musical works, 
 the evil I have denounced might be rendered unnotice- 
 able, as though the sight itself were neutralized. But 
 in a dramatic performance, on the contrary, the very 
 matter in point is to make the sight fully take in a 
 picture ; an effect which can only be brought about by 
 entirely freeing the vision from the observation of any 
 intervening sense of reality, such as is inevitable when 
 the technical apparatus for producing the picture is ob- 
 truded. 
 
 Hence, the floor o f the orchestra had to be sunk to 
 such a depth that the spectators might have a full view 
 of the. stage, without seeing the musicians. At the 
 same time it was determined that the places for the 
 spectators might consist of rows of seats rising gradu- 
 ally one above the other, the elevation of the hinder- 
 most tier being limited only by the possibility of hav- 
 ing thence a fair view of the scenic representation. 
 Thus the whole system of private boxes was done away 
 with, because from their elevated position on the side- 
 walls near the stage, the orchestra would be in full view. 
 The arrangement of the sittings was therefore like that 
 seen in the ancient amphitheatre, excepting that 
 the form of the amphitheatre, extending far around 
 on both sides so as to form even more than a semi- 
 circle, could not be followed ; since it is not now 
 the chorus in the almost entirely enclosed orchestra 
 which forms the chief object of view, but the scenic 
 stage, only presented to the Greek aud ience as a pro- 
 jecting surface, but used by us in its full depth. 
 
 Hence, we had to follow strictly the laws of perspec- 
 tive, according to which the rows of sittings would 
 grow longer as they receded from the stage, while al- 
 ways directly facing it. For the rest, all further ar- 
 rangements had to depend upon the proscenium ; the 
 frame of the drop-scene of necessity became the start- 
 
ST 
 
 Dressiug 
 Roeni 
 
 DreaalDg 
 
 Ro;fal Box >'.'. 
 
 Geound-Plak of the Batbeutb Opeba House. 
 
THE OPEKA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 283 
 
 ing-point for these arrangements. My requiring the 
 concealment of the orchestra soon led the eminent and 
 ingenious architect whom it was my privilege first to con - 
 suit with upon the subject, to conceive the idea of a 
 vacant space between the proscenium and the first row of 
 seats. This we called the " mystic gulf," since it would 
 seem to divide the real from the ideal ; and the architect 
 placed in front of it a second and wider proscenium, 
 the effect of which was intended tobea wonderful, illu- 
 sion of the senses, the stage appearing to be more dis- 
 tant from the spectators than it really was, owing to 
 the difference between its width and that of the secondL- 
 proscenium. Thus, though the spectator would see 
 what took place on the stage, with all the distinctness 
 of actual proximity, he would imagine that a consid- 
 erable space intervened. From this would result an- 
 other illusion, viz. , that the dramatic personages would 
 seem to be magnified into superhuman proportions. 
 
 The result of this contrivance might of itself suffice 
 to show how admirably this new relation between the 
 spectator and the scenic tableau works. On taking 
 his seat, the spectator straightway finds that he is in a 
 "Theatron" indeed; i.e. simply a place where one 
 may witness a spectacle, and witness it straight before 
 his eyes. Between himself and the spectacle there 
 stands nothing that is clearly perceptible ; only be- 
 tween the ^wo prosceniums the skill of the architect 
 has produced a certain indefinable effect of distance, 
 which causes the tableau to retreat from the spectator, 
 as in a dream ; meanwhile, the music, as it comes forth 
 like a spirit voice from the " mystic gulf," or like the 
 vapor rising from the sacred bosom of Earth beneath 
 the tripod of the Pythia, induces in him that spiritual- 
 ized state of clairvoyance wherein the scenic representa- 
 tion becomes the perfect image of real life. 
 
 A difficulty arose as to what was to be done with 
 the side-walls of the body of the theatre ; being un- 
 broken by rows of boxes, they presented a bare sur- 
 
284 "^^^ OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 face which refused to harmonize with the ascending 
 tiers of sittings. The eminent architect, to whom the 
 task was first assigned of planning the theatre, so 
 skilfully availed himself here of all the resources of 
 ornamentation to be found in the noblest Renaissance 
 style, that these surfaces disappeared and were trans- 
 formed into a real delight to the eyes. But, inasmuch 
 as in the construction of this provisional theatre at 
 Bayreuth Ave had to renounce all thoughts of such 
 ornamentation as being adapted only to a building 
 constructed of costly materials, the question again 
 arose as to what was to be done with these side-walls. 
 The first of the plans given in the appendix exhibits to 
 us an oblong figure, narrowing as it approaches the 
 stage ; this is the space actually intended for the 
 spectators. On each side are the walls, forming with 
 the proscenium an ugly angle, which could be used for 
 the purpose of giving to the spectators a convenient 
 passage to their seats. To make as little obnoxious 
 as possible the troublesome, bare walls near the pros- 
 cenium, and to reduce their disturbing influence to a 
 minimum, my present ingenious adviser hit on the 
 plan of interposing a third proscenium, placed still 
 further forward and extended still further out. Struck 
 with the excellence of this idea, we soon went still 
 further, and found that we should only fully bring out 
 the idea of the width of the auditorium, gradually 
 narrowing, in accordance with perspective^ toward the 
 stage, — if we should extend the gradually broadening 
 proscenium to the fullest extent, until its termination 
 at the gallery which crowned it ; and thus open the' 
 proscenic perspective to the audience from every 
 place that might be occupied. For this purpose a 
 row of pillars was planned, corresponding to the first 
 proscenium, and gradually widening outward, forming 
 the end of the rows of seats. These produced an 
 illusion with regard to the straight side-walls that lay 
 behind them ; and the necessary steps and entrances 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 285 
 
 were usefully concealed by them. Thus we arrived at 
 the decisive plan for the interior arrangement, as 
 sketched in the adjoining drawings. -/ 
 
 Our task being the 'p\SKamg^- ■a^ provisional theatre, 
 and our one object being to adapt the interior of the 
 building to its intended uses, we were relieved from the 
 necessity of conforming the exterior to any rules of 
 architecture whatever.* Even if we had more costly 
 materials than our means then afforded, for the erection 
 of a florid monumental edifice, we should have shrunk 
 from the task, and asked for assistance, though it is 
 doubtful if we could have found it. For the work 
 before us was the most novel, the most peculiar, and, 
 inasmuch as it had never been attempted previously, the 
 most difficult ever set before an architect of the present 
 day (can it be harder even in the future ?). Our limited 
 means restricted us to what was purely necessary for 
 the attainment of the object in view, and that object 
 consisted altogether in the relation of the interior of 
 the auditorium to a stage which should be calculated 
 according to the largest dimensions necessary for the 
 erection of complete scenery. Such a stage must 
 have three times the height it presents to the spectator 
 in the body of the house, for the scenes have to be 
 lowered as well as lifted. Hence the stage portion 
 must stand twice as high as the body of the theatre, 
 the latter being of the usual height. The result is a 
 juxtaposition of two buildings differing very widely 
 from one another both in form and size. To conceal 
 as far as possible this incongruity, modern architects 
 usually build up the body of the theatre to a consider- 
 able height, and even on top of this build rooms to 
 be used for painters' studios or for the officials, though 
 they are seldom occupied owing to their great dis- 
 comfort. In this design they were aided by the 
 
 * A slight condensation of the original text has been permitted here, 
 to avoid repetition. — Trans. 
 
283 THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 ranges of boxes rising often to a disproportionate 
 height ; the highest rising even above the height of 
 the stage, since they could only be let to the poorer 
 classes of the people, upon whom the difficulties of 
 the dim bird's-eye view which they got of what was 
 going on in the parquette, could easily be foisted. 
 These boxes are wanting in our theatre, and no archi- 
 tectural inducement can induce us to direct the gaze up- 
 ward over high walls — though this is, to be sure, done 
 in Christian cathedrals. The earlier opera houses 
 were built on the principle of presenting uniformity in 
 the height of the building, and hence in the shape of 
 a long box ; of this we have a curious example in the 
 Royal Opera House, Berlin. Here the architect had 
 only to provide a fagade for the front of the building, 
 the sides being built into the two houses between 
 which it stood. In our undertaking to erect an exter- 
 nally inartistic provisional theatre on an elevated, 
 open site, I think that by steadily keeping our object 
 in view, and providing only what was purely essential, 
 we have succeeded in getting the problem clearly 
 stated. This problem now stands before us clearly 
 and definitely, exhibiting to us the conception of a 
 theatre building which shall outwardly express the 
 ideal object of its erection. In the main portion of 
 this building we have the outward expression of the 
 infinitely complex apparatus requisite for scenic repre- 
 sentations of the highest attainable perfection ; while 
 the addition to this building constitutes merely a sort 
 of roofed court, whence the spectators may conve- 
 niently witness the spectacle. 
 
 To us it seems as though in adhering of necessity 
 to this simple plan, and in giving it artistic expression, 
 without any reference to structures, such as palaces, 
 museums, and churches, intended for very different 
 purposes, we had set before the genius of German 
 architecture a problem well worthy of study — nay, 
 even perhaps the one problem which is peculiarly its 
 
THE OPERA HOUSE AT BAVREUTH. 287 
 
 own. But if for the sake of a grand fagade, which by- 
 many is supposed to be indispensable, we are required 
 to conceal the main purpose of the theatre by means 
 of wings for ball-rooms, concert-halls, and the like, 
 doubtless our plan will be condemned by all the 
 canons of the unoriginal art of ornamentation now in 
 vogue. Only the ideas of the Renaissance, with their 
 unintelligent and unintelligible figures and ornaments, 
 will occur to our sculptors and decorators, and finally 
 — things will go on in such a theatre just as they do 
 in the operatic theatre of to-day. It is for this very 
 reason that I am very generally asked why I so abso- 
 lutely need a special theatre for my purpose. Still, 
 whoever has rightly understood me will readily per- 
 ceive that architecture itself had to acquire a new sig- 
 nificance under the inspiration of the Genius of Music, 
 and thus that the myth of Amphion building the walls 
 of Thebes by the notes of his lyre has yet a meaning. 
 
 Eventually, however, we had to go further, and to 
 take into account what would be required by the Ger- 
 man mind after it had been conducted into a path of 
 original development, remote from all the disturbing 
 influences of ill-understood and ill-applied foreign 
 ideas. 
 
 It is the opinion of many intelligent men that the 
 recent enormous successes of German statesmanship 
 have done nothing whatever toward doing away with 
 our stupid habit of imitating foreigners, or toward 
 exciting a desire for conforming our existing institu- 
 tions to the requirements of a peculiarly German cul- 
 ture. With the greatest difficulty does our great Ger- 
 man statesman withstand the pretensions of Rome in 
 ecclesiastical affairs; but the pretensions of France 
 remain unnoticed as regards the direction and forming 
 of our tastes, and of our manners as influenced by our 
 tastes. If a Parisian courtesan takes it into her head 
 to give some strange shape to her bonnet, all the 
 women in Germany must adopt the new fashion. Or 
 
288 7"^^ OPERA HOUSE AT BAYREUTH. 
 
 some speculator on the Bourse suddenly makes a mil- 
 lion, and at once he orders a villa to be built in the 
 St. Germain style, for which the architect has a fagade 
 all ready designed. From all this it appears that the 
 German has quite too easy a time of it, and that neces- 
 sity alone can force him to return to a simple style pe- 
 culiar to himself, and which ought to seem intelligible 
 to him, if he should take into account his true and 
 inner needs. 
 
 The characteristics of our plan for a theatre consisted 
 in this : that in order to meet an altogether ideal need, 
 we had to reject one scheme after another as unsuitable, 
 and hence as not to be employed as in all previous ar- 
 rangements of such buildings, and to devise a new ar- 
 rangement, which again allowed of none of the usual 
 ornament ; and the result was that our building is now 
 the perfection of simplicity. Trusting in the inventive 
 power of necessity in general, and, in this case, of an 
 ideal necessity for ornament, we are confident that, 
 owing to the stimulus given by this problem, we shall 
 yet find a German style of architecture which will not 
 be unworthy of a structure sacred to German art — to 
 art in its most popular manifestation, the drama — and 
 which shall be distinctively and peculiarly German. 
 We must wait until we have devised a style of monu- 
 mental architectural ornament which shall to some 
 extent compare in richness and diversity with the 
 Renaissance or the Rococco ; there is no need of over- 
 haste, for no doubt it will be long before the " Em- 
 pire " makes up its mind to share in our work. 
 Therefore, let our provisional structure, growing but 
 slowly to its monumental proportions, stand for the 
 present as a sign to the German people ; and let it set 
 them to thinking of what has already been clearly 
 grasped by those to whose sympathy, labor, and sac- 
 rifices it owes its erection. 
 
 There let it stand on that fair eminence at Bayreuth. 
 
A LIST 
 
 OF THE PUBLISHED WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 RICHARD WAGNER 
 
WAGNERS PUBLISHED WORKS. 
 
 By William F. Apthorp. 
 
 TO make a complete list of Wagner's works, from 
 the material available in this country, is probably 
 an impossible task. Such of his unpublished works as 
 ever came to a performance have been virtually for- 
 gotten by the world for over thirty years, and the only 
 imperfect trace of them that we can find is in scat- 
 tered notices in contemporary newspapers, very few of 
 which are now available outside of their own publish- 
 ing offices. The earliest notice that we find of a work 
 by Richard Wagner is the following paragraph in the 
 Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung for May 2d, 1832, 
 criticising the " Subscription Concert " of April i8th : 
 
 " We were greatly pleased with a new overture by a 
 still very young composer, Herr Richard Wagner. 
 The piece received as full recognition as could be de- 
 sired ; the young man really promises much. The 
 work is not merely euphonious, it has sense and mean- 
 ing, and is worked out with care and skill, evidently in 
 successful striving after what is worthiest. We have 
 seen the score." 
 
 In the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung for February 
 13th, 1833, we find the barest mention of a " Sym- 
 
292 WAGNER'S PUBLISHED WORKS. 
 
 phony (new), by Richard Wagner," at the Subscrip- 
 tion Concert of January loth. 
 
 In the Allgemeine Musikaliscke Zeitung for March 
 3d, 1841, we find the following : " On February 4th, 
 M. Schlesinger gave in Paris a superb concert to the 
 subscribers to his Revue et Gazette Musicale. There 
 appeared .... [here follow the names of several 
 singers and instrumental performers, notably that of 
 Charles Halle, the pianist] . . . and the composer, 
 Richard Wagner, with an overture, having for its sub- 
 ject ' Columbus before and at the moment of discover- 
 ing the New World.' It was well received." 
 
 The following list of the composer's published 
 works, we have made out from Hofmeister's admira- 
 ble catalogue of music published in Germany and the 
 neighboring countries, the various numbers of which 
 were put at our disposal by the courtesy of Mr. Carl 
 Priifer and Messrs. G. D. Russell & Co., of Boston. 
 
 The only works with opus number appear to be — 
 
 Polonaise in D, for Pianoforte k 4m. op. 2. 
 Leipzig : Breitkopf und Hartel. 
 
 OUVERTURE, zur Jungfrau von Orleans (to the 
 Maid of Orleans), op. 31. Offenbach ''M : John 
 Andr^. 
 
 OuVERTURE, zu Gbtz von Berlichingen, op. 32. Offen- 
 bach *M : John Andr6. 
 
 This leaves a large hiatus which is probably to be 
 filled out by unpublished works, or by works which 
 originally had an opus number, but which were pub- 
 
WAGNER'S PUBLISHED WORKS. 293 
 
 lished without one. The other published works are as 
 follows : 
 
 Symphony, No. 2, in C. Leipzig : Breitkopf und 
 
 Hartel. 
 Overture, No. i, in C. Leipzig: Breitkopf und 
 
 Hartel. 
 Overture, No. 2, in D. Leipzig: Breitkopf und 
 
 Hartel. 
 Variations, for Flute. Mainz : B. Schott's Sbhnen. 
 Sonata in B|? for Pianoforte. Leipzig: Breitkopf 
 
 und Hartel. 
 Song from "Das Liebesverbot" (The Love-veto). 
 
 Hannover : Bachmann. 
 RiENZl, DER Letzte der Tribunen. Grosse tragische 
 ^Oper in 5 acten (Rienzi, the Last of the Tribunes. 
 Grand Tragic Opera in five acts). 
 Pianoforte-score, 2 vols. 
 
 " a 4 m. arranged by C. G. Kliick. 
 
 " solo. 
 
 Overture in full score. 
 
 " for 2 pfts. a 8 m. arr. by K. Burchard. 
 Dresden : C. F. Meser. 
 
 (We can find no notice of the first performances in 
 Xlci&Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung. We only find in 
 the number for November i6th, 1842, that Rienzi was 
 then inactive rehearsal at the Royal Opera in Dresden. 
 Hector Berlioz, who was in Dresden during that win- 
 ter, mentions in his letter [without date] to Ernst, the 
 violinist, having heard Rienzi 2,nA.' ^t. Flying Dutch- 
 man, which latter opera was brought out January i ith, 
 
294 
 
 WAGNER'S PUBLISHED WORKS. 
 
 1843, ^iid after Rienzi. The principal features of the 
 cast were : Rienzi, Tichatscheck ; Adriano, Madame 
 Schroder-Devrient ; Irine, Mile. Wiest. The opera was 
 brought out under Wagner's own direction, who had 
 just been appointed Royal Capellmeister, together 
 with Reissiger. Wagner received the Prussian order 
 of the Red Eagle for his Rienzi in 1847.) 
 
 Der Fliegende Hollaender, Romantische Oper in 3 
 AufzUgen. (The Flying Dutchman : Romantic Opera 
 in three acts.) 
 Pianoforte-score. 
 
 " k 4 m. arranged by L. Rohr. 
 solo " " C. Gotze. 
 
 Overture in full score. 
 Dresden : C. F. Meser. 
 
 (The Dutchman was brought out at the Royal Opera 
 in Dresden, January nth, 1843, under Wagner's per- 
 sonal direction. The principal features of the cast 
 were: The Dutchman, Wechter ; Senta, Madame 
 Schroder-Devrient. ) 
 
 Song, Les deux Grenadiers {Die beiden Grenadier e). 
 Mainz : B. Schott's Sohnen. 
 
 Das Liebesmahl der Apostel, eine biblische Scene 
 fiir Manner stiinmen und grosses Orckester. (The 
 Love-feast of the Apostles : a Scriptural Scene for 
 male voices and grand orchestra. ) 
 Full score. 
 Pianoforte-score. 
 
 Dresden : C. F. Meser. 
 
WAGNER'S PUBLISHED WORKS. 
 
 295 
 
 (Brought out in the Frauen-Kirche in Dresden, at 
 the great Men's Singing Festival, July 6th, 1843.) 
 
 Tannhauser und der Sangerkrieg auf Wart- 
 burg, romantische Oper in drei Acten. (Tannhauser 
 and the Singer's Contest at Wartburg : Romantic 
 Opera in three acts.)- 
 Full score. 
 Pianoforte-score. 
 
 " i 4.ni. arranged by Hans v. Biilow. 
 Overture for two pfts. a, 8 m. arranged by K. 
 Burchard. Dresden : C. F. Meser. 
 
 (Brought out at the Royal Opera in Dresden, Octo- 
 ber 20th, 1845.) 
 
 Since the publication of the score Wagner has en- 
 tirely remodelled the overture and first scene. This 
 later version alone is to be considered as authentic. 
 It is unfortunately not published. 
 
 Gruss seiner Treuen an Friedrich August dem 
 Gerechten bei seiner Zuruckkunft aus Eng- 
 land AM 10. August, 1844, fur Mdnnerstimmen. 
 (Greeting from his faithful subjects to Frederick Au- 
 gustus the Just, on his return from England, the 
 tenth of August, 1844 : for male voices.) 
 
 Full score. 
 
 Arranged for a single voice, with pianoforte ac- 
 companiment. 
 
 Dresden : C. F. Meser. 
 
296 WAGNER'S PUBLISHED WORKS. 
 
 Wann ? Wo ? WiE ? Duet aus Stadt und Land. 
 (When ? Where ? How ? Duet from City and Coun- 
 try.) 
 Magdeburg : Heinrichshofen. 
 
 EiNE Faust-Ouverture (A Faust-overture). 
 
 Full score. 
 For 2 pfts. a 8 m. arranged by K. Klauser. 
 For pianoforte a 4in. " " Hans v. Biilow. 
 For " solo " " " " 
 
 Leipzig : Breitkopf u. Hartel. 
 
 Lohengrin : Romantische Oper in drei akten. 
 (Lohengrin : Romantic Opera in three acts.) 
 Full score. 
 
 Pianoforte-score arranged by Theodor Uhlig. 
 a 4m. 
 " solo. 
 Leipzig: Breitkopf und Hartel. 
 
 (Brought out in Weimar, August 28th, 1850 [the an- 
 niversary of Goethe's birthday] , under the direction of 
 Franz Liszt. A fire broke out in the Opera House 
 during the last dress-rehearsal, but did not do enough 
 damage to prevent the performance. The prominent 
 features of the cast were : Lohengrin, Beck ; Telra- 
 mund, Milde ; King, Hofer ; Elsa, Fr. Agthe ; 
 Ortrud, Fr. Fastlinger.) 
 
 Huldigung's-Marsch (March of Allegiance). 
 Full score. 
 2 pfts k 8 m. 
 
 Pianoforte a 4 m. arranged by Hans v. Biilow. 
 solo " " " " 
 
WAGNER'S PUB LIS ff ED WORKS. 297 
 
 (This march was originally written for wind instru- 
 ments, for the coronation of Ludwig II. of Bavaria.) 
 Mainz : B. Schott's Sohnen. 
 
 Trauersinfonie Zur feierlichenBeisetzung der 
 ASCHE K. M. V. Webers, nach Melodien der 
 Euryanthe. (Mourning symphony for the solemn 
 burial of C. M. v. Weber, after themes from Eury- 
 anthe.) 
 
 Arranged for Pianoforte-solo by Ad. Blassmann. 
 Dresden : C. F. Meser. 
 
 GedicHTE fiir eine Frauenstimme mit Begleitung des 
 Pianofortes. (Poems for a female voice, with piano- 
 forte accompaniment.) 
 
 1. Der Engel. (The Angel.) 
 
 2. SteK still! (Standstill!) 
 
 3. Im Treibhaus. (In the green-house.) 
 
 4. Schmerzen. (Sorrows.) 
 
 5. Trdume. (Dreams.) 
 
 Mainz: B. Schott's Sohnen. 
 
 (Numbers three and five are sketches for Tristan 
 und Isolde; the former for the introduction to the 
 third act, and the latter for the love-duet in the second 
 act at the words " sink' hernieder, Nacht der Liebe." 
 A most sumptuous edition of these songs, with a litho- 
 graph portrait of the composer, has been published in 
 Milan by F. Lucca, with the following title-page: " 5 
 Canti di R. Wagner per voce di Soprano in chiave di 
 Sol con accompto. di Pianoforte, Traduzione dal testo 
 originate tedesco di Arrigo Boito." The separate 
 13* 
 
2r)8 IVAGNEK-S PUBLISHED WORKS. 
 
 songs have the following titles: i. L' Angela, 2. Fer- 
 inati! 3. Nella scrra, 4. Dolori, 5. Sogni. The litho- 
 graph frontispiece is the only portrait of Wagner with 
 which the composer himself is satisfied.) 
 
 Tristan und Isolde : Handlung ui drei Aufzugcn. 
 (Tristram and Isoude : Action in three acts.) 
 Full score. 
 
 Pianoforte-score arranged by Hans v. Billow, 
 a 4 m. 
 
 solo " " A. Horn. 
 
 Vorspiel for 2 pfts a, 8 m. arranged by A. Heintz. 
 Leipzig: Breitkopfu. Hartel. 
 
 (After having gone through upwards of forty-seven 
 rehearsals in Vienna in 1862, and having been given up 
 as impracticable, this work was brought out in Mun- 
 ich under the direction of Hans v. Billow on June loth, 
 1865, with the following cast: Tristan, Ludwig 
 Schnorr von Carolsfeld ; Kurwenal, Mitterwurzer ; 
 King Mark, Zottmayer ; Isolde, Madame Schnorr 
 von Carolsfeld ; Brangdne, Mile. Deinet. Schnorr 
 died before the year was out, of inflammatory rheuma- 
 tism. Many ascribed his death to the inordinate phy- 
 sical and mental exertions required by the role of 
 Tristan. But he himself says : " Oh, it is not the act- 
 ing and singing in Tristan that are so exhausting, but 
 the annoyances during the performance ; lying quietly 
 on the ground in a profuse perspiration after the in- 
 tense overheating and excitement of the great scene in 
 the third act ; that is fatal to me ; for with all my pains 
 I could not get them to shut the theatre against the 
 
WAGNER'S PUBLISHED WORKS. 
 
 299 
 
 frightful draught that blew over me like ice, as I lay 
 motionless on the stage, catching my death of cold.") 
 
 Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg. (The Master- 
 singers of Nuremberg.) 
 Full score. 
 Pianoforte-score arranged by C. Tausig. (The 
 
 overture arranged by H. von Biilow.) 
 Pianoforte k 4 m. 
 
 " solo. 
 
 Vorspiel for 2 pfts. k 8 m. arranged by A. De- 
 
 prosse. 
 Vorspiel for piano k 4 m. arranged by Hans v. 
 Biilow. 
 Mainz: B. Schott's Sohnen. 
 
 (Brought out in Munich June 21st, 1868, under the 
 direction of Hans v. Biilow. The principal features 
 of the cast we're as follows : Hans Sachs, Betz ; 
 Walther, Nachbauer ; Beckmesser, Holzel ; David, 
 Schlosser ; Eva, Mile. Mallinger ; Magdalena, Mad. 
 Dietz.) 
 
 Drei GESANGE/ay eine Singstimme und Pianoforte. 
 (Three songs for voice and pianoforte.) 
 
 1. Schlaf'ein, holdes Kind. (Dors, mon enfant.) 
 
 2. Die Rose. (Mignonne.) 
 
 3. Die Erwartung. (Attente.) 
 
 Berlin : Fiirstner. 
 
 In das Album der Furstin M. (1861), Albumblatt 
 fUr Pianoforte. (In the Album of Princess M. 
 [1861], album-leaf for Pianoforte.) 
 Leipzig : E. W. Fritzsch. 
 
300 WAGNER'S PUBLISHED WORKS. 
 
 Kaiser-Marsch fiir grosses Fest- Or cluster. (The 
 Emperor's march, for grand festival-orchestra.) 
 Full score. 
 
 2 pfts. ^ 8 m. arranged by August Horn. 
 Pianoforte ii 4 m. " " Hugo Ulrich. 
 " solo. " " Carl Tausig. 
 
 Leipzig : C. F. Peters. 
 
 Das Rhein-GOLD (The Rhine-gold). 
 Full score. 
 
 Pianoforte-score arranged by C. Klindworth. 
 " solo. 
 Mainz : B. Schott's Sohnen. 
 
 (This work, the Introduction ( Vorabend) to the tri- 
 logy, Der Ring des Nibelnngen (The Ring of the Nibe- 
 lung), came to a public dress-rehearsal in Munich, Au- 
 gust 2Sth, 1869, much against the composer's will.) 
 
 Die Walkure (The Valkyrie). 
 Full score. 
 
 Pianoforte-score arranged by C. Klindworth. 
 " solo. 
 Mainz : B. Schott's Sohnen. 
 
 (This, the first evening of the Nibelungen trilogy, 
 came to a public dress rehearsal in Munich, June 24th, 
 1870, with the following cast : Wotan, Kindermann ; 
 Siegniund, Vagi ; Hunding, Bauserwein ; Briinnhilde, 
 FrL Stehle ; Sieglinde, Frau Vogl ; Fricka, Frl. Kauf- 
 mann.) 
 
wagner's published works. 301 
 
 Siegfried. 
 
 Pianoforte score arranged by C. Klindworth. 
 " solo. 
 Mainz : B. Schott's Sohnen. 
 
 This completes the list of Wagner's published works 
 up to October ist, 1874. The third and last evening 
 of the Nibelungen trilogy, Die Gbtterdamnierung (The 
 Twilight of the Gods), is not yet published. The 
 Pianoforte-scores of the earlier operas, from Riensi 
 to Lohengrin, are of about the same quality as ordinary 
 pianoforte arrangements of modern operas, such as 
 Meyerbeer's Robert and Les Huguenots, and are of 
 moderate difficulty. The pianoforte-scores of the later 
 dramatic works from Tristan to the Nibelungen 
 dramas, arranged by von Billow, Tausig, and Klind- 
 worth, are to be ranked only with what is most perfect 
 in pianoforte transcription, and are often extremely 
 difficult. Among the hosts of pianoforte transcrip- 
 tions, paraphrases, fantasias, and the like, that have 
 been made of separate parts of Wagner's dramatic 
 works, we would notice as peculiarly excellent — 
 
 A. By Franz Liszt : 
 
 Spinnerlied (Spinning-song), from the Flying Dutch- 
 man. 
 
 Leipzig: Breitkopf u. Hartel. 
 Ouverture zu Tannhduser, Conzert paraphrase. 
 
 Dresden : C. F. Meser. 
 Einzug der Gdste auf Wartburg. (March and chorus 
 from Tannhauser.) 
 
 Leipzig : Breitkopf u. Hartel. 
 
302 WAGNER'S PUBLISHED WORKS. 
 
 O, du mein holder Abendstern. (Romanza from Tann- 
 hauser.) 
 
 Leipzig : Fr. Kistner. 
 Festspiel und Brautlied (Introduction to third act and 
 Epithalamium), and Elsa's Traum und Lohengrin's 
 Verweis an Elsa (Elsa's vision and Lohengrin's 
 rebuke to Elsa), from Lohengrin. 
 Leipzig: Breitkopf u. Hartel. 
 Elsa's Brautzug zum Milnster (Elsa's Bridal Procession 
 to the Cathedral), from Lohengrin. 
 Leipzig: Breitkopf u. Hartel. 
 Isolden's Liebes-Tod. (Finale from Tristan.) 
 
 Leipzig : Breitkopf u. Hartel. 
 B. By Carl Tausig. 
 
 Drei Paraphrasen aus Tristan und Isolde. (Three Para- 
 phrases from Tristan u. Isolde.) 
 
 1. Love scene and Transfiguration. 
 
 2. Brangane's song and Sailor's song. 
 
 3. Shepherd's Melody. 
 
 Berlin : Schlesinger. 
 Siegmund's Liebesgesang (Siegmund's Love-song) and 
 Der Ritt der Walkuren (The Ride of the Valkyrior), 
 from Die Walkiire. 
 
 Mainz : B. Schott's SGhnen. 
 
INDEX 
 
 OF NAMES, PLACES AND IMPORTANT WORKS MEN- 
 TIONED IN THIS VOLUME. 
 
 ^SCHYLUS. 217. 
 
 Art and Revolution (Wagner's Es- 
 say), 235. 
 
 Art-work of the Future, the (Wagner's Es- 
 say), 23s. 
 
 'DACH, Sebastian, 155, 220. 
 
 Baden, Grand Duke of, 190. 
 Bayreuth, Opera House at, 24. 
 
 Town of, etc., 277 et seq. 
 Beethoven, Wagner's First Impressions of 
 his Music, 3. 
 His Improvisations, 2x8. 
 BeOini, Compositions o^ 9. 
 Berlioz, CSiaracteristics of^ x6, 17. 
 
 His Part in the Arrangement of 
 " Der Freischtttz " for Paris, 102 
 ei seq.t x\jrt seg. 
 
 PALDERON, aio. 
 Comeilie, 2x7. 
 
 TJESPLECHIN, the Paris Scene-painter, 
 ^ 198. 
 
 Dumersan, Translates Wagner^s Libretti, 
 16. 
 
 pAIRIES, the, Wagner's Opera, its Com- 
 position and Fate, 8, 9. 
 
 Flying Dutchman, Wagner's Opera, 19, 
 21, 23. 
 
 QAZETTE MUSICALE, Wagner's Con- 
 tributions to, 20. 
 Geyer, Ludwig, Wagner's Step-father, i. 
 Gluck, 215. 
 Goethe, Opinions of, on Music and Drama, 
 
 X49, 204, 206, 2x1, 2x6. 
 Gounod, 208, 209. 
 
 IIABENECK, Acquaintance with, x6. 
 Halevy, Acquaintance with, x6. 
 
 Haydn, Certain Features of his Composi- 
 tion, 176. 
 
 Hoffmann, Influence of bis Works on 
 Wagner, 4. 
 
 Houwald, 205. 
 
 £ESSING, 205. 
 
 Lohengrin, Opera of, 23. 
 Lope de Vega, sxo, 2x7. 
 Love-Veto, the. Opera of, 10, xx, X2. 
 Ludwig, King of Bavaria, Friendship for 
 and Assistance of Wagner, 24, 257. 
 
304 
 
 index: 
 
 J^EHUL, 14, 18. 
 
 Meistersinger von Niimberg, Opera 
 of, 24, 
 Meyerbeer, Acquaintance with, 15. 
 MoUSre, 217, 228. 
 MorelH (the Baritone], 195, igS. 
 Mozart, Early Impressions of his Operas, 
 
 2. 6. 
 
 Features of his Composition, 176* 
 Mulhier, 205. 
 
 MAPOLEON III., Assists Wagner, igz. 
 Nibelungcn, First Conceptions of the 
 Trilogy of, 23. 
 Niemann (the Tenor), 194, 198. 
 Nuptials, the. Opera of, 7. 
 
 pALESTRlNA, 135. 
 Pillet, L€on, ig. 
 
 J>ACINE, 217. 
 
 Rienzi, Opera of, 12, x8, 22. 
 Rossini, Conversation with his Teacher on 
 
 Counterpoint, 142. 
 Rubin i, 17. 
 Ruge, Arnold, 280. 
 
 CCHILLER, Opinions on Music and 
 
 Drama, 149, 204, 21Z. 
 Scribe, 14. 
 
 Shakespeare, 2x1, 216 et seq. 
 Schruder-Devrient, 9, 143, 215, 229. 
 
 TANNHAUSER, Opera of, 23. 
 
 Tausig, Carl, 268. 
 Tomaschek, Acquaintance with, 7. 
 Tristan und Isolde, Opera of, 24, 167. 
 
 VAUTHROT, Chef du Chant at Paris, 
 
 195- 
 Vienna, Journey to, 7. 
 Voltaire, mot o^ 149. 
 
 WAGNER, Richard : 
 Birth, I. 
 Family Relations, i. 
 First Musical Efforts, x. 
 School Days, i et seg. 
 Studies at the Dresden Kreuzschule, 
 
 Early Impressions of Weber, 2. 
 Early Poems and Tragedies, 2, 3. 
 First Musical Compositions, 4. 
 Studies Thorough-bass, 4. 
 Production of his First Overture, 5. 
 Enters the University, 6. 
 Effect upon him of the Revolution of 
 
 1850, 6. 
 Under Instruction of Weinlig, 6. 
 First Published Sonata, 6. 
 Journey to Vienna, 7. 
 Performance of Early Compositions at 
 
 the Vienna Conservatory, 7. 
 Acquaintance with Dionysius Weber 
 
 and Tomaschek, 7. 
 Production of his Overture modelled 
 
 after Beethoven, 7. 
 His Opera of "The Nuptials," 7. 
 His Symphony performed in Leipzig, 
 
 8. 
 His Opera of " The Fairies," 8. 
 Journey to Wiirzburg, 8. 
 His Journey in Bohemia, 10. 
 Opera of the " Love- Veto," 10. 
 Musical Director at Magdeburg, xo. 
 Revisits Dresden, x2. 
 Visits Berlin, 12. 
 At Riga, X2. 
 His Marriage, 12. 
 At Kiinigsberg, 12. 
 His Comic Opera; "Die Gl&chliche 
 
 BarenfamilTe," 12. 
 Starts for Paris, 14. 
 Voyage to London, 14, 15. 
 Impressions of London, 15. 
 At Boulogne-sur-Mer, 15. 
 Acquaintance with Meyerbeer, 15. ' 
 Plans and Work in Paris, 15 et seq. 
 Submits Opera of Rienzl to Meyerbeer, 
 
 Composes Overture to Goethe's Faust, 
 16. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 30s 
 
 Wagner, Richard, continued— 
 
 Composes Song, "The Two Grena- 
 diers," 16, 
 Completes Rienzi, 18. 
 " The Flying Dutchman," 19 et seq. ; 
 
 23. 
 Rienzi accepted at Dresden, 22. 
 
 Performance of, 23. 
 Return to Germany, 22. 
 Kapellmeister at Dresden, 23. 
 Composes Tannhiiuser, 23. 
 His Part in the Revolution of 1848, 23. 
 Goes to Zurich, 23. 
 Composes Lohengrin, 23. 
 Begins the Nibelungen, 23. 
 
 Wagner, Richard, continued — 
 
 Goes to Paris, Italy, Vienna, Carlsruhe, 
 
 23- 
 
 Association with Ludwig of Bavaria, 
 ' 24. 
 
 Residence in Munich, 24. 
 Tristan und Isolde produced, 24. 
 Die Meisterstnger, etc., 24. 
 Rheingold, 24. 
 
 Efforts for Bayreuth Opera House, 24. 
 Weber, K. M. von, Wagner's Early Im- 
 pressions of him, 2. 
 His Concessions to 
 Popular Taste, i86, 
 Weinlig, Theodor, Wagner's Teacher, 6. 
 

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